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Best Poems Written by Simon Jackson

Below are the all-time best Simon Jackson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Simon Jackson Poem

Fag Ends

Even amongst the hums and whirrs and hisses
coming from behind the counter
Its so easy
In the pretentious mist of this artsy café
To pick up
And draw on
The stained remains of conversation;
Some so Avant Garde
Andy Warhol would vomit.
Drenched in pomposity
Peppered with multi-syllabic phrase,
And thoughtful hums between beard strokes.
These are the philosophers and future prime ministers to be.
Full of words and the dedication of a dying fish,
with a stench and jounce to match.
The girl in the stripy top wants to be heard
Flicking her mane rhythmically as she giggles
Obnoxiously at her friends bad jokes.
Donned with that oh so vintage-esque scarf (its warm inside)
And a rock-n-roll T-shirt.
Both pierced with todays hottest jewelery; They are different
Like every other alternative wanna be wandering the street.
Nobody told them its in what you do that counts.

I would love to pick up fag ends here
But I am shy and enjoy being an orange chameleon
Set against the pine tables and chairs
Worn by an unquenchable caffeine and image addiction.
The artists, musicians and hippies should gather here,
Just to off set the skinny jeans
And influential teens engulfed by an overrated image.

At least the coffee is good,
And the waitress is cute with a genial smile.
The art and décor, inspired.

I'll probably keep coming back.

Details | Simon Jackson Poem

Hungover

Whilst I hover here
wondering if i'll be sick
The hazy details of the nights debauchery
Become clearer with every retch, 
And nothing. 

Who took that photo with the silly face?
I really thought id be able to pace
Myself this time;
But its shouldnt's and never agains
all morning in the loo. 

The bad techno and overplayed hits 
Still echop through my pounding head, 
Recently obliterated by that dionysian nectar.

The midday sun now pours through my iris
Ill adjusted to to anything mut multicoloured strobes. 
Another hopeful attempt to spew hits me,
Only to be met with dissapointment.

Cralwing from the linoleum jail,
I call a friend to reminisce 
And hes the same as me, only he pulled and barely rememebers. 
And so i enter the platic prison 
for a last attempt to purge, but nothings there. 

Looking in the mirror telles me to pull myself together, 
A sparkling alka-seltzer cocktail takes the edge off
And I remember that hangovers only last a day, 
whilst forgotten memories lie in obscurity forever.

Details | Simon Jackson Poem

Femme Fatale

Arid and lifeless the world surrounds
the prickly cactus standing its ground, 
watching, waiting preparing amongst
the nothing that envelopes the scene. 

The spines stare menacingly at the sun 
as if it were the instigator of all 
manifestations of its cruel evolution, 
peering around watching and waiting they wait. 

The purple sky beings to fall 
and the fading light now glimmers 
on the shiny body of the plant, 
and it can finally breathe without fear. 

At last she falls, that beast of the sky, 
its breathing now begins to quicken, 
drawing precious drops of moisture, 
lubricating elixir for another long day. 

Menacing in light, beautiful at night
I see you there and hope you will be alright

Details | Simon Jackson Poem

Boot Prints In the Snow

Wandering in winter's gusty grip
Nothing is safe from its frigid whip
Taming even people on their journeys.
Animals wonder if theyll see the spring
and the plants would too, 
Were it not for the Winter King
Leaving all but their progeny behind.
And on this journey through the trees
Bootprints in the snow
are the only sign of life around, 
winding their way, as if following the sound
of the Winter King's whisper
Condensing to the crystalline carpet now layed.

His Majesty's frosty reign will be over soon.
His icy staff will melt to rivers twisting through the lands
and everything will shine with new glory again.

Details | Simon Jackson Poem

Wasted Words From the Mouth of a Fool

If the sun is up too early,
I’d push it way back down
And when it runs away too fast:
To the moon, I’d lash it down,
So night was day and day were night
And forever in sunlight frisk.
Until the sole thing left to do
Is in eternal light beams,
reach to that golden disc.

Details | Simon Jackson Poem

Hot Air Rising

128 British dead
And 2 more on the way.

How many 'enemies'
have been filled with British lead?

Who are:
The Rebels?
The Freedom Fighters?
The Allies?
The Beasts?

Whose bullets and bombs are better,
What blood spilled more belovéd?
Which tears are more treasured,
When they all flow for loss.

You tell me

Could you decide the value of a death,
Or does the T.V do your talking?
Would you like to take the test of faith
And walk into your house disgraced
By soldiers filled with obstinate hate
For you who just chose to live?

You tell me

Is it fair to point the finger
When there's three pointing at you.
And you don't even care to think
About the lives of others on the brink.
The piling bodies, their putrid stink
Lingering, waiting for the winds of change,
But there's only the breeze of bullets
When the streets become a firing range.

Now you tell me


Is it just me, or are you able to see
The hot air rising too.

10/7/2009

Details | Simon Jackson Poem

Oh Waxy Moth!

Oh waxy moth!
Why to my candle must you be drawn?
This is light is unholy in your sight
And will only cause end to your flight.
Yet here you be this warm summer night
Circling that flickery target of your plight.

Just one bump is all it took
Never to set sail again, forever stuck on foot.
Tonight you'll wander through the grass
And I can't help but wish you luck
Even though I know too well that tomorrow
I won't be seeing you.

Oh waxy moth!
Why to my candle must you have been drawn?

Details | Simon Jackson Poem

Untitled

When the snow thaws
And the icy cracks in the road form rivers
It carries away the hopes and dreams 
Of the children once engrossed 
In powdery play, capped and gloved, 
Fingers and toes sheltered from numbing gales
That halt the festivities gay.

Run now until the end of spring!
Head towards the plains, 
Winter's frost has used up all the hay 
And the fields are wanting
Those nourishing waters to feed for a day. 
The spring time green is due its place
And all will heal by natures grace.  

The sun will come and go in its waltz with the moon
Just as joy plays its hide and seek with gloom.