We Climbers and Jumpers into Water Poem

We Climbers and Jumpers into Water Poem

Gliding back to childhood
to catching that ball
or standing beside the creek
ankle deep in cold cold water on a hot day
waiting for the courage to be cold
for an instant
until the skin is suddenly accustomed
and you are swimming
in the blue hole
So many kids have had a blue hole
We’d throw rocks to drive the snakes out of ours
and I’d always be the last kid in
because the water was cold
and I was shy of the cold
more shy than the others or not as brave.
Our bravery was displayed
at the tops of Sycamore trees
or on top of bridges
we flaunted our youth
and laughed at danger
in ways that make me shiver
We were the riverside
we were the creek
we were the field
we were the friends
waiting for
the old man
to write this poem about us
we tree climbers
bridge walkers
we were
jumpers into water
we were water
we are water
we will always be young
when eternity
is old

The poet previously known as David Michael Jackson

Apr 4, 2013

Posted in poems of peace and love

The rain in Spain Falls mainly on the plain

The Rain

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain

as the the pain from Spain

flies plainly into Spain’s plain.


Away then!

Rain rain


Rain not on the plain of Spain.

Rain on California, Lord

cause peace ain’t so plain

but rain

rain is




Posted in poems of peace and love

Jesse James Lament

Jesse James Lament

Zerelda Mimms Wife of Jesse James

I oughta jus’ shut up
I can’t say nuthin’ right
It’s obvious to all
I can’t see the light
I didn’t listen to her
all night last night
Zerelda told me before
that robbin’ these banks ain’t right

She said Jesse oh Jesse
whatcha tryin’ to do
stay close to the river
where the barges come through

When you see the the highway
Follow the wagons to town
I’ll meet you at the hotel
In my travelling gown

Oh Jesse my Jesse
leave the bank alone
We’ll leave for Nashville
and start again on our own

I oughta jus’ shut up
I can’t say nuthin’ right
It’s quite obvious to all
I can’t see the light
I didn’t listen to her
all night last night
Zee’s done told me before
that robbin’ these banks ain’t right
She’s done told me before
that robbin’ these banks ain’t right




Posted in old west

A Glitter of Gold

glitter of Gold poem

I’ve been durned and crittered
s-o-beed and quartered like a pig
I’ve been hung up, hung down
like a worn out wizzy wig.
I’ve been appraised like art
and thrown away like a rug.
I’ve been a scarab in a crown and a bug.
It seems that life will always be
that way for you, for me,
for we are
the wonderful imperfections
we were meant to be,
and there are those who
through the dust that was you,
that was me,
a glitter of gold will see




……………………………………2015 david michael jackson

Posted in David Michael Jackson

The Reading Specialist by Red Slider

Teacher poem
The Reading Specialist

In front of the old house where she used to teach
I smiled and swept away the phantom wads of paper
crumpled into balls of rage and frustrated thought
that tried to hide their shame beneath the sagging eaves,
ghost footsteps dragged across the leaf strewn porch
under the curious dancing lanterns in a spirit wind.

Cars from the suburbs that could afford to pay
sped up at the corner, past clumps of drug deals
that lay as heavy on the gas pedal as in the heart,
parents who’d run out of referrals slowed down to look.
One in five would stop and weigh the future of their child,
hoping for a fresh start. The others saw only blight and
drove on, hope abandoned in the rear view mirror.

The first visit was always the same. Those with cars
shouldered their fears and the anchors of their disbelief;
found the will to suspend smug certainties stapled to labels
that bespoke the prophecy of broken wings; the measure
of the distance their child would fall behind, the crushing
words blended into recipes of professional babble and fuss.
The others simply said, “I know he’s smart, please help us.”

The riddles of dyslexia, the puddles of decoding deficits
meant little to the reading specialist and never crossed
the threshold of her clinic door. Such brutal diagnoses
only seemed to certify reluctance, illuminate with darkness
the shadow sitting in an empty chair; things she swept aside
with a look that said, “I can see you. You are here”

She’d walk down the mean street to some graffiti-ciphered wall,
and ask him what it meant. “I can’t understand the words at all.”
she said, and he’d respond without a moment’s hesitation,
“Oh, that says, it looks, the South Tides want revenge.”
and rattle off a little Spanish, too. “Why, you can read,
as good as anybody else.” she’d say, “Same-same in English,
or in paint. One lives on walls; the other one in books.”

In grocery stores they read the labels on the cans,
or blended silly sound with dance steps, too.
They’d conjure words from ink stains as their fingers
flew across the page to find out who lives where
and what they do, and why the flowers bloom. Soon,
bursts of poetry and song left no crumpled paper
where their spirits touched the lanterns overhead
as they skipped across the porch and down the steps.
Walk or ride, she knew the library was next.

Does the reading teacher still live here?” he asked,
as I swept the leaves of time beneath my broom.
I choked the thought nature has been rough.
Her mind is gone, her reading days are done,
“Not for years,” I said. The past replied, “Just tell her
Joe’s a lawyer now, the one who read graffiti off the wall.”
then handed me a check and said no more. No need.
The swaying lanterns knew him well enough.

The Reading Specialist © Red Slider

Red Slider is the webmaster of Poems4change.org and Peacemonument.org

Image courtesy of Reviewsville

Posted in poems of peace and love

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