Wednesday, June 25, 2014


Somewhere there is a meadow
that has never met
metal, herbicide,
or the soles of bare
and rubber covered feet.
Each bloom located
by the wind or the animal
with severed blades
never bagged in plastic
but digested in grazers.
Somewhere the sounds
of speed and electrons
has never resonated
stalks to follow
invisible dances;
Instead they sway

-Robert L. Jackson III

Friday, June 20, 2014


Ringed stalks
knobbed from the gnawing 
of mammals
and browned in droughts
can bloom again
from beneath the decaying straw
in the wet Summer.

-Robert L. Jackson III

Wednesday, June 4, 2014


Usually the sand spires
and hardened bridges
succumb to the rhythmic
and predictable tides,
but today it is the pattering rain
that pelts the surfaces,
slowly texturing the walls
into uniform dimples
that lower it to the horizon.
The deep moat fills
and slowly erodes the walls; 
fracturing off and filling themselves in
until the confined liquid reaches the banks 
and overflows into the gate and courtyard.
The realm of crustaceans,
quartz, and salt 
fall to the sky,
that awards it's subjects
with sintering embers each dusk.
Awakened by the lapping sea,
the warriors observe a flat beach,
rippled only with wind blown dunes
and the debris lines of tides,
piled high in rusty barbed wire seaweed,
bleached broken shell shields, 
and the spears of mangrove seeds.

-Robert L. Jackson III