Poetry by Jim Wilson

Pearl Diver Now Don’t Take This Personally

Jim Wilson is a 72-year-old white male with no criminal record. He is a retired Texas small animal veterinarian currently specializing in grass growing, gardening, writing, and public elementary school volunteering in the Burton/Brenham area. Wilson is a philosophically conservative Republican with closet Democratic idealist empathy, and therefore has absolutely no credentials to be a poet. However, he has written more than 600 poems since 2000, and he feels compelled to share them with unsuspecting victims. Wilson’s publishing credits include Concho River Review, Ft Davis Mt Dispatch, and others. Wilson’s Down to Earth Poetry won the North Texas Book Festival Book Award for best poetry book, and he has been nominated for and has been finalists in other writer award competitions.

“Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.” ~Robert Frost~

If I muck through a thousand oysters of life and find one pearl it is worth it.

I shall give it away and begin a second thousand. The odds are in my favor.

The joy of life is in a successful toleration of much muck for a few pearls.

Butch and Sundance Mature

At the edge of old not there yet but I can see it from here

See people who look like they are over the edge but don’t act like it

See people who look like they are over the edge and act like it

All I ask of you - be part of my sail and not part of my anchor If we go over the edge don’t worry about drowning the fall will probably kill us anyway This morning I am sitting here working on a poem minding my own business, and here comes this juvenile fly with a kamikaze death wish. He has to be on me.

I brush him off my arm. He lands on my ear. I bat him off my ear. He buzzes my face and burrows in my hair.

I slap, slap, slap. Miss. Hurt arm, head, ear. He lights on my good typing finger. I smack fingers and keyboard. Miss fly. Screen goes black.

I am up finding a flyswatter. Ten seconds after I am back He does touch and go landings On my arm three times. He’s driving me crazy.

Finally he appears on my notes on the desk. Smack, dead fly, splattered notes. No more pestering. No more crazy. Suddenly I think of you

Every single soul is a poem.