Archive for September, 2008

04
Sep
08

untitled

I can

Remember

When she

Was

So small

She could fit

In the palm

Of my hand,

With her feet

Barely

Reaching my elbow.

So small

That her head

Was smaller than

My hand.

I can remember

Smoking

That Cuban Partagas

Cigar

That I had

Aged perfectly

Waiting

For the day

She would arrive.

I remember

The tears that ran down my face that morning as her arrival finally sank in.

Each

Tear,

A small tribute

To her miracle.

And now she sits

At her desk

As a seven year old

In second grade.

A new teacher

To become her

New favorite person.

New stories

And new skinned knees.

Soon

My world

Will once again be full

Of new pictures

And drawings

And notes to Daddy

Or Dady

Or dadddy.

And I’ll get closer

To new tears.

Timothy Vance Jackson

09/03/08

03
Sep
08

Breathe

Nostrils flaring.

Rush

Of air

In

And Rush of air

Out.

Lungs stretching

To filter

And spread

Oxygen

To blood cells

Rushing

And racing

To outer edges

Of internal

Spaces.

Breathing.

Slowly breathing.

Searching

For that piece

Of peace

And the tattered

Edges

Of rest.

Breathing.

Breathing,

Breathing…

Timothy Vance Jackson

09/02/08

02
Sep
08

Sleep

Sleep

Has invited me

To slumber

Between

Sheets of

Soft

Rest

And suspended

Thoughts.

The warm grip

Of silent

Pause

Has me

By the hand

And walks me

To my bed

Where

I can

Rest-

Finally.

Timothy Vance Jackson

09/01/08

02
Sep
08

She

She will

Sleep

Soon enough.

Her mind

At last

At ease

Enough

To embrace

Pillows of rest.

She’ll dream

Of dreams

And ideas

Of words

She’s sought

For so long

Now

That they have

Become

A part of her.

She will

Sleep

In a bed

That will contain

Two bodies

Soon enough-

Not soon enough.

She will

Sleep

Long enough to rest

Long enough

To function.

Sleep

Will be

At her side,

In her bed,

As she fades

Into

Her own

Unconscious.

Timothy Vance Jackson

09/01/08

02
Sep
08

An old friend

An old friend

Has come

To visit

Me

Again.

The restlessness of wanting to be

Able to write

The thoughts

That make me

Crackle and sizzle

From hair to toenail.

Each word

Brings

Hairs and nerves

Standing

On end.

Each thought

Makes me

Feel

More alive

And yet more empty and alone

As I search

From dark to light

And back again

For the elusive thing

That will bring me

Sleep

And peace

And the rest

That has eluded

Me

For all these years.

The rest

That only those

Who have hunted

Can understand.

That peace of

Words

That rest

And sleep

With us.

Timothy Vance Jackson

09/01/08

02
Sep
08

untitled

The warmth

Of the red

Wine

Makes my lips

Feel full

And ready for sleep.

The insomniac

Residing

Within me

Fights

To remain

Awake

And hunting

For words-

For lovely and intoxicating words.

Timothy Vance Jackson

09/01/08

02
Sep
08

untitled

Sitting in the

Dark

With just

The glow

Of my computer

Glare.

Music fills

My head

As the wine

Floats

Slowly through

My body.

Thoughts scurry

To darkened

Corners

Of my mind.

I dig after them,

Scraping the shadows

And hunting

In

The recesses

Of thought

And awareness.

I wake

To dig deeper,

To scrape further,

To peel back

More

Of what

I thought I had felt and dreamed and believed.

So many edges

To reach for

And attempt to

Lean across

Or beyond.

So many ideas

Hiding

And lurking

Deep within

The outer internals

Of me.

Timothy Vance Jackson

09/01/08




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