Three Poems by Eaton Jackson

Shedding Skin
 
wriggling out of used up skin
a different  chameleon replaces the one
the cross-words had solved as lizard on a limb,       
 
new spelling for new words that seek to find the same meaning
emphasis added    pinching pressure on the last syllable to
effect  that the cliché  isn’t a cliché,
 
 
deep into the exposed vulnerability
speaking again  a voice that loves hearing its own inflections
on behalf of the beautiful  discontented segments on the graph,
 
skin change again trails of sand mounds
miniature castles
cross word puzzle needing more fields to correctly spell your name,  
 
sorting through another stack  of  what is supposed to be you but
in effect not you 
but a blending in with the peeled colors        more stacks of not-you.





Secrets Uncovered
 
Each other’s closed palms mistakenly dropped open
spilling  
hoard up, compressed  secrets
scooping up     hard to scoop up
like the harbor’s oil slick     the faster wipe
spread a much wider discoloration
the grotesque
 
to re-fit
a pandora box’s bursting
with an  ill-fitted geometrical lid
to sit back down on these unmentionable things
to pull back in a loose tongue
to cover up Machiavellian schemes
to push back criminal fingers in side  pockets
because, as with a crowbar
something     pulling    something wrenching at it
 
prying
and prying
until the outer shell cracks
naked  unrestrained   visceral  now
searching for something to hide behind
but no fig leaf
no euphemism 
no polite smile
an exposed nerve      pulsing.





Open Mic

open- mic will go on  hearing you
your thoughts  diluted undiluted
your deeds your intent
what you never intended
what is serious what is jest,
 
open- mic has no decision in your right    in your wrong
open-mic  is a sponge lying idly there
hearing everything your breathing, the shaping of your  thoughts
your deleted thoughts  your re-written thoughts
in the middle of an empty, expectant stage open-mic
open mic stands    inanimate       center-stage
chrome, metallic perforated concealed ears
listening,
 
the silence like a fishing net
to catch stuff falling
between the cup and the lip
and open-mic has somehow managed not to entangled
itself in its own lead cord that disappears
somewhere behind the hole
countersunk in the counter.  

​



Image - Pavel Voloshin
https://www.flickr.com/people/indie-man/
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/

Bio: Eaton Jackson is an aspiring Jamaican writer, with a lifelong ambition of fitting the right words in the blank spaces. In so doing, he would like that a picture of one common humanity, peace, respect, honor and love become an achievable community. Because language should not be a barrier to feelings, and like the indigenous reggae music of his native homeland, whose lyric might not be readily understood, but whose infectious beat is – he would like his words to convey a similar understanding. His works have appeared in Tuck magazine, The NewsVerse News, River Poets Journal.  

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