South of Paradise

Poems of Isolation in the American Landscape

Written by Jackson Williams

Illustrated by Hanna Bischof

BLUE RIDGE HAIKUS

She slips through my hands Effortlessly — to the earth You can’t carry ash

Cicada carcass

Abandoned home, long ago Can I shed my skin?

In summer’s shadow A blue ridge divides orange light South of paradise

THE DOWNHILL SLOPES OF BLOWING ROCK

Standing earthside while the flowers crumble. Heads tilted toward goodbye. It’s too early to call, so we stumble. It’s too early to cry — It’s not even July.

In the dead of spring, there’s no guarantee we’ll make it out alive. We take the blow, don’t we?

When things get too hard, we drift. Appalachia’s got us on lock. Grief’s a sky Atlas can’t lift. Two hawks spiral from the rift. Mayday, Dad, we’re shot from the flock. Two birds, sharp stones, same tree — bleeding together at Blowing Rock. We take the blow, don’t we?

Struck by fear, and the grave’s not far. If there’s a choice to stay or flee, you’ll grab the skis — I’ll start the car. We take the blow, don’t we?

NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE

Your seat at the table is empty now. It’s up in flames, up in fire, crisping on my desire to blame you for leaving the dirt road not taken — a mistaken vow.

Flowers wilt and artists roll like thunder. As I pawn your camera, maybe I’ll learn to love decaying suburbia while its white-picket graves pull me under.

You’re the dark side of the moon and the light flaring this forest into shallow tombs. The one we used to play inside before we grew up. Before we knew what was right.

My favorite photographer remains in albums over abandoned antiques we used to burn below mid-August skies. As you flicker away, I pray for rain.

I pray for rain.

THE GREAT AMERICAN POET

I’m the Great American Poet of the star-spangled pen. I carry this ballpoint, knowing it won’t work the same again.

A winter life’s ice age, my shotgun soul tells — words flying to the page in blue-inked bombshells.

In battlefield fatigues, poem attacks occur — a blissful blitzkrieg to mild the massacre.

It’s the poet’s story: you’re born to cry. Our tears are savory for the bone dry.

If an artist should go mad, by Jesus, I’ll be sure to show it. If an artist should be sad — I’m the Great American Poet.

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