Amy Jackson

Writings 2004

 

 

Loving Touch

i hear your fingers on the book
finding the right page to read to me

see your fingers on the nodding rose
clipping it tenderly
now to the orchid buds encouraging flight

every plant in the house now knows
your touch
watering and tending each one just right

your hands on me soothing the burrs down
in the candlelight
on my aches the knots untied each night

your loving touch
your loving touch
to be under your touch is
to be loved with your light
your hands are healing me
with their touch
their loving touch
your loving touch
just right

 

© February, 2004

Amy Jackson

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Bloodstream

floating down your throat
i'm biting your man
whispering to your little boy
hey, let's play, let's roar!
merged in a swirlstorm
where we blended, we soar
shuddering quakes in the spine
archaic to the opposing thumb
a serpent in the vertebrae
shimmering out alchemy
rhythmic mantra of breath
and life rejoined

 

© February, 2004

Amy Jackson

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Strawberry Train


gris-gris
constellation in my hands
the next milk train outta town
the strawberry train
depression glass girl
with her father’s mouth down
so many strawberries picked
but none to eat in a cardboard town
harvest and hunger in the moon fields
on the heels of the moon full
the wounds of his hands heal
gris-gris, she says, gris-gris
but the luck don’t stay
but the luck don’t come
back around

constellation in my hands
water sparkles the Sun within
remembers the taste of sweat
on the back of his neck

the jug band man came through town
i can hear the water in the clapping
seashells in the finger snapping
a waltz full of water
walking full of rain
fields full of rain
and nothing to eat
every day it rains
rocks and cinders
when all was pearls and flowers

the beatitudes of dusk
gracing the glares of commission
pulling light from the shadows
to stretch its rays
all the way to the horizon
to touch the Sun their maker
until all is falling
into Night’s arms
Night’s mouth
the dark Night with his hand on her knee
Night’s conscience to pray
for tomorrow’s illumination
the mercy of new day’s light

the strawberries fill to red bursting shine
don’t bruise them pulling them off in time
some sweet fat fill her mouth and pretend
happiness gossips in the tea room,
my girl’s gotten so thin

gris-gris
constellation in my hands
the next milk train outta town
the strawberry train
depression glass girl
with her father’s mouth down
so many strawberries picked
but none to eat in a cardboard town
harvest and hunger in the moon fields
on the heels of the moon full
the wounds of his hands heal
gris-gris, she says, gris-gris
but the luck don’t stay
but the luck don’t come
back around

 

© May, 2004

Amy Jackson

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King of the Salt Tribe


now you’re the king of it all
where salt is sweet
and you feel the meat
where the soul is only an open wound
and the shout is a grind to be ground down
and the blues is a place we all live deep down
we all just need to shake shake it out

when the demon is you
and you are the void of doubt
one day you’ll see your way back around
to the side of you where decent folk
roll their windowshades down
with the simple courage of every day
and no one lurks on the other side of town
where it’s not black and white
where it’s real and good and evened out

but now you’re king of the salt tribe
with a shout in your hands
and the taste of blood in your mouth
you can’t get it out
you can’t get it out of your mouth
you’re on the floor again
and it feels like home
where you’ve thrown the rest
now you’re among your own

all the words come snaking out
you’ve judged the world
you’ve staked it all on one result
bitter black and white
we’re addicted to your sulk
your own judge judges you last
but you don’t see it racing past

we all deny the bitter demon
but you’ve found him out
you’ve made him dance
and now we all wanna shout
we all wanna dance the evil out
until the doom and gloom shakes
from being found out
we all just wanna dance the evil out

pouring it heavy into the wounds you see
for miles around
with the eye of an eagle for the weak
we’re grateful for your sound
but one day you’ve gotta come back down
one day you’ve gotta come back down

and now you’re king of the salt tribe
with a shout in your hands
and the taste of blood in your mouth
you can’t get it out
you can’t get it out of your mouth
you’re on the floor again
and it feels like home
where you’ve thrown the rest
now you’re among your own

and now you’re king of the salt tribe
with a shout in your hands
and the taste of blood in your mouth
you can’t get it out
you can’t get it out of your mouth
you’re on the floor again
and it feels like home
where you’ve thrown the rest
now you’re among your own

 

© August 1 , 2004

Amy Jackson

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