David Jackson

I paused on the hillside
long enough to see the Indian family
passing beside the tall oak,
long enough for me to catch
a glimpse of them
against the sky.
A solace of Indians

I saw them turn to me
They looked me in the eye
I turned away
I said
Go away there
why
are you following me?

I saw the slave then
in chains
gazing at me beside his mule.
I saw him turn to me
He looked me in the eye.
I turned away.

I said
Go away there
why
are you following me?

When I looked again
I saw the
woman.

……………….david michael jackson

There are great poets,
no minor poets,
and me,
no real rain of perfect words.
These words of today will always
have to do.
We make do with what we have
and I have only the flowers
I failed to pick today.
I let them live.
They have so little time to attract the
bee
and I am as worthless with the pollen
as I am here among the
great poets,

but the flower doesn’t ask
“Is it a great bee?”
And neither should you.

Poems for peace
start somewhere.
They start too often after the war
after the bodies are counted
and we have given up on counting them.
Poems for peace come from the cries
of mothers over children.
Poems for peace come from
soldiers who cry,
why
why
why.
Poems for peace don’t come as easily as
this poem from
this poet for
this poet is not worthy.
this poet is not worthy.
he has not killed nor seen the blood
on his own hands
enough to cry
for the soldier,
enough to cry for the
innocent.
To say I am not worthy so
I will not speak of the peace,
I cannot.
Who didn’t see that war or this war take
take a piece of their lives,
you?
Who didn’t see the lack of peaceful words
harm someone,
you?
Who didn’t lose a friend to war,
you?

The Oh bumblebee poem

Oh bumblebee
bumblebee
Bumble on bumblebee
Bumble on,
but be a humble bumblebee

this bumblebee poem humbly by
david michael jackson April, 22,2012

So A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose you say.

“I could smell the roses from ten feet away.”

A rose is a smell of a rose and the feel of the

rose petals on your finger.

A rose is a rose bush with thorns

and bees.

A rose is love,

friendship,

and death.

A rose is a dried flat memory

pressed

in the pages of a book.

It is a young lady’s eyes

peering over a

bouquet

at a young man

smiling.

david michael jackson   April 20, 2012

You don’t know

about the fifth of May

do you?

I didn’t.

You think your freedom was

earned only by

you,

your freedom

yes.

El Dia de la Batalla de Puebla.

Next time you want to talk about

“them Mexicans”,

well sir

don’t.

Without them Mexicans at Puebla

King is a slave

Michael Jordan never plays basketball,

and we fat Americans are more racist than we already are.

Without them Mexicans at Puebla

we’re not here talking about

freedom.

On Cinco De Mayo

you

call your Mexican friends

you

find one.

Viva Mexico!

&nbsp

david michael jackson April 20, 2012 editors@artvilla.com
________________________________________________

This is my El Dia de la Batalla de Puebla poem this year. It is harsh on a day which is to be celebrated. In some ways the poet is sorry but it needed saying. Without this battle the south might have won the civil war. Those words alone should make all Americans from Alaska to Argentina rejoice on this day.
Happy Cinco De Mayo everybody!

The Dancer“Dancer me!”  She shouts
and we are all forced to watch.
Her two left feet flip flopping
before carelessly tripping her up.

Most people say she’s mentally
challenged, a select cruel few
call her retarded, their voices venomous,
though unmistakably ignorant.

Her name is Becca.  She was born
58 days premature to a woman whose
own life was in such a state of disrepair
we can hardly point fingers, place blame.

I am one of her caretakers and so
there are days when it’s all I can do
to stay level headed, to remain patient.

Today we are especially tired, us caretakers.
Just having returned from taking our charges,
these adult-sized children, to see the Nutcracker.

Becca has landed, backside to the floor.
She sits mildly shaken, unsure whether
or not to cry.

I bring my palms together, clapping,
as do the others, as we all give her
a standing ovation, until she smiles,
hideously happy now, I shout,
“Dancer you Becca!  Dancer you!”

I look out the window
Enjoying the peace and quiet
The day has brought
The beauty of my surroundings
And the peace of mind it brings
Then reality is shattered
I turn on the television
Victims everywhere
Innocent children
Some have lost their lives
Some their parents
Some lose a limb
I sit and wonder
What is it like
To never play outside
To never color with crayons
Dance in the rain
Hang upside down in a tree
Wrestle with your sibling
Thoughts like these
Seem so simple to us
Something we take for granted
These things which seem small to us
Are not to these children
The ones who sit in fear
Hide in the corner
Fall asleep to sound
Instead of silence
Sounds of gunfire, soldiers, fear
The children who sit away
In distant lands
Dreaming of hope
Longing for peace
And living
On the wings of prayer

 

More poems by Krys Javis