Reducto Anagramatico Sunday Afternoon 1915 Wallace Stevens. Poem Excerpt from Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems by Robin Ouzman Hislop


reducto anagramatico sunday afternoon 1915 wallace stevens
come give balm to the gusty grieving
nights to hush day green the seas
for her dark oranges bloom an
indifferent inhuman evening
of cherished comfort and wings
like wide complacencies
but next moves in mythy gat motions
among any hind’s heaven or paradise
& cries cause the sun’s littering
our afterwards river sky relinquish
the mountains and whistle in her porch
death still the imperishable inescapable
for receding boughs to wear sleeplessly
the sun colours to hang of sky bosom
serafin plum the perfect rivers the hills
the lay sky paths that live impassioned
upon grass phrases in extended cries over
her peignoir and coffee upon blood calm
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times at His numerous appearances include Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Honest Ulsterman, Cratera No 3 and Aquillrelle’s Best. His publications are collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals & Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems and translations from Spanish of poems by Guadalupe Grande Key of Mist and Carmen Crespo Tesserae (the award winning XIII Premio César Simón De Poesía). In November 2017 these works were presented in a live performance at The International Writer’s Conference hosted by the University of Leeds, UK. A forthcoming publication of collected poems Off the Menu is expected in 2020.

Summer Peeks into Winter | Poem by David Michael Jackson

Summer Peeks into Winter

What are you doing there, Tree?

Are your leaves gone?

Did they not nourish seedlings

because you were planted

in this soil beside the road

in this tended yard

where nothing grows

without permission?


Do you watch me standing in the cold

beside my door?

Do we both look through your branches

to the grey sky and think of spring and new seeds?

How is it that we are here, Tree?

We are handed down eyes that see and leaves that worship the sun.

Summer visits us, Tree.

In the cold wind she sings to trees

of saplings and babies and bees.


david michael jackson

……image from Abstract Original Art






Welder Poems | Songs | Verse about Welding

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Fee diddly dee, a welder’s life for me
A box of rods
A welding screen
A pair of gloves to keep me clean
Fee diddly dee, I’m appy as can be.

2nd verse
Fee diddly dee, a welder’s life for me
A spotty hat
A blue cravat
Look at the gap, I’m not welding that!
Fee diddly dee, I’m home at half past three!


Tell me, tell me learned elder,
How may I become a welder?

Let me be an honest toiler,
Let me only weld a boiler.

My imagination boggles
At the glory of the goggles,

Welding mild and welding stainless,
Welding welding, ever painless,

Firmly held in jigs and fixtures,
Nobly fluxed with cunning mixtures…….from Welding poems

Welder in Murfeesboro

Steel Sculpture

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Daniel Napier Steel Sculptures

Daniel Napier is an U.S. Air Force Veteran of the Gulf war who resides and works with steel in Nashville, Tennessee. We will be presenting the steel and metal art by Daniel as it appears. We seek gallery representation and art contacts for Artvilla artists. To contact Daniel or any artist at Artvilla, contact [email protected] or contact the artist directly.

First published at Artvilla.

Visit Daniel’s site. Welding

Rich Man Don’t Pay Poem

Rich man and the company don’t pay
but they get to have a say
and the snake oil man
is in the FDA
and the car man
is in the EPA
and there’s a party for you and me
in the national parks
with the D O E
Forget the roads and the bridges too
We’ve got too much work to do.
Planes and tanks they don’t come cheap
Your freedom is there for us to keep
Pay the bill at the hospital
and don’t complain how business is run
You must give your flag your all
and you can keep your gun

…..david michael jackson

Plumbing Poem | Woes and Septic Poems

water poem

There I was
under the house again
crawling in water
toward a tiny stream,
a small waterfall
between a crawlspace and a wet hell,
because the commode is a water devil.
Feed me water, it says,
or take a ride to a gas station, friend!

I approach the leak,
crawling in a leak creek,
avoiding the call to the plumber,
between a crawlspace and a wet hell,
dragging my wet tools minus the one I need,
minus the one tool the plumber know that he needs,
or she, should she also be
crawling between a crawlspace and a wet hell
with the tool that
I don’t have.

I approach the leak,
which only drips at me now,
I approach with my vast knowledge gained from
minutes of watching videos, with my
shark bites, my compression fittings,
my torch, my solder, my flux,
minus that tool I missed in the video.

“Blast ye Gods of human plumbing distress I cry!”
as I turn wet and humbled,
as I drag myself
toward that small rectangular hole
at the end of a long dark wet
crawl, hoping nothing is moving ahead of me.
“Who needs a plumber!”
I call as I emerge
flat on my back exhausted in the sunshine,
and hear the words,
“I need to go to the bathroom.”


First published as Plumber Poem by David Michael Jackson 2019

Plumber Clarksville            Plumbing Lessons…Apparently our poet needs them

Paul Klee Poems | Poem to Klee

Once Emerged from the Gray of Night, 1918 by Paul Klee from

Here are some poems by Paul Klee:

Poem to Klee by David Michael Jackson

A poem for thee
my dear Mr. Klee
a poem for the music,
a poem for the art,
a poem for the poems,
The sunset comes in poems of color
in notes of light
for they are the same
these colors,
these words,
these notes.
They are all the music from the church on Sunday
flowing from an old wooden building
where ladies wear ribbons
and the preacher’s words put old men to sleep as the children shuffle.
We are all in the grass, crawling toward the farmhouse.
We are the women speaking of Michelangelo.
We are the music that makes you slow down to see which garage it came from.
We are the child playing in the dirt,
my poet Klee,
my musician Klee,
my artist Klee,
and me.

by David Michael Jackson…..12/01/2019

Paul Klee Documentaries

On Overcoming Fear | Poem by David Michael Jackson

On overcoming fear
under avenues
beneath dirt roads,
gravel roads,
tended by eternal chain gangs,
bursting into consciousness like,
a hazy memory of toil and sweat
put into words
and cast like a cane pole
catching the trees
and left there
hanging in the past,
a carpenter’s plumb
pointing to the earth.
On overcoming fear
for the future
growing like a weed
beneath the plumb
as it sways
in the wind
I do not know what I mean
I do not know what I mean
I fear what I mean may not be here,
may be poorly said,
the meanderings of a fool.
I must overcome the fear of being a fool right here
right now
and go ahead and be that fool
right here
right now
It’s so much more noble than the fear.
Striking out beats not going up to bat.