Seeking world peace and personal peace through poetry
Los Angeles
by Ron Olsen
She sucks you in
With glamour
Gold
And glitz
With whispers of wealth and fame
They answer by the thousands
Overachievers
Approval seekers
Ladder climbers
Feeling a need
To be somebody
Or at least try
I arrived
Turning right
Off the ribbon of light
Feeling less than connected
Flying off the Hollywood Freeway
Down onto the land of moving earth
Disconnected from the soil
No longer weighed down by the gravity of the East
The heaviness of well-considered thought
Floating somewhere above the sandy soil of the Valley
Without any need to think about why
Never mind
That’s just the way things are
Here on the edge of the ring of fire
With too little rain
Only the hot Santa Ana’s refrain
To remind you of weather’s call
That with the sameness
Sometimes it’s there at all
L.A. doesn’t welcome you
She dares you to stay
If you can handle
The lack of connectivity
As the ground shifts beneath your feet
And your thoughts float away
A social register replete
With no one to meet
For any real reason
Other than seeing and being seen
For the full and meritorious value
Of maybe getting someone famous
To give you the time of day
Or perhaps gain fame yourself
If you’re tough enough
Smart enough
Strong enough
To hang on
To keep from flying off into space
As the ring of fire shifts once more
©2015 Ron Olsen – all rights reserved
My grandfather
I never knew how he voted
He was born in 1900.
I spent hundreds of hours
in the field with him.
Farmers,
“You boy’s ain’t hopin’ me.”
Plowers of fields with mules,
Growers of every fruit
every vegetable
every animal
milkers of cows by hand,
survivors of the depression,
Eighty acres and king tobacco,
Porch swings,
Who did he vote for?
It was nobody’s business and nobody asked.
Who was his God?
It was nobody’s business and nobody asked.
The Parson left him alone.
Matters between them were settled long before I showed up
without a father in his field.
I never knew a man with a more private God.
My grandfather never brought Him up in the field.
You don’t speak of Him up when He’s there.
………………..david michael jackson March 29, 2015
More on Mules
The Days Unpack Slowly Sestina Variation
The days unpack slowly from a damaged suitcase.
Click. Click. Click. High heels click on thin linoleum.
Listen to the sounds of doors opening, doors closing.
Dirty dishes slide, swim in pork chop grease;
small dreams vanish like soap bubbles off plated spoons.
Count these hours, those dreams, all bitter—all yours.
Count these hours, those dreams, all bitter—all yours.
The days unpack slowly from a damaged suitcase.
Dreams vanish—soap bubbles off plated spoons.
Click, click. Listen to high heels click on thin linoleum,
dirty dishes that slide, swim in pork chop grease,
sounds of doors opening, sounds of doors closing.
Listen to the sounds of doors opening, doors closing,
listen to those hours, failed dreams—all yours.
They swim like dirty dishes in pork chop grease,
each day unpacking slowly from a damaged suitcase.
Click. Click. Click. High heels click on thin linoleum.
Small dreams vanish—soap bubbles off spoons.
Small dreams vanish like soap bubbles off plated spoons.
Listen to the sounds of doors opening, doors closing,
the click, click, of high heels on thin linoleum.
Count your dreams, those hours, all that is bitter, yours—
days that unpack from a damaged suitcase,
dirty dishes that swim in pork chop grease.
Dirty dishes slide, swim in pork chop grease.
Small dreams vanish like soap bubbles off plated spoons
while days unpack slowly from a damaged suitcase
to the sounds of doors opening, doors closing.
Count your failed dreams: all that is bitter, yours,
the click, click, click of high heels on cheap linoleum.
Click, click—the sound of high heels on cheap linoleum.
Dirty dishes slide, swim in pork chop grease,
the counting of hours, failed dreams. All are yours.
Small dreams vanish like soap bubbles off plated spoons
to the sounds of doors opening, sounds of doors closing
as each day unpacks from a damaged suitcase.
Doors opening, doors closing—all is bitter, all yours:
days unpacking from a damaged suitcase, failed dreams,
soap off plated spoons, dishes in grease, high heels on thin linoleum.
Click.
First published in After Hours, 2012
Gliding back to childhood
to catching that ball
or standing beside the creek
ankle deep in cold cold water on a hot day
waiting for the courage to be cold
for an instant
until the skin is suddenly accustomed
and you are swimming
in the blue hole
So many kids have had a blue hole
We’d throw rocks to drive the snakes out of ours
and I’d always be the last kid in
because the water was cold
and I was shy of the cold
more shy than the others or not as brave.
Our bravery was displayed
at the tops of Sycamore trees
or on top of bridges
we flaunted our youth
and laughed at danger
in ways that make me shiver
today
We were the riverside
we were the creek
we were the field
we were the friends
running
waiting for
the old man
to write this poem about us
we tree climbers
we
bridge walkers
we were
jumpers into water
we were water
we are water
we will always be young
when eternity
is old
The poet previously known as David Michael Jackson
Apr 4, 2013
Jesse James Lament
I oughta jus’ shut up
I can’t say nuthin’ right
It’s obvious to all
I can’t see the light
oh
I didn’t listen to her
all night last night
She’s done told me before
that robbin’ these banks ain’t right
She said Jesse oh Jesse
whatcha tryin’ to do
stay close to the river
where the barges come through
When you get to the the highway
Follow the wagons to town
I’ll meet you at the hotel
In my traveling gown
Oh Jesse my Jesse
leave the bank alone
We’ll leave for Nashville
and start again on our own
I oughta jus’ shut up
I can’t say nuthin’ right
It’s quite obvious to all
I can’t see the light
oh
I didn’t listen to her
all night last night
She’s done told me before
that robbin’ these banks ain’t right
yes
She’s done told me before
that robbin’ these banks ain’t right
So get the horses, get the horses boys
This ain’t the day to save my soul
Someday you’ll claim it as your fame
That you rode with Jesse James
poem by david michael jackson editors@artvilla.com
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I’ve been durned and crittered
s-o-beed and quartered like a pig
I’ve been hung up, hung down
like a worn out wizzy wig.
I’ve been appraised like art
and thrown away like a rug.
I’ve been a scarab in a crown and a bug.
It seems that life will always be
that way for you, for me,
for we are
the wonderful imperfections
we were meant to be,
and there are those who
through the dust that was you,
that was me,
a glitter of gold will see
……………………………………2015 david michael jackson
