A SEA MIST

 By Linda Jackson

Look into my eyes and tell your sailor’s stories.

 Come with me and hear a woman’s whisper,

 who holds the magic key.

 For you may be the sailor,

 but I am still the sea.

 Taste the salt, begin to see,

 endless destination

 the land of ecstasy.

 Many sail the ocean, but few men dare to be,

 the middle of the ocean,

 The bottom of the sea.

 No cup have I for just one drink,

 for drowned you must be, to share

 this very special space,

 of no reality.

So tell your stories, I’ll listen to your eyes,

 see the sounds of winds

 who whisper where you’ve been.

 Listen to me and hear the mermaid’s plea,

 you have to drink the water to be a part of me.

No salt you’ll taste, no ocean swells,

 the secret of the sea, it cannot hurt what is itself.

 The middle of the ocean, the bottom of the sea.

THE FLOWER TREE
by Linda Jackson

Leave me, cries the soil, to the flower tree.

Yesterday’s tomorrows are where we used to be.

I cannot watch the barren tree, where flowers
used to grow.

The roots are deep inside of me so how can I say go.

We pull the tree, it takes the dirt and such a part of me

and leaves some roots where it has been, so deep inside of me.

I see today’s tomorrow’s sun and wish to set us free,

What Could Be Wrong With that?

BY Linda Jackson

Watch out for me. I am the woman who wants nothing from you, but to circle in your senses, screaming in ecstasies of paining pleasures that soak inside your body. Which means she wants it (all).

Who could resist me, when all I want is that? Nothing else. The rest, it doesn’t matter. I only want those things you do that cause my body’s aching.

Which means she wants it (all).

The siren sounds, screaming ecstasy. I’m calling, but no other ears can hear as it vibrates through your body. My body’s empty, echoing and that’s what draws you back. You know she wants it (all). So what could be wrong with that?

The black widow spider is invisible. You only see the hot spot you’re visiting, her laying on her back, the arms and legs stretched up waiting to wrap around you, spinning a gentle web, preparing to eat you up.

She’ll wait till Christmas Eve. She'll be eating all alone, while you’re smiling at your guests. Her loneliness fills up your plate and makes it hard to swallow let alone digest. You knew she wanted it (all), so what could be wrong with that?

The Hypnotist

By Linda Jackson

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