Waiting for Summer, 2021
Summer was made for slow mornings on the porch. If
I ever fell asleep, I am not sure.
White marsh. Green veins.
Violets and blue.
The backhoe is parked on the hill.
The trail is a rail. Vernal cascades on the left
and trilliums on the right.
An untraceable purple. Chorus frogs, forest kitten, fox.
Chirp, chirp. Birdsong is noise is noise. My foxes sleep in snowdrifts.
Red dogs, blue dogs. Litter boxes in the back.
Every dog needs a warm bed.
Tomorrow comes the next load, the next burn.
Fire being not as we perceive.
Another pine tree lost.
Potential / Kinetic
I eat fries at park place
a bundle of sticks inside
potato kindling doused
in grease how slick to
become one with energy
death crystallizes inside
Every Time The Door
every time the door
opens a burst of frigid
air gobbles the field
whole milk in my
mocha latte to
fight winter sadness
defines the palette
of the room monotone
grays beside the fire
extinguisher sign
points to a cheap
Hewlett-Packard ink-
jet no one has used
since being on this planet
I have grown purple
grapes of jadedness
thorny arms hug nothing
I have to say
About the Poet
James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet working in film production. His latest chapbook is A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023). Recent poems are in ITERANT, Skipjack Review, and The Indianapolis Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee.
Learn more at jamescroaljackson.com
About the Author
