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Bob Jackson

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Bozeman, MT, US

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The Pale Horse

by

Bob Jackson

When death immortal rides his pale horse into the night,
with the edge of his sharp scythe whistling in the wind
There will be a death, tonight a soul will take flight.
A spirit he will carry , as he passes this way again.

The dark rain clouds cover the pale yellow moon light
The wind whips the leaves among the marble stones
The smell of the dark earth points your way in the night
an open grave, where tomorrow someone will be alone.

An old man sits mourning, his head against a marble stone
The glint of steel in his hand, what thoughts are in his head?
an old owl sits on a cold tomb, and watches in silence, alone
Through the tears you feel his pain,will morning find him dead?

Death rides his horse of pale color, with hoofs made of steel.
He wears a black cloak around him, and his face he dose hide.
If Death passes you by, itís a cold chilling frost you will feel
But if you ever see his face, then you know that you have died.

Turn not around, if you hear hoofs in the dark cool night
Rest assured, his scythe had not come for you this time
Death immortal rides silent on his pale horse in the moon light
The chill that haunts you, is not but the fear in your own mind.


The Great Play

by

Bob Jackson

Last night I had the most amazing thrill
Crayon hued purples, reds, yellows, blues
Layered, upon the horizons distant hill .
Gently blended by nature's wondrous desire.

Like watching actors on some immortal stage
Before me the sun brilliance final adieu.
Behind me the curtain of dark fell in rage,
back-lit by the full sphere of the rising moon.

This unfolding brilliance of evenings arrival
Arched around the disappearing sun.
I sat alone in anticipation and awe, watching
as the sun from the approaching night did run.

Like the final death scene of a wonderful play
Fingers of gold emerged from the dark cloud
as if reaching somewhere for a final breath.
Author, Author my soul secretly cried aloud.


Desert Storm

by

Bob Jackson

The lightning flashed and took a bite out of the Earth.
The thunder rolled across the sky like a bass kettle drum.
The rain pelted the ground like bbís dropped in childish mirth.
The large sagebrush blew to and fro in the ensuing wind.

A cold new river ran down a long forgotten blood-red clay path,
falling pell-mell into the already flooded arroyo far below.
A lone coyote sits shivering half hidden by a overhanging rock,
too cold to mourn his mate whose woeful fate he doesnít know.

As quickly as they came, the ominous black clouds rolled on,
taking the thunder and blinding lightning far to the east.
The desert had purged itself and the imminent danger was gone.
A low lonely howl from the coyote searching for his lost mate.

A brilliant rainbow etched its wondrous colors across the desert sky.
A rabbit hopped across the desert on some ancient unmarked trail.
An eagle circled high in the desert sky as if looking for a pot of gold.
Life in this forbidden land is not easy, but somehow it will prevail.



Cabin in the Woods

by

Bob Jackson

The sound of a cricket fills the hot afternoon,
with the squeak of the porch swing keeping time.
A cool breath of air says evening is coming soon.
I smile as I think of the stress I left far behind.

The smell oozes like thick honey from the pine logs,
as it joins the smells of the lake and wild lilacs.
The haunting sound of a loon joins the croaking of frogs,
as evening advances over the picturesque landscape.

In the shallowís, a playful otter goes for an evening swim.
As the full summer moon rises over the splashing waters,
you can see a fish jumping for a bug on a hanging limb.
The soft wind in the trees seems to be singing a lullaby.

I stand, and stretch, and wander off toward my waiting bed,
my faithful fishing partner, her tail a wagging at my side.
I snuggle down for the night with one thought in my head,
the morning catch, a flashing rainbow sizzling in the pan.


The Silent Drum

by

Bob Jackson

Hear the sound? The quiet of the silent drum
The young drummer lies dead on the battlefield.
Bravely, he marched through the cannonís fire.
Fear rained in his heart,†but he did not yield.

His broken body lies shattered on the ground
All is quiet now for his battle has been won
nevermore will his silent snare drum sound,
As itís mythical beat to a long-forgotten score.

No more will his comrades see his impish grin.
In his fourteenth summer, he was laid to eternal rest,
in some strange field, in a place called Gettysburg
Killed, unarmed, by a musket ball in his chest.

The guns have been silent for over a hundred years
since this famous battle of the blue and the gray.
Each side has forgiven the other, through pain and tears
Listen! On this hallowed ground, can you hear his silent drum?


Am I a Poet

by

Bob Jackson

I am sometime asked if I fancy myself as being a great poet
I look at them with a warm whimsical smile and laugh inside.
A poet I could never be, I put words together and make a rhyme.
A poet can play with your heart, making you laugh or cry.

I can only spout some foolish nonsense about the night.
About the stars being like jewels against black velvet.
Or the ghostly clouds across the yellow moon, what a sight.
I could talk of the lingering scent of the night-blooming jasmine.

If you listen, there is a soft melody in the symphony of the crickets
The cool crispness of the dew, like crystal pieces on the street.
The sudden fright a stranger gives you as you pass in the night.
The tantalizing feeling of the cool grass on your bare feet.

I can tell about the forgotten joy of watching a wondrous sunrise.
No! I am not a poet, I use the paper and words like canvas and paint.
I draw pictures in your mind, of joy, memories, and even self demise.
Like a camera, I try to give you a cameo of true life. in a few lines.


The Foggy Moors

by

Bob Jackson

The cool wind blew in the dark night.
Broken branches swayed in its passing wake.
From far off an owl emerged in silent flight
A pale moon reflected off the fog on the moors.

Only evil would be a foot on such an eve.
Suddenly, screams of horror and mortal fright!
Blood oozed like a warm river down the rock,
Blond hair soaked in blood, what a grizzly sight.

A body still warm lay lifeless in the cool air.
Triemors of death still racked her remains.
Her blue eyes locked in a horrified death stare.
The glint of a steel blade lay beside her body.

Soft foot steps disappear in the cool night,
as they slip into oblivion in the foggy moors.
Why walk alone on such a night, or had she?
A victim of circumstance, or was there more.

Who was this stranger; had he killed before?
His sharp instruments neatly placed in his bag.
Who would be next, what cursed evil lay in store?
At last, deadly silence returned to the foggy moors.


Box of Memories

by

Bob Jackson

Moonlight filters into the cool dark attic
Dust swirls race across the wooden floor,
hiding from midnight shadows in the corner.
The night breeze held its breath outside the door.

Feeble hands fumbled with an old wooden box,
gently almost in reverence pulled to the breast.
The lid creaked open, there was no need for a lock.
Musty memories of a lifetime lay there in the chest.

Pictures drawn on a leisurely summer afternoon,
poems of love to capture her young elusive heart.
Metals and ribbons received in a long-forgotten war.
Tied in red ribbon, every letter written from the start.

Each letter bringing back a memory from the past.
Each page has a comment, written in a shaky hand.
It is hard to be all alone, how long can this last?
Moonlight, memories, and ghosts from the tattered life.


The Storm

by

Bob Jackson


In the distance, clouds, rolling black, slowly form
Dust devils, swirl like small tornados , gaining speed
The wind, natures wolf, begins its plaintive howl
A bitter storm, on the open plain, nowhere to run or hide.

Button down your coat, bow your head into the wind
The cold rain peppers your swollen face like needles of steel
The chill penetrates bones, your†lonely mind prays it will end
You draw your coat tighter, with hands too cold to feel.

Life approaches at times like a bitter nor'easter storm
Sometimes self-challenges face us toward the wind
As we huddle down within our soul, trying to stay warm
Our hope, that we'll make it through to stormís end.

At the end of every storm, a promise in the sky
And with this promise joy in our daily strife
As the sun brings warmth, joy too shall return
Let GOD be the promised rainbow in your life.


Sir Knight

by

Bob Jackson


Sir Knight, I rode up to your ivy-covered castle wall,
a banner of respect flying on my lowered lance.
You answered my banner with a hearty battle call
I wheeled my steed not knowing why, ready for the charge.

Sun shone off of your well-shined holy armor so bright
as you rode toward me as an intruder with you might
What harm have I offerred you or your charge, Sir Knight?
Here I am in total disbelief and complete derogation.

Your broken lance of humiliation penetrates deep.
I offerred my lasting friendship and true camaraderie,
you gave but a moat of despair and a long deep sleep.
Your horse dances at my side as you look down in pride.

Though I lie mortally wounded, I extend to you my hand.
You back away as though some evil curse I might expel.
Have your years of criticism forbiddenthat you truly understand?
I offered friendship, with distrust and rage, you ran me through.

Sir Knight, a stranger may pass again by your castle wall.
Offer him the hand of friendship instead of a fearful battle cry,
he, like me, could need friendship and a safe night in your hall.
Revel now in your ill-chosen victory, for the vail of death is nigh.


Long Ago

by

Bob Jackson

As the yellow moon rises slowly into the dark sky
and the campfires flicker bright in the cold night,
stories of old and long ago slowly start to unfold,
Turtle carrying Mother Earth on his back, to the light.

Stories of the lazy old coyote, the raven, and fox,
Sky stories of stars, or how tipis got their names,
stories of white buffalo, twice the size of an ox,
all told by the old ones, by the slowly fleeting fire.

As the cold cruel wind blew around the lodge
I lay snuggled warm in my fur bed made of elk hide.
I listen as the grandfathers, their voices soft and low,
tell tales of battles, counting coup, or enemies who died.

The smell of jerked meat and tobacco fills my nose.
The dream-catcher swing slowly over my sleepy head
as swirling, dancing smoke, flowed thickly as it rises.
Thoughts of sky people fill my head, as consciousness fled.


Long Ago

by

Bob Jackson

As the yellow moon rises slowly into the dark sky
and the campfires flicker bright in the cold night,
stories of old and long ago slowly start to unfold,
Turtle carrying Mother Earth on his back, to the light.

Stories of the lazy old coyote, the raven, and fox,
Sky stories of stars, or how tipis got their names,
stories of white buffalo, twice the size of an ox,
all told by the old ones, by the slowly fleeting fire.

As the cold cruel wind blew around the lodge
I lay snuggled warm in my fur bed made of elk hide.
I listen as the grandfathers, their voices soft and low,
tell tales of battles, counting coup, or enemies who died.

The smell of jerked meat and tobacco fills my nose.
The dream-catcher swing slowly over my sleepy head
as swirling, dancing smoke, flowed thickly as it rises.
Thoughts of sky people fill my head, as consciousness fled.


Little Man

by

Bob Jackson


The evening stars find him fast asleep
floating on a milky white alabaster sea.
Covered with a silver blanket of clouds,
embroidered with moon beams floating free.

Happy thoughts pass easily through his head,
like the slow morning mist across the lake.
The wind of time blows the billowing sail of life,
through the long nightly journey he will make.

My grasped finger becomes his ships rudder.
Little eyelids flutter as he pushes to and fro,
as he begins his voyage through the night.
Guided by his imagination, how far can he go?

Will he visit kings and queens of a foreign land
or see strange things only he can understand?
I wonder what thoughts flow through his little mind?
I smile, turn out the light. Good night little man.


The Secret

by

Bob Jackson

They stepped out onto the old wooden dance floor.
Awkwardly he tried to place his arm around her.
He stumbled slightly, he thought this is it, no more,
Everyone is laughing out loud at the way I dance.

An elderly man sits alone in a cheap rented room.
He never would allow anyone to get too close.
He had seen to many good marriages end in divorce.
So he gave up the one woman that he loved the most.

A silhouette moved slowly behind the light curtain.
A young couple swaying gently to the soft music.
This is true love that will last forever, that is certain.
This is because of a secret that they were one time told.

An old lady sitting alone had whispered it in their ear
"The secret of happiness is to dance, laugh and flirt."
Always "Dance like there is no one watching."
And with all your heart, "Love like you can never be hurt"


The Cold Stone

by

Bob Jackson


Day after day, I come and sit by this cold stone
Each day, I wish you were here beside me
Each night, I dread to go home, now all alone
I cry my self to sleep, wishing you were here to hold

I know that GOD has taken you too a better place
Where there is no more suffering and pain,
but, oh!, what I would give to again see your face
To listen to your laughter and see your precious smile

This cold stone covers over the one that used to be
but the hole left in my heart, you can still see
Why is life so short, and not like an eternity
Why must these mortal bonds, we shed to be free

Time will come, I must meet the Reaper's scythe
and I know for me there will be no tears to cry
Why must I sit here alone, why did you have to die
I feel empty, each time I think of going on alone.


Woodland Secrets

by

Bob Jackson


High in a tree a woodpecker taps out a code
Long forgotten except by the Monarch butterfly,
and the tired old owl who sleeps the day away.
A distant Loon joins in with her mournful cry.

If you sit quietly, you can hear age-old secrets,
ones the woods reveal with the coming night.
A squirrel chatters to her mate on the ground
The leaves flutter, as wind whispers itís alright.

Fireflies lead the way down long forgotten paths
A little field mouse scurries away on his way home
Bull frogs in the pond start their evening chorus,
the cricket symphony joins, not wanting to be left alone.

A weasel leaves his hole for his nightly roam.
The smell of pine trees fills the evening air,
as a cool breeze slowly mounts the long hillside
In amazement, quietly, I sit, listen and stare.


My Secret Place

by

Bob Jackson

I squint as I slowly open one eye,
a faint light, greets me with a smile.
As I lay in this half-suspended state,
the sounds of morning start to beguile.

The haunting sound of a camprobber,
from somewhere up high, in a nearby tree.
A bull frog croaks in, from under a lily pad.
A pesky mosquito buzzes his symphony.

The cool of morning gently caresses my face,
I slide deeper toward the bottom of my bag.
The waterfall lulls me back to the land of nod,
only to be awakened by two squirrels playing tag.

I was greeted by a mist across the blue lake
and a trout jumping for a bug waved his tail.
The smell of the forest permeated the morning air.
With a morning like this, my imagination sets sail.


The Hippie

by

Bob Jackson

She stood with sunshine in her hair
and smiled as she offered me a flower.
Her look imprisoned my wandering mind,
and I was helpless, totally in her power.

Her soft eyes penetrated my beating heart
The smell of fresh flowers scented her hair
her red lips promised paradise from the start
Her silhouette showed clearly through her dress.

The back of her slender finger caressed my face.
A butterfly kiss from her lips brushed my cheek.
In my ear she softly cooed, "All is true love."
In total awe I stood there unable even to speak.

She turned with barefeet and walked away.
Her vision still lingers in my foolish mind,
perhaps someday we will meet again.
Myself and this elusive angel from my past.


Lost Love

by

Bob Jackson


The tears of agony rolled down her face
as I helplessly watch, and felt her pain.
Dropping to the ground without digrace
eyes full of dust, she held the cold stone.

In tribute to her lost love, her tears drops danced
A reminder to me of the father I never really knew
Crippled hands caressed the stone with reverance
and her shaking voice softly called out his name.

A dark cloud crossed across the blue prairie sky
and a light mist started to fall from above.
Had the angels been touched and started to cry
Or had her lose love also felt this longing pain.

Love is a strang thing that you can't understand
a strong unspoken bond between woman and man.
Could there love have lasted through life and death?
Its something I will wonder until my dying breath.


The Mirror

by

Bob Jackson

The other day, I saw my reflection in the mirror
Not the one I usually see, this time it had a flaw
I glance a second time, fear mounted in what I found
I wanted to run away, from what, it was me I saw.

My aging face reflected an image of life, in the glass
The scars of time furrowed deep on my fatigued face
Each furrow a problem, haunting me from the past
I am not ready to meet me this way, I refuse to look.

The life I have lived doesnít seem that hard and long
Inside Iím like I used to be, Iím filled with eternal youth
If I turn out the light, will this glass portrait disappear
Deep inside, I know, but I donít want to face the truth.

Cold wind of reality , must you always blow my way
Hide again these facts, give me warm ignorant bliss
Remove the aging in my eyes, and the thoughts of gray
Return the mirror image, that is true only unto me.


The Spiral

by

Bob Jackson

A complex creature known as man.
spiraling outward from deep inside
it starts deep, where we allow no one to go
down where our greatest fears can hide.

Will I find some one whom I can love?
Am I good enough at this job I have?
Can I be the person that they are thinking of?
Can I do what I need to, when the time is here?

Then we spiral into love, the love of God.
The love of family, and the ones of long ago.
The burning passion, for the one that is near
and thought of a stranger, we donít even know.

The spiral widens even further to our facade.
We project a friendliness, or a stern firmness,
a child like innocence, or a commanding nod.
This is what we hope others will see in us.

Here again we began our trip of mortal fear,
as we spiral outwardly to what people perceive.
Can they penetrate this falsehood we display
or do they see what we want them to believe?

Then what from ourselves we try to hide
outwardly spiraling to what we know is truth.
We can feel what people really think inside.
Through our guise, they look with downcast eyes.

Then the spiral slows to a hardening outer shell.
One built to protect us from the hurt and pain.
One that is oblivious, to the cruel looks and words,
a shell that we allow ourselves, so we remain sane.


WE!

by

Bob Jackson

We the people of the world unite.
"We" is a small word, meaning two or more.
They say it takes two to make it right.
Have you been there when we mop the floor.

Has your boss ever said, we need to get this done,
or we have a dead line that we have to meet?
Do you see him get up and start to run?
Twelve hours later "I" am still taking the heat.

I went to the hospital,and I heard the nurse say
we need a bath, so up in bed she had me sit.
We must be fresh and clean each and every day
Why was it "me" embarrassed by what they call a spit.

I was sitting in my chair when I heard my wife say
we need to paint the house, what color should it be?
One question I ponder each waking hour of every day,
Why oh why must the "we" always turn out to be me?


The Fallen Angel

by

Bob Jackson

She sat cross legged, staring empty across the bar
Her smile was false and without any thought
Behind her, blinked a sign that said Lone Star
Again that smile, as she raised the beer I bought.

Her lonely blue eyes were cold, dark, and empty
Heavy makeup was caked on her aging face,
Mascara streaks, from tears you could no longer see
A scarf tied around her neck in careless haste.

A comb held her blond hair high on one side
The dress she wore was old, but of soft red silk
Once a real lady, a fact the booze could not hide
She sat like a princess, drinking high tea and milk.

What had started her down this lonely road of life?
Why would she take her love in one night stands ?
Was it a lost love who refused to make her a wife?
Could this turn her life, taking love where she can?

I smiled, tipped my cap. and waved across the bar.
I paid the tab, watched for a second, and left alone.
I wondered what would happen, had she gone too far?
Tonight, would some drunk take this fallen angel home?

Would tomorrow morning find her crying all alone?
Had memories again found her. Will she be back again?
Where beer and false promises make this place a home.
Where a poor fallen angel can find herself a friend.


Little Old Man

by

Bob Jackson

As I sat near a little old man
I saw tears well up in his eyes
In his hand, a paper that read in memory of
I understood it was his true love

Beside him sat a single red rose
He cluched it to his heart with his shaking hand
The memories in his heart only he knows
Again, remorse caused him to shake in tears

The sun went behind a dark cloud,
and a cold rain started to gently fall
I ran for cover with the rest of the crowd
I left the little old man sitting all alone

He sat on the bench looking into the sky
In a trembling voice I heard him ask "Why?"
The lighting flashed and the thunder roared
I knew it was for him that the angels did cry


WHY?

by

Bob Jackson

There were many gathered, who saw
But no one raised a hand to do a thing
But they are his parents, they have the right
They wouldnít really hurt him ,thatís insane.

He just fell and got that cut on his lip
The burn on his face, playing with the iron
No, I donít know where he got the bruise on his hip
He is just clumsy, yes, that's our little Bryon.

What is the commotion I see next door
why, oh, why didnít I act when I had a chance
His little body lying bleeding on the kitchen floor
at the strecher of the ambulance I could not glance

They say he died by a hammerís claw
for him there will be no more screaming pain
there were many gathered, who saw
but no one raised a hand to do a thing


Tapestry of Life

by

Bob Jackson

As I look back across my strangely unique life.
I find that it woven like fabric with many colors,
each bright new color cutting the last like a knife.
The shuttle-cock going to and fro in a smooth rhythm.

Moods and events represented by an array colors
The bright warm yellows through in childhood
During the laid back times in the summers sun
Doing as I wanted, because I was young and could.

The shades of blue for the elusive teenage years
The trauma of being alone and full of endless strife
The awkward years of joy, mirth, cruelty, and tears
A time of trial and error, desperately trying fitting in.

Then the tapestry becomes a senseless mixed blur.
With shades of numerous colors of red and greens,
Brownís of many shades, and of course some black.
This has been the rest of my life, as it can be seen.

All through the tapestry of my life is one golden thread.
Back and forth it mingles, heavy on the brown and black.
It seem to brighten the colors of times of misery and dread.
The gold thread in my life is my love, my darling, my wife.


The Shepherd

by

Bob Jackson

The shepherd call to his sheep and they obey,
for they know that there is safety in his voice.
He knows each one and will find them if they stray.
With love he watches over them night and day.

In the spring he always helps the ewes give birth.
The lambs are taught his voice, each and every one.
With a warm smile he watches the little ones with joy,
as they run and play, growing stronger in the sun.

He keeps his flock safe from predators and all harm
The pack of wolves will not get even one of his lambs
He protects his flock with a sharp eye and mighty arm.
Far away from his rock and sling the beast will stay.

I know my shepherd and the sound of his sweet voice.
I listen for his call both through the night and day.
Keep me safe in your flock Oh, Shepherd of Heaven,
And save me from the evil one Dear LORD, less I stray.


Spirit of the Past

by

Bob Jackson

The wind breaks through the mainsail like a wolf's piercing howl,
The billowing canvas sheets snap like a well used bull-whip.
The mast-head stands guard against the waves with a sinister scrawl.
The salt-water swirls around her fragile bow running down her side.

The old wooden ship strained as it lumbered against the sea,
her wooded deck full of saltwater groan and creaked in complaint
Porpoise played across her bow, and an albatross floated over head.
The crew were all sailors tried and true, and nary a one was a saint.

Her hole was filled with precious West Indies golden rum and tea.
The captain carefully checks the sexton and charts to find the way.
Heavy in the water and homeward bound after eighteen months at sea.
Six times the bell did chime, "Six bells and all is well" was the cry.

He looked like a ghost, a foreboding spirit in the thick morning fog,
as the captain surveys the ship, walking the quarter deck oh so slow.
This was truly the time of the old wooden ships and the men of iron.
Signing on to a life that was hard, where no fear did you dare show.


The Molly Bee

by

Bob Jackson

Sea and star meet at the horizons edge,
gently they are kissed by the mist.
Like two old love bound by a lost pledge.
A full moon of silver, coveres the cloudy sky.

Porpoise play gleefully jumping in the moonlight.
A dark sail is embroidered against the stars.
A forgotten ghost silently cutting the dark water,
her pennant flying high, full of burns and scars.

Sheís out of Boston town it is the whaler Molly Bee.
One hundred and sixty years ago she set sail.
A hardy crew on a strong ship went to sea,
full of joy,†high spirits and dreams of wealth.

No one really knows the fate of the Molly Bee,
that day she was chasing the humpback whale.
They only found her name on pieces of her bow.
Now silent, throughout eternity she must sail.

Sometimes at night from her deck you hear her bell,
or hear the cry of the crew as they chase a whale.
Sailors hear the captain cursing the day they set sail.
No one really knows the fate of the Molly Bee.

There is an old legend on the docks of Boston town,
that someday the Molly Bee and crew may sail home
If you look at the old houses late on a summer night,
you see ghost on the widows walks waiting all alone.


Understand of a Child

by

Bob Jackson

One day I sat crying in my chair,
unaware of the world around me.
I though life is really just not fair.
Why, was I left in this world alone?

I felt a little hand take a hold of mine.
Daddy, where is mommy, I want to play?
I felt a large lump come into in my throat.
Sweetheart, mommy had to go away.

I knew she was to young to understand,
my heart ached, I begain to openly sob..
I am not sure that I do and I am a man.
Honey! Mommy went to live in heaven.

Mommyís work here on Earth was through.
Tears erupted as I looked in her little eyes.
She patted My face, like her mommy used to do.
It OK Daddy! Now she can live with God.


Over Fifty

by

Bob Jackson


My eyes are open, maybe if I lie real still,
No, here they come the old pains again.
Should I just lie here, or go take a pill?
Well I guess its time, better get started.

That darned old alarm clock, I really hate it.
Donít you think some time it would forget,
Maybe itís a mistake, and I can go back to bed.
Nope, Six A.M. time my fire should be lit.

A glance in the mirror, no thatís not me.
I look again, and give myself a little sneer.
Where did all of those wrinkles come from?
Are they are getting deeper? That is my fear.

I stumble like a zombie to the coffee pot.
The cold wind of reality sweeps over me,
at my age the coffee the only thing that hot.
For some reason time had done me wrong.


Southern Bell's

by

Bob Jackson

On a hot July day in 1863, in the late afternoon.
Two southern bells sat swinging in a wicker swing.
wondering if the heat would truly make them swoon,
as the Georgia sun beat down on the white pillers.

Their pretty silk fans stirred the hot summer air,
as they giggled and laughed about their latest beauís.
Sipping mint juleps on the vandra without a single care,
watching the condensation slowly running down their glass.

Their clear complexion never kissed by the hot summer sun
nor their hands callused and cracked by any type work
Protected by fathers, waited on by slaves, while having fun.
They have no concept of the war that rages ten miles away.

Just waiting for the cool southern evening breeze to blow,
watching the two, snow white swans on a mirror clear pond.
Waiting till dark for crickets, and the lighting bugs friendly glow,
and the tell-tale rustle of the cool breeze in the weeping willows.


WHO AM I ??????

by

Bob Jackson

The doctor said I was just a little nervous
I need to stay a while, to see what they can find
Theyíre so nice here,see the little pills he gave me?
He said that they would help ease my mind.

I guess that was an easy thing for him to say
but not for me, cause I canít even find my mind.
See the pretty colors running across the window bars?
I donít know, can you tell me, is that a good sign?

As I sit here contemplating the palm of my hand,
I know that I really must be getting better,
because this road map on my hand I understand.
Now I pose a quandary to my inner-self, who am I?

The doctor said, not to worry that I am getting better.
I think he will let me go home when I find my feet.
This is a nice warm wrap-around canvas sweater
They just gave it to me, said I can wear it all the time.

They say all these weird things I see will go away.
So why is a strange, odd-looking person lying in my bed,
He canít see me, but I can see him lying there in the mirror.
From his looks, I wonder at his sanity, I should be there instead.


A Time Out

by

Bob Jackson

The cool breeze blows through the tree tops,
and opens the memories of childhood capers.
The passion of youth on a warm summer night,
forgotten thoughts lost in the piles of papers.

Sometimes in the hustle-bustle of our lives we forget.
Red rover, red rover, can Billy come over or tag you are it.
Close your eyes, lean back in your chair, and quietly sit.
Let the soft rain pull you back inside your memories.

For just a while, allow yourself the right to smile.
Forget deadlines, the work that just has to be out.
Don't allow yourself to be unhappy for a while,
let your imagination run through the sprinkler.

Let the cool wind, and the sound of the quiet rain,
for an instant return your heart to your childhood.
Treat yourself to a popsicle and share with a friend.
Throw troubles to the wind and do what you would.


Garden of Life

by

Bob Jackson

If I could, I would be a flower in the garden of life
I would only hope to be born a soft red rose.
To arise from the dark Earth in the spring,
To start as a fragrant bud that slowly grows.

Alas, to spring forth with such wondrous beauty
as to bring a warm smile to my true loveís heart.
To enchant and beguile her, that would be my duty.
To know for a brief moment I brought her a smile.

Hold me close to your cheek, let me feel your face.
Place me on your table where I may look at your eyes.
I crave your touch like a child on a dark night.
If I must, as a rose I will always remained disguised.

As long as I can catch the soft love in your eye,
and be the brief object of your wondrous affection,
My only wish is to give you joy before I fade and die.
So hold my fallen petals, and caress them to your breast.


The Old Tree

by

Bob Jackson

My fondest memory of childhood is the old oak tree,
that stood tall and straight in the backyard of my home.
Under it, cool shade in the summer the only place to be,
Drinking lemonade or koolaid from a frosted glass.

Its branches were cut and grotesquely gnarled,
with steps ups it trunk, to a tree house in its bow.
An old home made swing hung from the lower limb
hung there on a summer day by the sweat of our brow.

Playing Swiss Family Robinson high above the ground,
Or lying in the cool of the tree house in the hot afternoon.
Listening to the wind in the leaves, what a gentle sound.
Sometimes, a robin would stop by and share our old oak tree.

We would hide between its knotted roots and play all day,
leaning back against its massive trunk to stay dry in the rain.
We never had to worry about getting wet under the old tree.
The warmth I felt under the knotted oak, I would love to regain.


Family Tradition

by

Bob Jackson

One day when I was only six years old,
looking in my daddyís closet for toys.
I found a surprise even better than gold
I found out daddy is really Santa Clause.

I found his suit and shinny black boots
carefully hidden in a box and put away.
I ran to the backyard looking high and low,
but I couldnít find his reindeer and sleigh.

Mommy ! Mommy! how can this really be,
my eyes big as saucers, Is Daddy Santa Clause?
Momma smiled, as she finished trimming the tree
Yes! dear, But you must promise not to tell.

After that Christmas took on a new meaning
Now that I am a daddy ,I have a new ambition
The old red suit in the closet belongs to me,
because like my dad, I carry on the family tradition.


Angel in the Window

by

Bob Jackson

When I was young I would watch the clouds above,
in the same way that many other children would.
I would see animals, trees, cars or maybe a picture of a dove
and ships with canvas sails on which to sail to other lands.

But some times way above the floating forms in the sky
I would see a beautiful Angel sitting on the ledge of a window.
Singing praises to "GOD" with the rest of the heavenly host
I know now by her smile, she the one who fixed my dented halo.

I must have caused many tears in that window up above,
As she kept me safe from harm and held my young dreams.
She was my guardian Angel, sent to protect me ,and show me love,
sent to guide a foolish young heart through life and in to manhood.

Now sometime on a hot summer day I look into the blue sky,
and at a passing cloud for a brief while I may sit and stare.
I can no longer see my Guardian Angel sitting in the window above
but, through things in my life I know sheís still smiling and sitting there.


Blistering Heat

by

Bob Jackson


The Blistering heat burns like a mustered poultice,
etching its cruel way into my pounding, aching mind.
What power of evil does the blistering heat possess,
how can it release this monster inside me that I bind?

I try not to show the anger that is penned up inside of me
as I sit here in oven, where in this heat I am slowly frying
The cruel thoughts fester up deep inside my aching head
I think of my co-worker who I usually like, painfully dying.

Why yell at me, I haven't done anything really wrong have I?
It not my fault those dark clouds lied about cool refreshing rain
I know that in the spite of the moment they just want to see me cry.
I don't know what has gotten in to them, they are usually great.

Could it be that this furnace of heat unleashes horrid little monsters,
the ones that we all keep lockup deep inside our devious minds.
The heat allows them to go on a rampage, attacking who they will
The ugliness reigns and bites in stinging satire anyone it finds.


The Secret

by

Bob Jackson

They stepped out onto the old wooden dance floor.
Awkwardly he tried to place his arm around her.
He stumbled slightly, he thought this is it, no more,
Everyone is laughing out loud at the way I dance.

An elderly man sits alone in a cheap rented room.
He never would allow anyone to get too close.
He had seen to many good marriages end in divorce.
So he gave up the one woman that he loved the most.

A silhouette moved slowly behind the light curtain.
A young couple swaying gently to the soft music.
This is true love that will last forever, that is certain.
This is because of a secret that they were one time told.

An old lady sitting alone had whispered it in their ear
"The secret of happiness is to dance, laugh and flirt."
Always "Dance like there is no one watching."
And with all your heart, "Love like you can never be hurt".


The Rose

by

Bob Jackson

Each morning when from her slumber she arose
she would open her soft blue eyes and smile
Beside her on her pillow she would find a red rose
A sigh of pure love placed there by her husband.

A promise made long ago on they wedding day
To you my angel, I promise to you to always be true
It had lasted a life time through laughter and tears.
Ever problem was accented with a smile and I love you.

The pressures of the world would sometime try their love
But she knew that the rose would always be by her head
Then one cold December day, her love was called to up above
And the rose on her pillow was to be there no more.

For five more years she mourned the passing of her love
One morning a friend came to call and found her dead
In her hand an old love letter and a dried faded rose,
and on her pillow a fresh red rose laid beside her head.