Balloon Poem by David Michael Jackson

balloon poem

I’m pushed into the side of a giant balloon.
I can see into the balloon.
There is a screen and some hands,
Behind me is reality,
but the balloon moves fast.
If I turn, the balloon turns.
I can run into
the other room.
It’s there,
inside the balloon.
I can see these hands typing.
They are my hands
pushing into the balloon.
There are others.
They are pressed into the side.
I can see the impression
of their faces, speaking.
If I hold my ear to the side of the balloon,
I can hear them.
They say to get real.

God is an Artist, You See | Poem by David Michael Jackson

god is an artist
Oil on Canvas by Haleigh Morphis


God is an artist, you see


God is an artist, you see,

or rather you don’t see.

She draws people but He

cannot draw so well and

all of Her people

end up looking different and

He knows other Gods who can draw better and

their people all look alike and

She’s frustrated but He keeps trying

and She’s hoping

That He’ll get it right


Gender Neutral Game SoccerTargets

gender Neutral games

There is a new website out for a new yard or field game that is emerging. A gender neutral game where the boys have no physical advantage, one where running faster, being stronger or bigger has no merit. A game which requires finesse, skill and strategy rather than aggression would give the young girls confidence. A game where the boys can’t push them down and win. So many of our games are for “bulls in a field” and are male designed. The stronger bull wins. In our games, the ladies have to form their own league.
Some states are making laws about gender in sports. It’s refreshing to see someone trying to invent a field game that is gender neutral. It’s also a social distancing game. Opponents don’t come near each other. The SoccerTargets people have put up a site. They’ll be putting up stuff about their game.
If you are in a position to set up a field and give their game a try, they would so want you to contact them. Here is their new website about their Gender Neutral Game, SoccerTargets

Oh it’s gettin’ too hard to vote and pee in Tennessee

vote and pee in Tennessee

Oh it’s gettin’ too hard
to vote and pee in Tennessee.
I gotta have my birth certificate
and photo ID with me.
It’s good I get no water
while I wait in line to vote
’cause the restroom
it’s getting too strange to go.
So I think I’ll just wait
until I get home
’cause it’s gettin’ too hard
to vote and pee
in Tennessee.

 by David Michael Jackson

Happy Mothers Day from


We’ll share a message for Mother’s Day:
Hello Dave- this is Jesse – Summer Breezes’ eldest. Reflecting on my Mothers Birthday today May 8th. I was given a few editions of Moongate my mother published many years ago by a friend. It stimulated me to “google” Moongate and I made it to your site you are maintaining. What a wonderful and delightful treat! Thank🙏 you so much! That it took me so long to get back here makes me feel guilty, but what is guilt but a silly thing as Summer might suggest. Now I’m quite excited to introduce sounds, pictures and poems of my Mother to her Grandkids both those she knew as young ones and those she never met. Again – Thank You

A Mothers Day blessing from our founder and muse, Summer Breeze:


Jake and Haystack Remastered

Jake and Haystack
These songs were written by David Michael Jackson at Artvilla. These two sites were started together in 1998. Motherbird was founded by Summer Breeze and Artvilla by David. This release is on the label and has been remastered and we are proud of the result.

The Aroma of Lilac…A Poem | The Vietnam Effect | Jennifer Schoch

an aroma of lilacs

The Vietnam Effect
by Jennifer Schoch

The aroma of lilac drew me
away from my son
quiet as a crystal bowl in his stroller,
the early curious mosquitos almost kept us home.
Am I able to appreciate
this lilac,
her symmetrical perfection, without conjuring your pain?
I am fearful of this flower
I am panicked by her swift impermanence,
of my inability to hold her comforting fragrance
for those mostly marshmallowed mugs of hot chocolate days,
sequestered from the dirty New Jersey snow
where the radiators’ imbalance
from room to room
would make you yell when we opened the windows just a crack
“Goddamn waste of money!”
And the belts sang in their choir on the back of the closet door,
because the boys were fighting over remote controls again
And then, after my downward gaze had watched your darkness dissipate into the cracks
between the hardwood floors,
You would read me Shakespeare:
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
Is this
why I ran away?
To places where there are no seasons
to the endless
summer days,
where flowers never seem to die.
Your toes were stained with cigarette ash the last time I kissed you goodbye.
Did I
even kiss you?
You hadn’t showered for weeks
and I was scared.
Scared of your skin
scared of your scents
scared of my
The blue of your eyes was bright
against the rivers of bloodshot.
Mom says your eyes were green
It’s like she never knew you.

Sad and lonely, you asked me to stay
“Live here.”
You said.
“I hate LA.”
Like my brothers also bound to plastic liters?
They were small like my boy,
like you were once.
I am fearful in the face of this flower and her reminders.
Your grandson screams now like a broken dish
I wonder if you are there
silently crying
out into the black jungle for God to spare you
for your mother
for a future with mom
for a future with me
with a grandson you will never meet.
How could you have known this jungle
it would never leave?
Dying on the old hardwood floor in May
did you make it to the yard that Spring?
The worst death you died is not your final fall
it is the tree outside our window
cowering with dainty, dusty stars
you could not notice.
Did you glance outside that morning
and think to tell me of the lilacs that had bloomed?
Was your fall swift?
A small, unopened purple “bud of May”
gently shaken free?
The pain you healed, my father,
by noticing the lilacs
reading Shakespeare in Irish accents.
The unfolding damage it has caused,
in the tiniest creations
this unreconciled war from long ago.

Jennifer Schoch is a recent graduate of the University of Southern California where she received a master’s degree in Social Work. She is currently staying home with her young son while contributing as a writer for a book on social work and the arts. She has written, performed and directed for the screen and stage.

The Vietnam Effect Copyright 2021 by Jennifer Schoch. All Rights Reserved.

Originally published at Artvilla The Vietnam Effect Poem

This is a Blog and This is a Post Poem

This is a blog
and this is a post
and this is a poem about a post
stuck in the ground
without roots
to hold a wire
that sends this poem
to be a post
in this
Time is woven with words
about planets
and suns
and is stretched across this canvas with
paint made of light.
This post
this poem
this blog
like that temporary sun
in that temporary sky
and this explosion of a single
fire cracker
called the universe.