William Jackson
William Jackson Poems
I thought I’d write a bad poem, one for the ages, signifying nothing.
Pavement suffocates the living earth just as bad poetry fills volumes.
Still, oblivious to the land’s rape, the masses enjoy sentimental blathering,
And all is well since professional wrestling rules even sports columns.
...
i should like
to carefreely lie
on my back,
all the while
...
My Love never languished.
She was a visual feast, another Helen,
and we loved with an incandescent love
so that even the gods wept and wished to be mortal.
...
A green sprout,
A single blade of grass,
A pharaoh ant wiggling its golden antennae,
Thousands upon thousands of leaves rustling with the wind,
...
At the end of it all, what will remain?
The garden will return to dry fallow ground,
and the brilliant scarlets and violets of the coral beans
I so thoughtfully planted near the downspouts
...
This life fragile all too easily shatters.
Three tragedies I will never understand,
Crushing beauty, flowering hate, loss of innocence.
...
At times I think I am Dorian Gray.
Moreover, I know my inner self all too well.
However, I have no portrait to hide away,
And the truth of my life my face will tell.
...
The world, a steel cage, complete with plastic grass,
whose round windowless walls allow no escape,
is lovelier than ever, so I am told, and there are
no environmental damages.
...
If time allowed me to live two lives instead of one,
I would have no obligation except to love you.
If only time allowed.
...
although death is.
although death is
the great leveler,
Life continues on
...
When Dawn spread out her fingertips of rose,
we went down to the sea, and there in the shallows,
in a protected place, you lay on your back in the brine,
gently buffeted by the incoming tide as I carefully upheld you
...
My lover’s eyes are never far from my thoughts,
Nor the lingering touch of her delicate hands,
Nor the warm softness of her lips when she kisses me,
Nor the joy I take from holding her in my arms.
...
My love,
My breath, my life, song of my soul,
my heart dances within me
with my every thought of you.
...
if god is now officially dead
or never existed at all
as some experts have said,
then what is man,
...
You are an elixir, a magical draught
of which I can never quite get enough.
And the maddening shame of it is
I have not even tasted a single drop
...
Restless and bored. What to do?
Plant more vegetables? No, I have grown tired of the garden.
In summer's heat it withers even now. Squash is through.
Take a mistress? Clearly my heart would harden!
...
William Jackson Biography
There is not much to say about me really. The nagging question I ask myself after attempting to write a poem is this: Is what I have written any good? (Is it even poetry?) Much of what I have written probably is not good and is not even poetry, but I write anyway. Does it matter? Sometimes I think it does, and other times I wonder if my attempts have all been for naught. I write poetry because it allows me (as at least one writer has said) to have a life within a life. I often wonder: What is the definition of poetry? Is there a standard, and if so does it matter? I think having standards does matter. I believe good poetry is the selective recreation of reality through word play, the deft use of figurative language, and embodies the expression of the writer's intuitive subconscious to impart universal themes to the audience. Inexorably, the world is filled with volumes of bad verse. Do I want to add to them? No! Even so, much if not most of what I write is probably hackneyed. Undoubtedly I am often delusional and overly impressed with my efforts. Whether I end up shredding my work, burning it, or pressing the delete button, it is most likely that what I write, like that of 96 percent of the population, will not stand the test of time or even an honest critique in the present. In the meantime, I will continue to write and encourage the few souls who come across my poems to write and post comments (negative or positive) regarding the quality of my work. I am not fishing for compliments nor am I searching to participate in any mutual admiration society, so do not be afraid to give your blunt assessment or admonishment. The discerning eye and ear are appreciated. In turn I will be transparently honest in my critiques of your work. Probably you would be wise to take anything I have to say about your work with a bit of skepticism. Always consider the possibility that my opinion may or may not be worth the electronic paper on which it its written. If I comment at all, you will at least know that your work grabbed my attention, for I cannot bear to read most of what is posted. That is what happens to English teachers.)
The Best Poem Of William Jackson
A Bad Poem For The Ages
I thought I’d write a bad poem, one for the ages, signifying nothing.
Pavement suffocates the living earth just as bad poetry fills volumes.
Still, oblivious to the land’s rape, the masses enjoy sentimental blathering,
And all is well since professional wrestling rules even sports columns.
It matters little that only a select few appreciate the immortality of verse,
Or that God's world festers in the aftermath of inhumanity's touch.
Bread and circuses even now in this age soothe ignorance's curse.
To hope men feel soft earth, the wind, and grass is to expect too much.
William Jackson Comments
William I am unable to comment under your poems so I will say this about the piece entitled 'Sometimes I think I am Dorian Gray'... Elegant, memorable and satisfying to read. I love the way you have assumed the voice of the narcissist in such an involving, convincing way that draws the reader in.
i like your thought..yes, you are right.. god never let evil to destroy us..we people, let evil to do so.
You have such a awesome flair for writing William. Your poetry is beautiful.
William, you have some amazing poems... I love your use of allusions and metaphors. Great stuff! !
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4/24/2024 3:01:10 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Thank you for the excellent reads.