Indelible

I can

Still

Taste

The tears

That ran down your face

And eventually made their way

To your slender neck,

Where they met

My lips.

I can

Still

Feel

The silent

Sobbing

That made your chest

Rise and fall,

Your breath

Short and heavy,

Until huge gasps

Made your lungs fill

Again.

I can

Still

Remember

How

Your upper lip

Curled

Slightly

To reveal your teeth,

And a playful spirit

The first time

A hug

Lasted

A little too long.

The living photograph,

Etched

Into my memory,

As indelibly

And permanently

As any of my broken bones

Or scars-

Your fingerprints

Tattooed

To my soul.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

May 2, 2017

Borrowed Time

We are all

On borrowed time-

Each breath

Is a gift

And a theft

From somebody

Else.

You

Exhale

As I

Inhale-

It’s a shared breath

Until

One of us stops.

All we have

Is

Fleeting

And shared,

Or borrowed,

Or stolen-

As in Physics,

Matter is

Neither

Created

Nor destroyed.

We are

Neither

Created nor destroyed,

We are

Shared atoms

In a swirling cosmos

Of light

And dust,

And love,

And heartbreak.

We are neither

Created

Nor destroyed,

We are one

Made of many

Pieces-

Fitting imperfectly,

With many jagged edges,

Smoothed

By the tumbling

Of time and emotion.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

January 28, 2016

Just lie there

Just lie

There

Lover,

So I can

Paint

You,

As you are

Now,

Onto the canvas

Of my mind.

Maybe

I’ll paint

You

With watercolors,

To create

That dreamy softness

Of blurred edges

And muted tones.

Maybe

I’ll paint

You

With oils

So that each

Brush

Stroke

Will create

Texture

That I can

Come back to,

To feel

You

Again and again.

Maybe

I’ll paint

You

With satin finish

Latex paints

On an old

Recycled door

And mount you

To the front

Of my home

So I can

Enter you

And relax

In the quiet

Of my memories

We created

Together.

Maybe

I’ll paint

You

On a wall-sized canvas

With a brush

That has just one

Fine bristle,

So that it will

Take me

The rest of my life

To finish

Painting

You,

Forcing me

To never let go

Of the image

Of you

In my mind.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

July 30, 2014

Erosion

I’m going

To bury

Them

In a field

In my mind-

Some fertile

Corner

With plenty

Of light,

Good drainage,

And nutrient-rich soil.

Let the ideas

And feelings,

Memories,

Grow

And take

Root,

Holding the soil

Of my mind

In place,

Secure

From erosion.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

July 28, 2014

Montreal

I wanted

To reach

For your hand

On the cobbled streets

That were not

Home

To either of us.

We walked

And talked,

Both of us

Thinking

The same thing

Differently-

Will he,

Should I,

What if,

Does she,

And then?

But we didn’t

Then,

Or after.

And yet

We have so many

Beautifully flawed

Memories-

You told me

About the tattoo

You would get,

We laughed a lot,

We shared a drink,

We hugged

And shook hands,

Awkwardly,

At the door to your room,

After walking

For hours,

Just to be together.

All for nothing,

But not entirely

Without meaning.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

January 20, 2014

 

Fountain pen

There is a poetry

In the sound

Of the nib

Scratching

Across the page,

Bleeding

Its life

Onto the paper,

Leaving

A much more

Permanent

Record

Of its existence.

The stains

On my fingertips

Will wash away,

Eventually,

But

The words scribbled

In hurried urgency

Will remain,

Having soaked into

The fibers

Of the paper,

Remaining long after

The moment

Has faded

Away.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

January 20, 2014

Deep in the bottom

There’s a bottle

With my name

In it-

Deep

In the bottom.

There’s a dark corner

Waiting

For me.

A dark cloud,

Promising rain,

Follows me-

Waiting for the moment

To dampen my mood

Further.

There’s a sad song

Playing somewhere,

Waiting

For my ears.

There are tears

That belong

To me,

Belong to us,

Belong to no one.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

March 17, 2013

like a fool

Like a fool,

Like a poet,

Like a Pisces,

I have chased

So many

Dreams

Into darkness,

Into the light,

Into shadows,

Into a hopelessness

That only I could

Create

For myself.

Haunted by memories,

Embraced by the past

Within the present-

The smell of skin,

The touch of hair,

The taste of tears,

The sound and heat of short, rapid breaths against my neck.

Her

Beneath me

And always hovering

Somewhere

Above me-

Loved

And lost,

But always

Loved.

Like a fool

I have tried

In vain

To not be

Such a fool.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

March 5, 2013

It’s all over but the crying

As her skin

Vanishes

From my fingertips,

And the memories

Become

The past

In the moment

Of their creation,

The tears

Flow

Down cheeks

And onto sheets

That were wrinkled

By so much more

Than what the moment

Contained.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

March 5, 2013

 

Java

There are times

When I miss

A past

That I can not have

Ever

Again.

Memories,

Like smoke rings,

Evaporate,

Yet linger-

Hanging slightly

In the air,

Faintly.

I don’t

Want

Them

Again,

But the time

And the ink stains

On my fingers,

And the words

Pouring out

Without

A wall

Or a filter.

Sitting

For days,

In smoked filled cafes,

With a fervent

Need

To scratch out

Words

To poorly capture

The moment

And the emotions

Of ideas

So much

Bigger

Than me

Or the moment-

Equally

As much

Fiction

As reality.

They

Can stay

In the past,

Them,

But give me

Those words

And smudged pages

Filled with words

And red wine

Or coffee stains.

Let them

Walk back

To their boyfriends

And husbands,

But give me back

Those pages

And passion,

Filled with the sounds

Of rushed

Scratches

Of a nib across a page,

And the clattering

Of coffee cups

In the background.

They can stay in the shadows,

Mocking me

And my desires,

I don’t want

Them

Anymore,

All I want

Is the moment

When they

Inspired me,

Gave me passion,

Made me feel

Alive

In my insecurities,

As I hunted

Endlessly

For the meaning

Of questions

I hadn’t thought

To ask.

Their shapes

And forms,

Even their names,

Barely linger anymore,

But the memory and feeling

Of that time

Is still so clear,

And hurts much more

Than anything

They

Ever said

On their way out

Of my life.

I can clearly remember the hiss and scream of the espresso machine in the background, Miles Davis playing in the cafe, the cigarette in my left hand, and the pen in my right hand- rushing hurriedly across the page, trying so hard to keep up with my mind.

They’re gone,

But the memories of the words

Remain and haunt me

Much more.

 

Timothy Vance Jackson

February 16, 2013