Workshop Triolet

Today was an unusual day as I went to a poetry workshop held by the Southern Humanities Review:

http://southernhumanitiesreview.blogspot.com/2014/02/discovering-shr-is-this-weekend.html

It was at St. Dunston's church which was 

different than what I expected on the inside.  

It reminded me of a cabin at a mountain resort. 

It was a good program and it made me think.  I heard lots of good poetry.  Here is one of the results.

The triolet equation

I think in equations

is a power that cannot be gaged

and that often we shun.

I think in equations

of solutions to nations.

Math was taught as my language, so

I think in equations,

a power that cannot be gaged.

-Rob Jackson

Expansion

Expansion

Spring water

guided by

extruded metal 

solidified and expanded,

cracking the seams

In the molded plastic

so that the sequenced valve

would never close.

The ungoverned flow

moves past the frozen,

holding open

the prison door

through the tubing

to exit and fly and layer,

onto leaves and fibers

bending under the weight

of curving beauty

freed from the laws of man, 

and allowed to follow

the instincts of nature.

Robert L. Jackson

Sand

Sand

Sand is born
from protection that has failed
for the shells 
of crustaceans and mollusks,
and ground from rock
in the tumbling waves 
and swirling wind.
It is abrasive
to those not yet hardened
by the salt and and sun.
The grains traverse the world
in the soles of shoes,
the metal joints,
and folds of skin;
contaminating societies.
Rarely do we realize
that it polishes metal
to a revealing mirror finish,
and cleans and melts to silicon;
the critical substance
of modern communication.

-Robert L. Jackson 

Renew

Renew

After weather

and the eyes of generations

the white house

reveals its rotting boards,

still withstanding

the winter winds

that pulled the cotton flowers

from their knotted fingers.

Once dressed in unbroken white

she has protected

her family

from the typeset headlines

and dying soil,

but now struggles

in pastel yellow,

blending into the horizon

of grass and grain.

We want to bring renewal,

but only the owner

can paint you.

-Robert L. Jackson III

Each's Babylon

Each seeks a tower,

abandoned or built,

unguarded by steel

armor or blades,

to close the divine distance

and increase their view.

Some chisel new clean blocks

from the cleansed and uncovered rock,

while others use remnants,

rounded and covered in moss.

Searching amongst the trees

and city lines,

the tallest options

often are never considered

due to the effort required

to ascend their spirals

before they crumbles.

Some never stay

in one corrugated nest

after seeing the green valley

and shiny steeples beyond.

Few realize that our heads

need only the height

of our spines to achieve ease,

because earth contains 

the common elements of the sky.

-Robert L. Jackson III

Repaired (Munich - Munchen)

This was written in Germany.

Repaired (Munich)

I.  A dark sky of overcast

was painted

to replace the ceiling portraits

lost in the war.

The lost depictions

conveyed ideals of humanity

and justice,

through the characters of myth.

The cracks 

of the repaired structures

reveal no sign of weakness

below the plaster.

II. The live shells

slept below families

until the installment 

of modern architecture and amenities

required their detonation

to be removed.

The straw,

meant to absorb the waves,

rekindled a lost struggle

and the clear windows

cracked and shattered.

The air however

never stays opaque

but the music

curves 

it into a memory

of fading tiles.

III. The king,

lost in a millennia

of sand,

never dropped

the crystal cup,

leaving one lonely handle.

But to secure symmetry

a metal loop

augmented the other side

and carried

no light.

-Robert L. Jackson

September Travel

September Travel

The ghost of geography
guides me through the meadow
of tempting poppies 
and Black-eyed Susans.
She takes my hand
through the electron ether
without the taint of contact
to poison our thoughts.
How do you tighten your grip,
with no pressure
between the topography
of our hands?
I look to my feet
to check if the path is tread,
and if the destination
is recorded.
Is there a tan manuscript
rotting on a shelf
or beneath the flowing sand
that maps our love?
She guides me through the atlas,
tearing pages from their binding
and breaching the bandwidth
of the bridge we emitted across.  

-Robert L. Jackson