walking

The Shrubs of Doubt Were Misplaced

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Still, the dogs watch me from behind
a fence when I walk the opposite route–

against traffic on Gross Street–
the view changes enough to convince

me I am in a different place in my life
with its industrial constellations,

a parking garage sparkling with hovering
hospital lights while skeleton neighbors

decorate homes for Halloween and blue
jays all seek a different weather. Maybe

October chill has knocked a new belief
into my teeth. Brick by brick I walk

by buildings of my past that survived
into the current, too, and a leaf

from an unseen tree floats
onto the chest of my charcoal

jacket. I pin it there
for the days I will forget.

(originally published in Ariel Chart, Spring 2024)

On Sassafras the KEPT ONES

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

                         In the alley toward the strip yellow
                       plant caution tape walking through trash

                                 valley to Iron City Beer no one
                             needs to pack bags stepping on

                    white rocks on Sassafras the KEPT ONES
                           under clouds. Wonder who makes

                    it out alive. Plastic bag with Lysol
                           wipe flapped in the wind when tossed

                        in the trash. Another event stupidly
                               beautiful to admire. When I look away

                     I could crash into sunflower NO PARKING
                                        signs. What masochist places

                                  these in the middle of a long busy stretch
                                      of sidewalk? Now bees won’t leave

                          me alone in this heat

(originally published in Spinozablue, Fall 2022)

A Poetry of Place

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

Because Tony once said he knew
Columbus and Los Angeles the way I do–
I have not yet developed a poetry of
place for Pittsburgh. Three years in and
still the surprise hills, the way I always
feel– still– an outsider wending my way
through confusing streets. I’ve worked with
Kailee’s dad longer than I lived with Paige
and still we haven’t had a deep conversation.
Everywhere I go there remains a sense of some
thing deep that needs explored. The way
I walked Los Angeles streets at night–
the endless sprawl– must be the same,
but Pittsburgh’s smaller, the graffiti
more familiar, how it’s all a sketch of home.

(originally published in Vilas Avenue, Winter 2023)

Trust

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

I did not listen to my inner
monologue when it told me
to stay home and watch

The Novice. I went to Trace
Brewing when it was bright
but you sat in the dark

when I needed light. I
said one drink, one drink
only, then on the two-block

walk back the clouds
were down, they felt
attached to you and

I kept stepping on
plastic bags and
scrunched-up napkins.

To arrive home I had
to bisect my conscience
and wait: how much

of myself to give
after giving?
The water tower

in the distance
a perpetual blue
balloon.

(originally published in DoubleSpeak Magazine, Spring 2023)

Fog

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

We inhaled fog on the Golden Gate
along with traffic exhaust.
Foghorns cried names
we did not recognize.
Car horns, names we gave ourselves.
From this high, you said, there is no good
way to fall. We scrunched our fingers
to encapsulate the small
fragility fog brings– how, in a moment,
everything can change / fog
of ghosts rippling waves from long-
passed boats / fog of sitting in silence,
windows down / fog of steel cable’s
fading red / fog of missing
what we lost while sun cuts a way

 

(originally published in Eunoia Review, Fall 2016)

Night Train in Wait

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

We stare at stars until we feel
the cavalcade of stones shift beneath our shoes.
There is an entropy to the universe.
What melody does the rail hold in her ivories?

Do we listen for an engine to ignite
while we tangle in the grass, in the cold,
in the tremble of tracks? Where else to go?
We tremble, too, waiting

for a song from the vulnerable rail
and her sharp of distance.
If the train will not move I still want
to create landscapes with you

and callous ourselves hurtling
past engine content in her still
into worlds where I become wind,
and you, fire–

with a palm on your cheek,
we’re the mountains,
playas, beaches, moors.
All a blur. A quiver.

 

(originally published in Isthmus, Winter 2016)

A Walk Through Palms

/ James Croal Jackson / Leave a comment

When there’s nothing special about a sunset
lined with palms, there is nothing special.

Trees jut from behind roofs
like green skinny beanstalks extended forever.

Every plane a UFO.

Breathe the collective breaths of everyone.

Walks should be alone,
watching crows circle majestically
above stacks of garbage
bags in shopping carts.

Soon there are words:
first a sweeping hush,
a low hum.
Then the revving of neighbors
and their chatty sportscars.

The emissions enter the brain.
Then the atmosphere.
Whatever that is
is not what I am looking for.

 

(originally published in The Quotable – 2015)