EARS TO HEAR

Chamomile tea

          email

distraction

                  

                              value

At some point

the value stirs its way

toward attention

1975

Harrison, Arkansas

old-timers on green park benches

set upon even greener grass

Small hills of cedar shavings

          nestled

at their feet

Old-timers

          whittling away more than time

Earthquakes-Tsunamis-Tornados

-Hurricanes-Floods-Fires

roads split well in two

causes and clauses and bears, oh my

Pause to look at

Old-timers  

1975

stories among the wood

stories among the shavings

Could you hear?

          Could you stop to hear?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Winnowing Spirit

You are lost because

it is quiet

There is no sound

only still air

There is no rustling of leaves

no ripple of the water

The tree has not fallen, and

has borne no witness

You are lost because

it is pitch

black overtakes the light

white noise bears no beacon

There is no siren, no alarm, no psalm

to shepherd the maze

Lost life

No spirit left to salt and season

No spirit left

to shelter from impending chaos

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Guinea Feathers

You brought me a guinea feather from the barn.

I said, "...a guinea feather...."

You know, and you knew, grandma and I used to guinea egg hunt
on the Phillips' farm in Bergman.

Funny, I was busy googling for my cousin Mark
when you brought that
speckled and fading feather.

I found him on the front porch with his dachsund.

I found him at a familly reunion with grandma and grandpa,
Annabeth in the background,
full 2-D

Mark and I used to walk barefoot to Crooked Creek
(back when kids could be loosed for the day with no fear)
back in those Arkansas summer days.

Later, I would sit on the banks of Crooked Creek alone
my notebook and pen in hand, a Saul Bellow book for my companion,
the rocks a cold barren gray, the shade under
the bower, deep.

Once Debbie was there with me
once Gabriel
once a whole creative writing class, and Dee Dee,
Dee Dee was the algae queen that day.

Those days were green and golden, and I was sad, and
didn't even know I had nothing to be sad about.

Memories seem like guinea feathers,
all speckled and fading.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"JackeHammer" Observes 5th Anniversary

This month and year mark "JackeHammer's" fifth anniversary!

Since my first dream was to be a poet, and live a hermit's life in a little white house with a white picket fence and a few chickens in the back yard, I have decided to commemorate the anniversary of "JackeHammer" by providing selections and links to the 13 original poems I have published here over the last 5 years.


2005:

Saturday, July 16, 2005

SMOOTH

It is a man who turns
his breast to me, not pure.

It is a song, a whispering
song
sweet
until I open its envelope
inside
the smooth milk
which left his
hand.
I resealed it, careful
so the
milk
could not drip out

I took a sandwich of honey
and butter
to Daye's Park
I lie there, each blade of grass
tickling my skin

In my mind I
whisper that song,
the song in the envelope
which sits like milk
smooth
not pure

Posted by Jackie Melton at 11:55 AM

JackeHammer: Touching the Dirt Softly

JackeHammer: Sun in Rain

2006:

JackeHammer: Sweet and Bitter

JackeHammer: Carissa, at the Church Carnival

2007:

JackeHammer: Poem inspired by a blogger

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Rhythm of Tender

I didn't know how tender
the word
like a silent bubble shining in sun
blown from the hand of a child

I didn't know how tender
the touch
like a sable brush laden with lacquer
stroking heirloom wood

I didn't know how tender
the finger
tapping like a dancer in black shoes
keeping rhythm with word, with touch

rhythm of thought
rhythm of God

Posted by Jackie Melton at 7:35 PM

JackeHammer: Miles from home

JackeHammer: Bitter cold

2008:

Monday, November 17, 2008

Learning Death

I see you walking in your kitchen
favoring your hip, each step like a great rocking
row boat

Tomorrow
Will it be tomorrow?
The bulldozer will come to level the house
where your nine children ran to play?

Long gone the kitchen table we sat at talking gardens
and life choices

sorting baby clothes found at garage sales
while frozen clothes hung clean in the icy outside cold where
the birds sat in the summer, in the summer

Chickens, stumps and horses
axes, barbed wire and pretty dresses made from feed sacks
hams and pies and poker
and laughter
loud, rude, roaring laughter

Death of dogs, death of grandpas, grandmas, mothers

learning death from the outside
looking through its windows

inside
we still see you, see all of you

in life

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Update: An animation

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Posted by Jackie Melton at 2:20 AM

JackeHammer: Blindly Watching

JackeHammer: I was fifteen

JackeHammer: Remember Spike

2009:

None

2010:

Not yet....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Learning Death

I see you walking in your kitchen
favoring your hip, each step like a great rocking
row boat

Tomorrow
Will it be tomorrow?
The bulldozer will come to level the house
where your nine children ran to play?

Long gone the kitchen table we sat at talking gardens
and life choices

sorting baby clothes found at garage sales
while frozen clothes hung clean in the icy outside cold where
the birds sat in the summer, in the summer

Chickens, stumps and horses
axes, barbed wire and pretty dresses made from feed sacks
hams and pies and poker
and laughter
loud, rude, roaring laughter

Death of dogs, death of grandpas, grandmas, mothers

learning death from the outside
looking through its windows

inside
we still see you, see all of you

in life

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Update: An animation

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blindly Watching

A blind man

White cane tucked under his chair

A bit unkempt

I wish now I had asked his name

Instead

Of watching his motions

So unaware was he that others

Were watching his motions

Was he unaware others were not in motion

As he

Fiddled

He scratched

Chewed his nails

He spun a pop cap in his fingers

Once

He dropped It

But found It again Quickly

I studied him

I thought of him and me

In a room where we didn't really belong

I wondered how much he understood

I often wonder how much I understand

If anything

Bitter cold

Winter sun warms the air in the car

a faux summer in an enclosed space

stepping out, the cold is bitter

like an aspirin dissolving in one's mouth

but not as bitter as the familiar

"fresh"

smell

of a nursing home.

Before

I breakfasted with you

then the familiar task of

cleaning your bedside

commode

I'm realizing that

visiting the nursing home is

like cleaning that commode

After a while even the cleaning solution

meant to freshen it

begins to wear

(This has been my offering in what appears to be a new craze in the blogosphere. The topic of commodes and plungers is catching on and I didn't want to be left "behind." No need to thank me, it was my pleasure.) :)

Rhythm of Tender

I didn't know how tender

the word

like a silent bubble shining in sun

blown from the hand of a child


I didn't know how tender

the touch

like a sable brush laden with lacquer

stroking heirloom wood


I didn't know how tender

the finger

tapping like a dancer in black shoes

keeping rhythm with word, with touch


rhythm of thought

rhythm of God