Still

Songs

That I can’t

Listen to

Anymore,

Because of

Who

They belong to,

But I can’t

Bear the thought

Of letting go

Of the music

And the memories.

It’s all too easy

In this modern world

To click

A button

And delete

A song,

An email,

A memory,

A person.

An entire chapter

Of a life

Together

Can be

Erased

And sent away

To the recycle bin,

Then permanently

Deleted-

With just the click

Of a button

And the blink

Of an eye.

The years,

The tears,

The laughs

And the crying

Can be sent away

Without bias

Or emotion.

But,

There are still

Times,

When the tears-

Real or imaginary-

Feel

Like a purging

And release,

Forgiveness,

That is needed

And enjoyed.

With a song,

They return

And leave again,

So I keep them-

Even if I can’t

Listen to them

Yet.

Timothy Vance Jackson

January 14, 2012

And hurts

Come running

Back to the surface

With the sound

Of a voice

In an old song

From a different

Time

In my life-

Neither good

Nor bad.

An emotional

Scrapbook

Of music,

With yellowed

And tattered

Edges,

And faded images,

But the memories

Still vivid

With all the same colors,

Smells,

Feelings,

Longings,

And confusion.

I can still

See her

Eyes

And hear her

Voice,

Telling me

As awkwardly as she could

That “it’s over”-

The mole above her lip

Danced

As her lips moved

And my ears

Filled

With the white noise

Of rushing blood

And a broken heart.

So many years later,

And multiple marriages,

The memories of those teenage years and teenage music

Are renewed,

Even if only

Until the end of the song.

Timothy Vance Jackson

January 14, 2012

To find

A way to sleep,

The real sleep

That is accompanied

By rest

And a quiet mind.

***

Timothy Vance Jackson

December 29, 2011

Of work

And life,

My mind often

Drifts

Away

From the constant glow

Of the screen

In front

Of me.

Lingering over

Her

Body

And her lips

Pressed

Against mine,

Embracing

With arms

And legs

Entwined

Again.

Forever.

Between

The spreadsheets

And numbers

And emails

And calls to be returned,

The curves

Of her

Return

To me,

Like the scent

Of a distant flower

On a long ago night

From my childhood

Memories

Growing up in Alabama-

Maybe a magnolia,

Or perhaps

Honeysuckle.

So soft and subtle,

Yet noticeably

There-

Distinctly sweet

And delicate.

Timothy Vance Jackson

December 29, 2011

Myself

Between

The words

And the searching.

In the friction

Between

The finding

And the

Wanting,

I exist

In the space

Left empty

By the process.

In the uneasy

Peace

That exists

In the emptiness

Of time

Between

Fulfillment

And need,

I linger

With growing

Anxiousness

And desire

For more.

Timothy Vance Jackson

December 27, 2011

As it has been

For me

To accept that

I am

An imperfect man,

It has been

Harder

For me

To fight

To overcome

That imperfection

And strive

To be

Better

Than

My weaknesses.

The willingness

To allow

The easiness

Of frail

Human weakness

To prevail

Is stronger

Than the

Ability

To overcome

The inertia

Of stillness.

Timothy Vance Jackson

December 22, 2011

Before I fall

Asleep

On the couch,

I wander

To my daughter’s room,

To make sure

Her blanket

Is covering

Her

And that she

Is

Warm enough-

And still

Breathing.

Then,

I carefully

Walk

Into my own room

To make sure

That my wife

And the baby

Are both covered

And both breathing.

Each rise and fall of their chests, a blessing to me, keeping them here with me a little longer.

Then

I shuffle off

To the couch

To rest,

Before

Stumbling sleepily

Back to bed,

And the restless sleep

Of two tiny feet

And hands

Thrashing

In her sleep

And my restlessness.

Timothy Vance Jackson

December 22, 2011

In the dark

To find

The bed

Without

Waking

The baby,

Clinging

To her mother,

Top of head

Barely

Protruding

From beneath

The blanket

Pulled up tight

To my wife’s

Chin,

I remember

Why.

I remember why,

At least

Until morning

Arrives.

Timothy Vance Jackson

December 22, 2011

From this

Place

Within

My self,

Where doubt

Is King

And rules over

Reality

Without cause

Or reason.

Timothy Vance Jackson

December 20, 2011

Probably

Somewhere

Between

The third or fourth

Drink,

Where

The words

Either flow

Or come to a halt.

Somewhere,

In the middle

Of the fluid chaos,

There exists

A place

Where

Balance reigns-

Even if only for a moment

Between sips

And empty glasses.

Timothy Vance Jackson

December 8, 2011