No Tears Shed

At the end of a life spent in utter pride

what questions linger in the dormant mind,

what life of chosen solitude led,

that would end in silence with no tears shed.


In ageing years when support is sought

from those whose love in frail arms caught,

what sorrow is absent from deathly bed

when a life could pass with no tears shed.


In distant home, in sufferance lied,

among strangers a woman gave up and died,

what hope of remorse when all prayers said,

when a family remains fractured, the mother is dead,

and a life passes in silence with no tears shed.


But though these stanzas have you crucified

it would be false to say that I never cried,

I hold onto tears for what I never had,

as your life passes by me one tear I shed.


Published in Underground, Issue 4, September 2010

Published in The Frequency of God, Close-Up Books, December 2017


Life by Remote Control

Ensconced  in  the  images.

Injections from the 40 inch

frame    across   the   room.


Bourgeois buttocks comfortable

on a lounge cut from old growth

forest by third world underaged.


Watch the news for sports updates,

interspersed with messages of the

latest products, requirements for a

new and improved reduced fat life.

Abject images are quickly flicked.


Reality TV is an oxy   moron.

Published in Popshot, Issue 4, September 2010

A revision in The Frequency of God, Close-Up Books, December 2017

Poem by Mark William Jackson, Illustration ©2010 David Lemm

Beat(en) & Saintly

it was wednesday

& the wagtail blues

& bebop doos

fell like porcelain

from an angel’s wings


hipster crooners

who clung to rags

like oxygen needles

danced on glass feet

stomping at the gin bar

& smoking leaves

of fortitude stripped

from a sandbox of lies


we waited for a taxi

while the moon bled jazz

over the new york sidewalk

insects laughed

at the show

mingling with saxophones

of stone

& now?


do you do do the new move

cloaked in ageless slipstreams

in the rat tat of hep cat culture

does your coffee pour whiskey

into your mind’s cool blue fixtures

when your pen punctures pages

& when will you rest?


& is this a test?


historic light unsheathed

like a blade

to cut your arms

spill the blood

of fathers

like your blood

will be spilled by your sons

& what of your sons

do they float in spoons

in precious powder

crushed from the dragon’s bone

the flame licks the steel

orange blue lights appeal

flick flickering images

in rolled eyes of

tangelo tint


when the spike pushes in

what does it take out?


Published in The Diamond & the Thief (Black Rider Press), September 2010

Published in The Frequency of God, Close-Up Books, December 2017

An audio recording of this poem (with The Minordian) can be found here…