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.

Themes. A Poem by Richard Lloyd Cederberg

Using Symphonic nomenclature as a springboard to birth 7 life insights – 5-7-5-7-7


A stream in motion,

Water flows over pebbles

Touching each in turn,

Notes in semitones ascend

Or cascade down like water



Opposites become,

Dwelling together in time,

Up or down the scale

Humanity seeks meaning

Good or evilly driven



Evolving hearts join

In inter-linking circles,

A stark commingling

Of space and line adjoining

Returns to places once known



Static expression,

Two souls brooding in one key

Seek security,

Living methodically

With little chance of mishap




Intently interpreting,

Ready to evince

Staccato sounds on taut strings,

Plucking with fingers and bow



Wisdom’s melody

Exposing intricate paths

Drawing the hearer

Into the deep mysteries

Of life’s richer fulfillments



Varied expression,

Strategically changing keys

To advance insight,

Transitional reflections

Reveal treasures once hidden


richard lloyd cederberg 2019


RICHARD was born in Chicago Illinois. He is the progeny of Swedish and Norwegian immigrants. Richard began his journey into the arts at age six. For twelve years he played classical trumpet. Then… the wonderful incursion of British music influenced him to put down the trumpet and take-up acoustic and electric guitar. Richard began writing songs and lyrics. He performed in 17 professional bands. He played clubs, halls, cabarets, and concerts in Europe, Canada, across the USA, Alaska, and even Whitehorse in the Yukon Territories. Richard’s band SECRETS was one of the top four Pop-Jazz bands in San Diego for 5 years. In 1995 Richard was privileged to design and build his own Midi-centered Recording Studio ~ TAYLOR & GRACE ~ where he worked until 2002. During that time, he composed and multi-track recorded, over 500 compositions. Only two CD’s were compiled: WHAT LOVE HAS DONE and THE PATH. Richard retired from music in 2003.


RICHARD’S POETRY uses various elements: nature, history, relationships (past and present), parlance, alliteration, metaphor, characterization, spirituality, faith, eschatology, art, and subtext. He enjoys the challenge of poetic stylization: Rhythmical, Poetic/Prose, Triolets, Syllable formats, Story-Poems, Freeform, Haiku, Tanka, Haibun, and Acrostic. Richard has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.


PUBLISHED BOOKS: The MONUMENTAL JOURNEY SERIES integrates adventure, mystery, and historical fiction.





5. BETWEEN THE CRACKS… is a spinoff from the MJ Series…


NEW BOOKS presently being written or compiled: A NEW RACE OF HuMAN’S… an eschatological drama that takes place just before the translation, during Daniel’s 70th Week, and into the Millennium. UNDER SILENT BRIDGES… a diversified collection of poetic invention, short-stories, essay’s, and digital photography.

Press Release Let the Whales Escape Collected Poems By R.W.Haynes

Let the Whales Escape R.W.Haynes
Mona Lisa and the Marlboro Man
Not knowing if wisdom would impulsively fly
Or if it dragged its feet when impulse flared,
She had to make the call and suddenly try
To do what an immortal would have dared,
An Aphrodite, ascending in a flying cart
Drawn by fifty gurgling pigeons at a speed
Which matched the speed of her own matchless heart
And the heartbreaking glory of her need.
Later, back in Laredo, she would say
She didn’t know why she’d taken off that way,
Smiling with satisfaction, recalling when
Her best moments flew by delightfully then.
He didn’t want anyone saying, “Oh.
This is how I feel,” but people do
Say that, and he said it, sometimes, too,
In unguarded moments, and he would show
How he felt, displaying great disdain
As he lit his pipe, blew blue smoke forth
Delivering himself from aesthetic pain
Incurred by foolish ideas from the North,
And, nodding slightly to appreciate
A tolerable turn of phrase which he
Thought suggested some brain activity,
He let his tobacco counter-obfuscate
Suspicious overflows of raw emotion
Which threatened to undermine devotion.
On the Balcony of the Palacio de Cortés
Madness stands at one elbow. At the other
Various figures in masks take their turns,
And all whisper steadily, one after another,
Syllables whose content one never learns.
The maniac is familiar; one keeps a careful eye
On him night and day, and day and night,
But who are the others who are standing by,
And what are these advisements they recite?
I dream the lonely ghost of love is one
Whose only consolation is to speak of sin,
And when that sad companion is done,
I hear Complacency, Madness’s mad twin.
I listen in patience, fighting back the fear
I’ll never hear the voice I hope to hear.
Ibsen on the Nile
Those monuments are monuments merely
Of themselves; this river of nutrition
And death, inundating Egypt, is clearly
A muddy embodiment of time’s volition.
I saw the Sphinx off in the distance. Today
I purchased an ancient mummified hand
To give to my wife, safely far away,
And I suspect that she will understand.
I met DeLesseps recently. He and I
Have much in common, more than he knows;
My work is lonelier, but there exists a tie
Between what we do as humankind grows.
These monuments record the vanity of ages;
Mine put the outraged human soul on stages.
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
You may visit Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Judgement Day Poem

This way please.
The light had been so bright
when he entered the room.
He could smell a hint of sulphur
and a faint smell of lavender.
The receptionist was typing
on an old typewriter,
and ancient dot matrix printer
made a sound like gravel
falling on concrete
as paper spewed out.
She paused and pulled the sheet
from the machine,
laid it in front of me,
“Sign here.”
The form had headings,
sins admitted,
sins denied,
arguments won,
arguments lost,
arguments lost on purpose,
thank yous,
I signed.
The pen mad a scratching
sound on the paper.
The printer spit out duplicates.
She tore the top one off,
handed it to me,
“Door Number Two.”

Judgement day poem……October 2019….David Michael Jackson

Hairbrush Poem

Where is the hairbrush
where are the keys
where is my heart
my soul
my yearning for a soul
Where is the hairbrush
keeper of lost hairs
clinging to the bristles
with my dna
the proof that I was here
in this moment
with only you to read me
meandering on about my hairbrush
meandering on about life
as an observer
an imperfect camera.
The tree falls in the forest
without a sound
The hairbrush does not exist now
It will exist for a moment
when I find it.
It is in the other room
which doesn’t exist now
but will spring to life
when I enter
looking for the

………Originally published at Artvilla

What’s the best hair straightening brush
What are Boar Bristle Brushes
Round Hair Brush Sizes
How to choose hairbrushes

Oh to Be in Art Galleries Poem

oh to be in art galleries
“Modern Art 1” by Carter Jackson

Oh to be in art galleries
with purple and pink marshmallows
on a table in a corner
with a sculpture that I made
out of the spare parts
of my heart
and dreams.
Oh to be in art galleries
hearing the special words
of the purple and pink marshmallow man
as he talks of didactic
responses to form
in his purple and pink marshmallow words

Oh to be timeless in a temporary
purple and pink marshmallow world.