Potential

Potential 

Too easily

the head rolls

to the valleys,

below the wind,

to stick

in the bog,

unable to dodge

the eyes

glowing in the thickness.

But sometimes,

climb,

store energy,

see the world 

above the fog,

and listen

to the languages

that we seek

but are not yet spoken.

Robert L. Jackson III

This was written for the Poets United blog midweek motif on energy.

110415

I turn two score old today, but in Mars years I am somewhere between 21 and 22.

Anyway, here is a brand new poem wriitten for the Poets United Midweek Motif on tranquility ( http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/ ). I may get in trouble for righting a poem about thermodynamics, because I do not teach it.

110415

Thermodynamics

states that with age,

we will all become uniform,

equal, and tranquil,

with no differences 

in our heights or color.

Boundaries no longer exist

and nothing is marked,

with no migration of refugees

from one system

to another, 

once perceived green 

from prosperity.

No water or mineral

is traded

because they are worthless

without individuals.

-Robert L. Jackson III

Return

Return

Metal blades

cut through the sky

wetting on the tears

caught in the clouds.

The glimmering destination 

signals from the ground, 

and gravity pulls the engines 

toward rest and fuel.

Robert L. Jackson III

This poem is in the new book 'Evolutionary Landscapes' that is available here:

http://www.lulu.com/shop/robert-jackson/evolutionary-landscapes/paperback/product-22364099.html

States

States

The oceans, land and air, 

have always stirred the storms, 

heating our substance, 

to rise and fall, 

but the continents change slowly, 

and beyond our time.

Yet the celestial motion,

deviates, 

even more slowly, 

so let's keep 

our eyes on the stars, 

feet on the land, 

hands in the water, 

and ears in the wind. 

-Robert L. Jackson III

This is in my new self published book that I'll be promoting at the East Alabama Book Festival on Sunday:

http://www.lulu.com/shop/robert-jackson/evolutionary-landscapes/paperback/product-22364099.html

Jar Lid

Jar Lid

The blackberry jam jar

sat alone on the shelf

from a forgotten batch.

Sealed by the years

of rotten hard pulp

my sweaty grip

could not rotate the threads,

so I tapped it

on the marble counter,

trying to free

the dented tin ceiling,

but still it was static,

and then my grip 

failed,

and the enclosure

shattered,

releasing the foul 

parts of my deep innards.

-Robert L. Jackson III 

It's not a rotten jar, but this is a well fermented sippy cup...

Open

Open

The German clouds

want to rain

but just slide by.

Then bells 

from a modern steeple 

emit an ancient sound, 

warding off thunder 

and bringing the sun 

to glimmer on the river,

contained in stone walls. 

The willows 

still reach down

toward the common center 

of our worlds,

as they always will,

but now they are green.

-Robert L. Jackson III

Here is a link to a video of the bells that inspired this:

http://youtu.be/xlVgB--Lo-w

Aquatic Visual

Aquatic Visual

Where do we want to swim?

The clarity

of the South Pacific reef

is only matched 

by the artificial pool

contained in protective concrete, 

and the cold spring,

permeating up 

from the stone, 

while the predators 

hide in the murky mix 

of the storm churned ocean 

and the rolling mud river 

waiting to gaff 

and pull us together 

from the surface; 

a savior with teeth 

releasing us 

from the boundaries of flesh.

-Robert L. Jackson III

Listening (Grateful Perspective)

Listening (Grateful Perspective)

Songs

that never caused ripples

on the morning water,

now crash and wear the stones 

with curled white knuckles, 

or maybe the palms 

have just forgotten 

how they once bent 

amid the hurricane 

that rewrote the musical staff, 

changing the channels and passed 

to open and close.

But now my aging borders

crack, 

spilling the fertile soil 

and welcoming the tides

to enter.

Robert L. Jackson III

Annuals

Annuals

Let’s be trees 

and appear dormant 

through the winter

expanding our roots underground;

While the flowers,

too often the bright focus,

wilt and vanish,

and then we’ll awaken

into the arms of Spring.

Robert L. Jackson III

39

39

Fear

the moon

falling out of orbit,

the tides stopping

after their ebb,

the sun burning

it's hydrogen wick

to wax,

and the wind halting,

leaving a worn vessel 

to drift in the doldrums,

waiting to sink

with no drive

to reach its destined port.

-Robert L. Jackson III

Oceanic Myth

Oceanic Myth

In the iterative hallway 

lined with identical cabins,

the ocean was not visible, 

but Poseidon's power 

still tilted the rectangles 

in my mind.

My demigod and I 

walked away 

from a unfulfilled library, 

in the belly and without windows, 

containing only the tattered tales 

of Cousteau;

the room 

lost to the gleam 

of glass elevators 

and polished rails 

emitting lighthouse beams 

to attract destruction, 

like Alexandria.

Even the new steel 

welded in bulging seams 

could not resist 

ancient statues of Pan, 

submerged, but not yet lost.

Robert L. Jackson III

Erosion

By the time 

you return to the mountain 

across faint trails,

there may only be a hill.

Now it stands 

with blurred edges 

in the billowing clouds 

but is still too soft 

to be considered 

a fact,

to be etched 

in the blue and green atlas.

But still you follow 

the snow melt stream 

as it diminishes 

from the source, 

cutting striped canyons 

into the skin 

of your globe; 

the forgotten foundation

of expressions.

-Robert L. Jackson III

Replacements

Replacements

The planted trees bud in the Spring,

misaligned on the compressed soil.

How will they adapt to the world?

Will their branches bend around the conductors

and angle in the local breeze,

or will they follow the swirling currents of heat

and electrical emotion?

Robert L. Jackson

Dyed

Dyed

Submerged,

my vision changes, 

the light refracts, 

and dreams compress.

The scaled prey

are leaner 

than they appeared

from the eroding bank.

My rubber hooves 

sink deep 

into the compost 

diffusing into the clear.

Through the tea 

I see a bitter horizon 

in the ice rubble

and the soaking leaves.

-Robert L. Jackson III

Broken Peaks

Broken Peaks

Everything is

a puzzle

made of the tight shards

of a shattered crystal.

The fragments have sharp edges

that cut the fingers

trying to place them

into their harbors.

At sweet angles

the planes reflect you

but when tilted

they become invisible.

Silent in the night

when touched too firmly

the lone geometries resonate

when nicked.

Robert L. Jackson III

Tangled

I am now posting my poems also on a new Facebook page. I invite y'all to join us here:

https://www.facebook.com/Drypineshumidteapoetry

Tangled

The stiff,

plastic coated metal bends

but does not intertwine

as readily as the clear,

thin, fishing line.

Blunt fingers 

can pry apart 

the rolling curves 

of cables, 

but are innocuous 

to the minuscule, 

tightly wrapped threads. 

The random interactions 

and coincidences 

of curving time

has brought the linear flow 

to this fuzzy spot, 

without direction, 

into fixed, solid orbits. 

Even the nimble surrender, 

to cut 

the growths loose 

rather than free them.

-Robert L. Jackson III