May 11, 2013. New Folsom Prison. Sometimes poetry is the only expression of realness that fits.
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Karma Dept.
What does it all mean
this life and my karma dept.?
The boiler blew up
last night
Must have been like
a bomb
So loud it was silent.
Everyone ran but me
I heard later the whole
wall could have shattered.
I stood there watching
the panic, rolling
a cigarette
It didn’t matter, it was
my karma dept.
Why aren’t you writing?
I have nothing to write,
nothing to say. Over ten
years of this life
has been wasted.
My karma dept.
I want to tell someone,
some lady, I love her
not to get sex
but just because I do.
No reasons, no conditions
for there’s just being
and natural love
My karma dept.
I came here today
to perhaps share a few
tears together, a poem
or two
but it didn’t work out
so I just walked away
for it’s my karma dept
THE VULTURE’S BACK
Tonight I looked
at the sky and there was no moon
If there was I could not see it.
Once again I wonder where the moon
is hiding
when it’s not glowing.
Once again this night, teardrops lie
just beneath the surface.
Water fills my eyes that have cried
a billion tears.
Once again sadness fills my heart
that has yet to share its full bloom.
Once again smiles lie beneath my frowns.
The vulture’s back circling the core
of my heart
that cried a billion tears
that dreamed a billion dreams
that smiled a billion smiles.
© Spoon Jackson
Beyond Bars: Where I Am From Beyond Bars: Silence Beyond Bars: One Soul Beyond Bars: Goodbye Music Beyond Bars: Remains Beyond Bars: True Media Beyond Bars: The Universal is Personal Beyond Bars: After Poetry is Nothing Beyond Bars: Birds Chase Away Blues Beyond Bars: Social Isolation Flower Photo by CarbonNYC/Flickr (this image has been altered) Vulture image: Dendroica cerulea/Flickr