Devil in the Red Suit Collecting the Rent by John Horvath Jr

COLLECTING THE RENT
Devil himself along the red clay unpaved road
comes in a red suit bright as the sun of March
up onto the porch to ask directions; so many lost souls
in some parts obscure the reasons for being
in the first place there–accidents of birth, some say;
others claim that fate or destiny will work that way

Work is what it is. Lost souls damned to the mornings
of waking to it and condemned to the long hot middays
of it returning at night to curse the momentum of days
of it sleep resting from it day-to-day unchanged works
on the soul ’til Sunday frenzy of loafing on a frontporch.
Then the devil himself in his damned red suit asks after
so-and-so or his son, the woman or her daughter never,
or almost never, for some reason. He comes asking
directions and they never know where nor heard tell
of him except he might be up the road a piece might well
have died in his sleep a year ago alone in his shack; hell,
aint it a mite late to come for collecting when a man’s bone
that ought to be in the ground by now fretting the worms
just goes to dust in his bed, the meaning of dead-tired.
But come to think on it, not that fellow you want but Jack.
I do think ’tis Jack. Jack you want. Fellow with all yellow
hair comes round the field to count bushel-at-a-dollar;
Old dollar-bushel Jack, he’s who you oughts go after.
They laugh up their sleeves as the sun goes down on the fellow
along the red clay unpaved road walking then they go to their
beds with their dark faces wrinkled in dark thought:  who’s next.
They wake surprised to bright red sun of the morning next
to the women who will send that devil in the red suit
along the road back to their shack. Lord, I aint next.
But will be soon. And each knows it:  Work’s what it is.

– John Horváth Jr

Cruelty to Animals Poem

Have we excluded these animals

from our cruelty laws,

the cow

the pig

the chicken?

When did we excluded these animals

from our laws?

Is it okay to be cruel to these animals if

it’s

business?

Is it okay to be cruel to these animals

since we

eat them?

This poem cries for chickens

crowded together like

products,

on a line.

This poem cries for cows

crowded together like

merchandise.

This poem cries for pigs

crowded together in

concentration camps.

 

This poem cries for man

 

 

an aside…..when the “aliens” did the same thing to humans, we called it a “horror movie”. When we treat our fellow creatures horribly by making them live elbow to elbow their whole lives until they bite each other’s tails, then we lose.  When did we lose our humanity? Was it when we became “business people.” or just urban enough to only see a chicken in the grocery store?

 

 

david michael jackson   May 10, 2012  dave@artvilla.com

Mothers Day Poem

Mothers Day Poem

 

For my mother Maria Jackson Taggart 1926-2011

 

oh Mother oh mother oh mother
this day this day this day
this day is your day.
You gave every day to me.
You held my little hand.
You wiped my little nose and butt.
You took up for me.
You said,
Don’t ask for my pity
You said,
Don’t use that word,
don’t ever use that word.
You said,
Those people are okay.
You said
You can be anything
you want to be.
You said
That’s my child and
you better back off
You said
“I love you”
again and again and again
until I knew it.
Oh mother oh mother oh mother
This day
and all my days
are yours.

  
 

Read about the happy mother’s day tradition at Gypsy

More David Michael Jackson Poetry

david michael jackson  May 9, 2012  dave@artvilla.com

Owl Poem for Kids

owl poems

Owl Poem with Warthogs

Wee Willie was a warthog

he warted and hogged the whole day

and at night Wee Willie turned into

a great horned owl and

flew and flew

all night long.

The owl’s name was Ollie the Owl

and Ollie perched in the highest tree

and waited for the sunrise.

Warthogs and owls

don’t know that I know

their little

secret.

I am a man in the day and when I sleep I

fly with Ollie

 

Oh Wee Willie

Oh Wee Willie

Do you sleep when Ollie

flies?

Oh Ollie Oh Ollie

I’ll meet you when

the sun falls behind the

mouse’s

house.

 

 

david michael jackson April 21, 2012 dave@artvilla.com

If the kids liked the Owl poem they may like my rabbit poem

Cinco De Mayo Y La Puebla Poem

Cinco de Mayo de La Puebla Poem
Amigos
Gracias por la batalla de Puebla
Thank you for our freedom
Strike up the band
Break out the smiles and banners
and dance dance dance
let the skirts fly high
let the men stomp the ground and shout
Bravo
Cinco de Mayo
Bravo Cinco De Mayo
Gracias amigos
Gracias
Por nuestra libertad.

david michael jackson May 5, 2012

This Day

This Day

This day this day this day

the sun the sun will shine

this day this day this day

my love will be mine

oh write for me a sonnet

oh write for me a book

oh slip the bonds of caring

into the cranny nook

oh let me be the one

the one who does not weave

the thread of discontent

with the words I leave

The Hillside

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

Bee

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

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?

Rose Poem

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

El Dia de la Batalla de Puebla

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 dave@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!

Dancer Poem by Liza M Zaran

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!”