David Jackson

Mother bird and babies
mouth open and waiting
for bugs and a worm
or a fish from the water
on the good earth

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We can draft the ladies for war
over dominoes, wmd’s and oil.
We care about starving tikes
when we find some whites we like.
Our boss, the Russian bear
He makes it so hard there.
Golden Showers will have to call
From this side of his wall
Oh may I go in please
For freedom for oil companies?

Enjoy your draft, ladies
Some rights are not to please
You’ll have no retort
For “Greetings you will report.”

And when Venezuela’s refugees
starving and on their knees
arrive at our wall
What will be our call?

David Michael Jackson

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“I’ll take care of me.”
Don’t build public restrooms,
Don’t provide public healthcare,
Remove benches for
the homeless may sleep there.

Poop piles up 
in parking garages,

Pestilence waits,
a bitter revenge to take,
on those we love
and those we hate.

….2018 by Dave Jackson…a.k.a. David Michael Jackson

Walking Around
by Pablo Neruda

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie

houses

dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt

steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse

sobs.

The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.

The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,

no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails

and my hair and my shadow.

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous

to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,

or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.

It would be great

to go through the streets with a green knife

letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,

insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,

going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,

taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don’t want so much misery.

I don’t want to go on as a root and a tomb,

alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,

half frozen, dying of grief.

That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming

with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,

and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,

and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the

night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist

houses,

into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,

into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,

and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines

hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,

and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,

there are mirrors

that ought to have wept from shame and terror,

there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical

cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,

my rage, forgetting everything,

I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic

shops,

and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:

underwear, towels and shirts from which slow

dirty tears are falling.

Happy Holidays to everyone from everyone here at Motherbird and Artvilla. Here is a little Christmas present from John Prine:

To My Wife – With A Copy Of My Poems
by Oscar Wilde

I can write no stately proem

As a prelude to my lay;

From a poet to a poem

I would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petals

One to you seem fair,

Love will waft it till it settles

On your hair.

And when wind and winter harden

All the loveless land,

It will whisper of the garden,

You will understand.