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Eaton Jackson Poem
IN OUR MINDS
We keep the illegality of it in our minds, with abated
breath, we stand outside as they rifle the room,
to find what we both know they will never find.
The lady and I, follow closely behind them, back down the winding,
staircase, lustful whispers still smelling on our breath. One of the searchers bend
to retrieve something, a few of our words might have fallen in the cracks on the floor.
Panting from the fear and thrill of dangling over the
200 feet drop-off of the sharpened, white cliffs,
freedom, a wanton child hanging around the ajar door
In this illicit game, the spin you and I put on fate, the crazy spin
to become newly discovered planets,
held tightly in our fist, waving the patent in the air,
And we keep it in our minds, as we had
long shaken off the searchers, their torchlight,
shinning on the silhouette of the wrong sand dune,
On this safe plateau now, looking
down on their furtive torches, flickering, flickering in circles.
Copyright © Eaton Jackson | Year Posted 2015
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Eaton Jackson Poem
THE CHILDREN
Their tiny legs run to find no place to hide,
The children cry again as dark moves in,
As the shadowy sneer, evil’s grin
The children’s untimely fate, of being plucked from mother’s side,
And the children tried to but they slipped, that’s when the children slide
To be wolfed down in a world that has given up, a world worn thin,
The empty playground now, no laughter coming from within,
As the children cower, smaller and smaller for somewhere to hide,
When their mothers search feeling for them in the dark,
Distraught, forlorn, their mothers are ripped, their mothers are torn,
Children of their womb, children so close to every beat of mother’s heart,
When the children cry, cries of regret at having been born,
Shredding of innocence - stories unbelievable - the gut-wrenching part,
Up, and out of the nightmare - and the children still can’t be found in the morn.
Copyright © Eaton Jackson | Year Posted 2015
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Details |
Eaton Jackson Poem
KING IN A CORNFIELD
When my effigy was impaled
for all to see
yours, on the other hand found a place to hide
around the outer edges of my grotesque.
And while you laugh at stories of my eccentricities
it affords you the luxury the concealment of your own cracks.
On this crazy treadmill that you build, I flesh out the fantasies, so you can sit in front row bewilderment at this at me your neon-reflected selves.
You said its necessary the blindfolds so in leg shackles
my choreography out on the gang-plank.
As long as you remain with me
on this thin film this frozen lake as long as the
cheers reverberate and I don’t have to come to my senses
to watch from a distance two projected shadows at the end of the cul-de-sac
dancing in sync
as long as I don’t have to see you
as you as you dissecting:
scornful fingers
sifting through
the distended
caricature
of
a
king
in
a
cornfield.
Copyright © Eaton Jackson | Year Posted 2015
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