Sunday, November 18, 2012

To Experience What it was Like to Be With Me


I've been thinking about you this morning, my friend
The pure joy, I had being with you each day

You were right of course, finally ending it
I'd never appreciated women back then

Just seemed to fall in with the shallow crazies
It came I suppose, from too many beatings

Mother telling me I'm stupid, as a kid
I'd never amount to anything, she said

I don't know when my conscience, began to die
For what reason? Well, I can't remember why

When I was a teenager, it must have been
One day I woke up, and my gaze just went low

No real friendships, were in the cards for me then
Survival was my only thought, and where I'd live

I'd never respected women, never loved them
It was all about me, when the push came to shove

My heart breaks, thinking how it must have felt for you
To experience what it was like to be with me

(C) Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The Spiritual


It is believed
There is a period
Of the wandering soul
Between life and rebirth
Said to last forty-nine days

During this time
We must learn to detach
Separate, from the material world
And review the lessons we have learned

Crying, while morning
Confuses and distracts the dead
Troubles them, and delays their passing
The living should clear the wanderer's path

The dead must allow, the elements
That once supported them in their life
Earth, water, fire, and wind, to collapse
Then, one is free to enter the final element

The Spiritual

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Time Lines


She laughs out loud, at the short, hilarious quip
Sitting in the dark, while her sleeping children dream
Lighting another cigarette, sipping her wine

Her social life, is a time line of funny quotes
Awaiting the response, of her virtual friends
The chance to share, a few brief and vague sentences

The endless echo, of a sharp, deep loneliness
Now shutters, her once innocent and carefree heart
The business of survival, occupies her mind

In real life, there’s just not enough time to be she
Between being mom and dad, to her two children
Working full time, cooking the occasional meal

She smiles sadly, standing in the darkened doorway
Watching her children, both still, silently breathing
Her son, looking so much like his father, enough

Hours later, the radio awakens her day
The dog and her laptop the only company
Upon the glowing screen, her time line’s last entry

Out of wine, nighty night :-)

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Kitchen Contentment


Boiling kettle, a whistling
An imitation of life

Water, for delicious tea
Bubbling hot, a sober joy

Living in satisfaction
And sweet, kitchen contentment

Warm feet, upon the pup's back
Massaging toes, gently squeeze

Watching, out my windowsill
The warm sun, slowly rising

Safely, within make-believe
My world, of golden pipe dreams

The mind, remains crystal clear
Sharp eyes, a frozen topaz

I'm here, just living each day
Sipping, my thinking hot brew

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Dead Man Dreaming


He's just sleepwalking through his lifeless life
Marching at a slow metronome clicking pace

Like a charmed chameleon, he mirrors others
Reflecting their habits and emotions

He perceives the passing world as a vague shadow
Skipping the corners of his dull unseeing eyes

No longer a plan, just a dead man dreaming
Awakening each day to broken records

Spewing opinionated words, passing time
Constructing his dull pointless metrical form

Powered by alcohol and pain killing drugs
Writing until passing into restless sleep

The clock ticking the minutes slowly away
While he lies dreaming of being truly alive

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Sunday, September 2, 2012

Punchbowl



Today, I wandered upon the finely groomed lawns
Midst the silent markers and the red, white, and blue
Within a vast reservoir of memorials
A stunning, ultimate eternal resting place

With a hum of calm, and honorable company
Brothers and sisters, and a feeling of oneness
A sense of comfort, resting here with all of them
Fate chose me their defender, never to forget

While looking across the vast volcanic crater
My mind trying to grasp what it is I perceive
I stare, and ponder, the staggering sacrifice
Resting, next to the sun bleached stone of a brother

Slowly dozing off, with my mind giving thanks for
The blood of these diamonds, that made this country great

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006


Author Notes: Punchbowl is a National Cemetery, located in Honolulu, Hawaii. It is situated inside an extinct volcanic crater. I often went for walks, there during my time as a destroyer sailor, stationed in Pearl Harbor.

Monday, August 27, 2012

It Will be, For Not



A globular, irregular comet
The flaring of its streaming, endless tail
Spreading its dust, across the inky sky
On a collision course, for planet Earth

As he peered into the small, polished lens
Of his earthen, radio telescope
Past, the familiar Belt of Orion
He'd spied, the approaching apocalypse

Turning away, for a stretch, he pondered
So that's it? This is how it will all end?
The human race, for what was its purpose?
All the history, suddenly erased

Will it be, For Not?

Turning back to the lens, a final look
Later, while having lunch, he decided
He'd burn, all of his meticulous notes
Assuring himself, it was for the best

Aware, the world was just, an illusion
A series of holograms used by man
To anchor consciousness, in solid form
It would simply, rearrange energy

He knew it'd happened, many times before
Evidence, has regularly been found
Civilizations, millions of years old
Erased, by previous cataclysms

It Will be, For Not

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The In to the Weird Series

The Communicator


Line to the, out and back
Secret messages passed
Upon tiny plastic screens
Reminders, at awkward moments
Cause neighbor's troubled frown

Urgent power lunch exchanges
While text messaging lovers
During sports replays, with horoscope implications
Behind stocks, rising and falling

Nervous excuses for things, long forgotten
That should have been remembered

Plug me in, to out and back!
I need it now, not next week or yesterday!
Don’t yell at me!
I’m going!
No! I’m sorry
Where were we?
Oh yes, I like that

Voices of hours past, revisited
Numbers, with no meaning,
But must be saved
just in case.

What?
Sorry, I have to take this

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Dougs


The Dougs, they scurry
Fur cones are to be gathered
For the winter’s store

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

The Pacific Northwest has its Douglas Furs, and they are inhabited by the squirrels who take their name, the Douglas Squirrel. Commonly referred to by Washingtonians as, Dougs.

Author's Note: The Backyard Photos Series

Saturday, August 25, 2012

One Day


You have to be real careful, these days
Things that might seem natural, aren't
Keep your head down, your truth undercover
Remember, they are lying to you, every day

Got to run loose and free, and stay frosty
Don't talk to just anyone, no telling who they be
Keep your knowledge under cover, for now
And remember, they would silence you, if they could

Start thinking about these things, as the time nears
Being the flawed swine, that you are
But, still a reasonably respectable one
Remembering, that they would arrest you, if they could

Better to keep things down low and tight, for now
Got to be ready, when the false flag goes up
When things hit the fan, just be cool, and deadly
But remember this, they're going to try to kill you, one day

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The In to the Weird Series

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Lord of the Worms


The hungry robin
Spies the lush dewy green lawn
For his morning meal

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Backyard Photos Series

The Lesson


I noticed the smiling sparrows flying through the breaking dawn
While strolling upon the purple blue jasmine forest pathway

Their chirping caused streaking fissures of laughter within my brain
I followed them, like brown serpents, beneath the blue ocean waves

They led me to a fairy circle and a naked princess
Within her hands, she held a golden chalice filled with red wine

I stood before her, as the sparrows circled, opening my mouth
She poured the ancient liquid upon my parched silver tongue

Then she whispered a spell into my awaiting eager ear
Upon hearing her message, I went into a crimson dream

I climbed an amber leafy vine, through the lofty milky sky
Looked down upon a confused humanity, peering upward

Twas then I saw true path, through the rays of the burning sun
I descended to mother earth and the bed of the Goddess

I returned to my meager den and kneeled before the altar
Lighting candles of white and gold and incense of dragons blood

I thanked the mother for the lesson I had finally received
That we are all brothers and sisters of the radiant light

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Ricky's Crib


Ricky really wants to be a rich kid
If he were, he'd live in a big purple castle
With a giant swimming pool, filled with rubber ducks
There would be a really cool, secret underground room
It would be filled, with endless kinds of the biggest and best toys

Ricky would soak for hours in a big ole hot tub, filled with bubbles
The castle will be called, Ricky's Secret Special Crib
He'd give free rap concerts for his friends, every night
There would be giant never ending birthday parties, every day
He'd have his own fast car, he could drive on his private track

All of Ricky's friends, could live with him forever
Nobody would ever hurt, or make fun of Ricky and his friends
Nobody Ever

© Copyright G. Jones 2008

Author Notes:
This was a conversation I recorded from speaking with one of my sixteen year old autistic high school students I work with. I created a poem from his words and presented it to him. He said, nobody had ever written anything for him before. It hangs now on the wall in our special school room. He and I are very proud.

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Off the Merry-Go-Round


I think young John had it right, all along
It’s time to get off this merry-go-round

There’re people standing over there with guns
Each time I pass by, they take a shot at me, ridin’ high

So far, I’ve taken a few nicks, but I’m still alive
I’m gonna slide off this pretty pony, on the back side

With my stuffed animals in hand, headed for an exit plan
Enjoy life a bit more, with a little less hindering heartbreak

Ride my motor scooter outta this old circus, right through town
Say goodbye to my competing colleagues, fade them in my mirror

Paintin’ pretty pictures with my words and sippin’ my martini
Working when I want, and sleeping the day away just for fun

John had it right, that’s for sure
To bad, he didn’t follow his own words

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Food of Gods


The Milky Way is millions of pastures
Earth is one of many being tended
We’re but cattle living for our masters
Our purpose we haven’t comprehended

Bred and manipulated our species
From the beginning our own DNA
Altered to create an alien series
For food and labor, then taken away

They created our religious belief
They’re our Gods and Demons, our nightly spook
A type of monkey we were, with no grief
Now, when you state this faith, you’re labeled kook

They enabled us to create our fate
But we’re the food of Gods, make no mistake

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The In to the Weird Series

The Mirror


Looking at my wrinkled face in the mirror each day, I laugh
The idea of worrying about when my time on earth ends
It really is comical to me, in a sad kinda way

At my present age, I've outlived both my father and sister
Twenty years past dad and fifteen past my little sis
So, every day I wake up, is just plain gravy to me

I'd worry 'bout being successful until I succeeded
And then continue to become extremely bored with it all
Acquiring a collection of the things thought, so important

They'd filled my life, all there, beautifully mounted and displayed
As soon as one was bagged, it was placed and quickly forgotten
All safely surrounded, by home and beautiful lush gardens

Now, I spend my time in the deepest of thought, wondering why
My day requires a kiss from wife and pat on the dog's head
I work to stay busy, watching coworkers trapped in the game

I turn my head and look in the mirror at my graying head
I smile, listening to the sound of breakfast in the kitchen

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series





Love


I was just thinking, while sitting here looking at you
You know what I really believed about my life?

I would smile about how it, really meant nothing
And how I'd found out, it was all just a big scam

My grandpa said, boy, always be true to yourself
To me, that meant, not showing people all my cards

Trusting someone, I thought, left you on the short end
From that time on, I'd never once let my guard down

Mainly, to never let people know, I could love
Cause I just couldn't stand, being hurt anymore

The few times I'd ever come out on top at all
Was when I'd pretend, to be something I wasn't

Life was another chess move, on the board of me
In a one man game, that didn't include a soul

Then one fine day, you climbed on the back of my bike

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The In the Wind Series

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Tweety



My sweet petite bird, in my hand I keep
Your eternal company, my dear treat
A love and devotion, ever so deep
Morning's light starts, with a beam and a greet

I smile thinking of you, throughout my day
My little queen, in her cottage on isle
Reigning, over monkey and many fowl
Floral and treasure, from athwart the mile

I trek back to you each day, land and sea
By wheels two and four, returning to meet
Lovely greetings, which you do oversee
Tired, I relax to lips, tender and sweet

You’re the one, that ensures my very best
Finding new ways to amuse you, my quest

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Epitaph


One Thing You
Can Bet
He Rode Life Hard
And Put It
Away Wet

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012


Thursday, August 2, 2012

Another Port, Another Dancer


I awaken, in the early morning
The sun, shining into your sleeping face
The smell, of your lovely perfumed scent

Untangling from your clinging arms
And your bleached strawberry blonde hair
Looking close at your fine mustache

My elbow, knocks a champagne glass
The sound, of the cheap flute breaking
Stirs your sweet, heartshaped, pale behind

I smile, as the door slowly clicks
Creeping down the hall, like a nun
Off for coffee and cigarettes

Another port, another dancer

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

A Day in the life


The old farm house had been standing since the nineteenth century
I would arrive at the base of its tall wooden steps each morning
Climbing to the massive porch, which surrounded three of its sides
I could smell the wood smoke from the weathered chimney in the air

Entering the screen door, I would pass the idol old porch swing
The living room, warm with a gentle fire and heated stone hearth
Rocking chairs perched on each side, one holding my great uncle’s smile
My Aunt, calling me from the kitchen to come and get breakfast

Sitting at the table, with warm biscuits, eggs, and fresh sausage
Reaching for the coffee pot, on the wood burning kitchen stove
She’d tell me to eat plenty; it'll be a long time ‘til lunch
I made a couple of biscuit and sausage snacks, for later

After breakfast, I would tread down the western porch stairs to work
Stopping, before reaching the barn, I turned and gazed at the house
Thinking of the history of the grand old plantation place
With its classic design, complete with the endless high porches

It was painted white, although it had long since faded, to grey
The screened in back porch, led from the kitchen, and back bedrooms
I had passed through the western hall through more bedrooms and a bath
Latter having been installed in recent years; no more outhouse

In front of the great north porch, stood an ancient giant oak tree
Planted by a quiet ancestor, it towered above the house
Its huge roots provide a seat for one to sit and have a chew
Turning back toward the barn I walked for the old sleeping tractor

I would spend the day in the field, until dark, plowing the soil
Returning to the house at midday for another great meal
Mashed potatoes, black-eyed peas, and a slice of home butchered ham
Then back in the evening for supper, with hot fried chicken

I would stay for a short chat and a chew, sitting on the hearth
Spitting into the fire and listening to tales of distant past
Eventually, saying my goodbyes and out to the truck
Riding home, I smelled the soil and fresh air through the cracked window

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

Yard Friends


Cones of the tall fir
Fall, breaking morning’s silence
A squirrel at play

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series


Jasmine


The smell of jasmine
Blends with mingling wild birdsong
Beneath noon’s warm sun

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series


Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Bankok


Appearing like a serpent, its mouth opened wide
At early dawn we approached, through fisher and boat
Slowly, we entered this strange new world with the tide
Since forty five, the west had not seen Siam’s coat

The smell of incense along the sweet mossy shore
Beautifully adorned golden temples, they shine
There were large ships moored amid stream, both aft and fore
Making slowly for Bangkok, we stood, our whites fine

Entering the crowded harbor, wonders we gaze
Anchor let go, we were the first since WWII
Liberty launch to shore, we all stared in amaze
Rushing ashore, things to come for us, not a clue

The kingdom of Thailand raises her pretty dress
I leave this exotic jewel, my head a mess

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Note: Sailor's Sonnet Series

This is from my memory of sailing up the Bangkok river in 1977. We were the first U.S. destroyer to visit those waters since 1945.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

I know You


Giant moray eels, spring from the hip bones
Snapping at the toes, of swimmers above
She lies here, because you have forgotten
A poor dead girl, that has no voice to hear

Placed thus by you, to calm your troubled soul
She sleeps there below dark disturbed waters
In death, but a bad memory to you
Of your ultimate, young weakest moment

You’re a killer, with the blackest of hearts
A ruined life, that wants some company
Married with children, and a villain, free
To find the next victim, as you well please

I have spotted you, my evil sick friend
Soon, you will meet your long eternal end

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The In the Weird Series

The Secret Tunnel


A secret door
Hidden beneath the falls
Where only elves and fairies enter
It’s said if a human attempts entrée
Their destruction is explicit to follow

One sunny day a young man ventured toward the falls
He laughed and played in the peaceful waters
After time he noticed the door
He passed through the cool falls
Fore it he stood

He pushed softly
It slowly swung open
An endless tunnel beckoning
Upon its rocky walls, fiery torch lights
The ancient stony path, cracked and heavily worn

With cryptic symbols carved upon the cave's bulwark
The warm air smelled of incense, dragon’s blood
He removed his thick crown of thorns
And society’s cloths
He stood naked

Clumsily slow
He began down the path
Leaving behind his guilt and scorn
Whispers came from the tunnel’s dark depths
They constantly reminded him to, “Do no Harm”

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Lament


Crispy morning breeze
Shifting fog below the moon
A lone wolf laments

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

Thursday, July 26, 2012

New Years Resolution Ride


Spin the bullet, click the revolver shut
Thumbing hammer, pulling trigger for the cut

A shadow snap, leaves me another year
Pistol safely locked in case, on my way

Leather, denim, hair tied back, and black boot heel
Hit the bong, straddle the chrome, red, and steel

Music in my head, time to hit the road
Mean furious speed, slow mental download

White micro-dotted visions to unroll
Draining my strength sucking, self doubting soul

Another New Year's resolution ride
One more year, until the pistol will decide

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006


Author's Note: A View From the Wind Series

Mr. Green


Each day, he appears
My friendly green capped grazer
Mallard drake and hen

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

The Path


The world has not, a real purpose
It’s to us to discover one

This requires a certain courage
Perhaps more, imagination

Glimpsed, in certain mangled thoughts
Dismissed as crazy, and ignored

Heard in poems, read in sacred texts
Purposed, in angelic message

Ignorance, distorts hearts and minds
Blinding us, in our true desires

Blockading our one clear purpose
And expanding our emotional cravings

Fixating some person or thing
That we imagine will fulfill us

Forgetting, all that is composed
Will decompose, and turn to dust

It’s not us, who decide our path
We merely provide it with direction

Through a world that seems mad
Toward what our spirit knows is right

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Liz


She moved, like a powerful jungle cat
With violet eyes, and coiffed raven hair
Her ruby lips, matching her silken hat
Fleeting the breathless hoards, without a care

Flowing taffeta, and stunning diamond
She ruled, the crimson Hollywood carpet
Perfect skin, of beautifully tanned almond
Luscious figure, men could never forget

Oscars, lined her marble fireplace mantle
No man, could quench her passionate bonfire
No Caesar or Antony, could handle
Her grand legend, will forever inspire

The most beautiful woman, on the globe
She will always wear, Cleopatra’s robe

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series




Thursday, July 19, 2012

Tin Can Navy


She is cool gray steel, slicing darkest sea
Crewed by crazed youngsters, both man and woman
Quiet and deadly, in following seas, free
No light above, but the Moon and Orion

Coffee, cigarette, red night lights aglow
I, reading Conrad, lookouts are all set
Only sounds of the sea and radio
Always watchful for contacts to be met

She patrols her night box for rogue raiders
Giant turbines in her belly turn with snap
The night cook prepares mid watch cheese sliders
Chaplin says night prayer, Boats plays taps

She was built for fast work anytime or place
I sit on watch, red light bathing my face

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Night steaming in the Indian Ocean

Author's Note: Sailor's Sonnet Series

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Interview with the Dark Lady



THE PLACE
THE PLACE THE PLACE
The place in which I found myself that night
~~~~~~~~~~~~~would be there~~~~~~~~~~~~~


At the road's edge
Bathed by warm engine's breath 
I escaped for a second
To the cool crisp air
The pain, always present 
An eternal covenant of blood 
Kept me awake that night

My strength fading 
The calm voice of an owl
Gave me solace and shudder
Trying to maintain my balance 
Black stiletto heels sinking
Into dark cool mud

The fresh wooden stake
Reflecting the soft moonlight
Taking it in my hands 
I heaved it OUTWARD
With an animal GROAN
I placed it carefully in his lap

The untellable wound inside
I closed my shawl
Covering what remains me forever
I reached through the window
Passed his unseeing eyes

Placing the car in drive
I stepped aside
Over the steep cliff they sailed
To oblivion

I turned up the road 
Thumb extended
To the
Oncoming
Car


~~~~~~~~~~~~~The place in which I found myself that night~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Would be much different 
If my date would have 
Been a little higher
To the right

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006
Author's Note: The In the Weird Series.

The Bridge


I remember a much simpler time
When the world was round and so innocent

There was a country store, a narrow creek
An old cable hung from a metal bridge

The launching point from which people would swing
A semi flat rock on the muddy bank

For an extra thrill, one could climb the bridge
Dare, and a step into just nothing

Rushing air, a great splash, and the bottom
Once to the surface, proving your courage

Occasionally, all would abandon
When a lazy old snake would swim along

This gave chance for sharing time and a joke
A soda, potato chips, and moon pie

Dripping wet, cut-off shorts, and the warm sun
Innocent minds, so far, not corrupted

No one thought of what the future would bring
The poor, lived from day to day, happily

We earned our pay from driving a tractor
Hauling hay and digging fence posts all day

Upon returning home to family
We ate home cooking and slept untroubled

Yes, I remember a simpler time
The creek, friends, family, and innocence

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

Gold Digger


Gold digger ever on the hunt
With an unsatiable desire
Green eyes and a crocodile tear

Sharp sensitive snout aground
Sweet scent of incarnant craving
Propells her hot panting persuit

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Monday, July 16, 2012

The Model Behind the Mask


Their discreet shadow bourgeois dignity
The perfect couple and all would agree

It is her self-absorbed complicity
That allows his mock-connubial love

Children boarded at university
Left alone with their darling pastimes

She the charitable socialite queen
He and his office inamorata

They share a commitment to worldly things
A model husband and his lovely queen

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Shadow Logic


A crawling dark shadow
In the mind, beckons desire
Replacing your spiritual fear
Deliciously, hiding logic

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Subic Bay, Philippines


I'd just gotten blown in from the grey, raging sea
Weather beaten from wind and hail, exhausted
One-hundred days of constant steaming, now was free
Needed a long night, to get my brain defrosted

Cash, burning holes in the pockets, of my blue jeans
I hit the streets, with women and whiskey in mind
Knew exactly the place for both, I had my means
Off, I quickly leave my fellow squids far behind

As a salt, my woman was already waiting
Years in this port, made for loving friends and old ties
Her, a beautiful brown, dark haired island darling
She'd calm the warrior from sea, quiet my cries

The good ole Philippines, my home away from home
An awesome rest, fore returning to ocean’s foam

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's NoteSailor's Sonnet Series

Friday, July 13, 2012

Pearl Harbor


Stand atop the mast, and gaze upon the harbor
It has seen many come and go on its water
First, men in tall ships of wood and wind filled arbor
Then came the dreadnaughts, along the piers they gather

Look to the west, and Ford Island stands there alone
Along her shore, lie the bodies of ships and men
The Arizona, a coffin stripped to the bone
Upon its decks, the crew will never tread again

Gazing back into the drink, the sea creatures play
The jellyfish and stingrays are abundant there
The occasional hammerhead often will stray
Small boats, tracking on various courses they fare

A bustling harbor of the living, and long dead
Pearl, and its memories fill my proud old grey head

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: Sailor's Sonnet Series

Thursday, July 12, 2012

The Stirrer


My presence upsets your balance
Of you, I am not aware
Except, in passing
When deflecting your
Would be, wounds

I'm a reality
From which, you hide
A bad picture
That has survived destruction
A living image, of your guilt
The baby, you long ago, aborted

Change, is something you desire
A relief, of a constant reminder
Of which I , represent to you
What a pity, your blinded heart

Your pain, I cannot feel
Only you have to live, knowing
Deep down, that you can never
Touch, my spirit

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The In the Weird Series

The Shadow


There is a shadow in the corner of my mind
It haunts my restless nights and lethargic long days
A silent whisper pries both my past and present
The cold voice, infuriating and persistent

Always, it reminds of weakness and transgressions
It urges my evil desires and obsessions
Each sweat filled night I toss and turn to disregard
Its constant preaching distracts my day’s agenda

My very soul can feel it dragging me downward
The mirror reflects a face of pain and anguish
My heart has become still and cold, I have no tears
My screen name hides my true tortured identity

With my double words, I whisper to the outside
My poetry plays in the cyber ether plain
I’m a shadow haunted by another inside
Two tortured brothers whispering in silence

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series


Tuesday, July 10, 2012

The Dancing Harlot


She kept the poison, hidden in a vile
Suspended, between her enticing breasts

Seduction was her vanity, and her alluring charm
Irresistible to men, vexing her calculating mind

Causing her to abhor them, and invoke a deep hate
Triggering an incredulous, cool sardonic smile

Gathering lovers into her captivating coil
To smite them blind, with her deadly attention

While they are writhing in her wanton bed
With an obsidian dagger, embedded in their chest

The harlot dances, intoxicated and warped
Murder, the aphrodisiac in her blasphemous head

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The In the Weird Series

Remember


Remember
Watching the tide
The sandpipers around
The old barnacled
Pillars of the wharf
Everything wet
You, silky and soft

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series


Behold


The sun's rays return

Replacing, the morning dew

Behold, the bright earth


© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

Monday, July 9, 2012

The Cowboy


With flashbulbs popping, the starlit cowboy
Does his well practiced, red carpet entrance
Eyes, sweeping the paparazzi parade

Movie dust circles, his still silhouette
The extras, edging the dimming shadows
Drink his soft shining, left over passage

His borrowed lady, around rubber arm
Smiling, he waves, while his stolen heart fades
Unknown to all, an Oscar performance

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Note: The In the Weird Series

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Their Agony


Forward
Our young soldiers
Fierce eyed, and mud covered
Minds, weary of an endless war

They trudge, through visions of the blood
Brave, brothers and sisters
Have shed before
Their own

Whose names
Now are only
Inscribed in marble stone
While supressing, their agony

Of the truth

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Hungry Grasping Greed


With, hungry grasping greed
Beneath a maple tree
Suspended, swaying
Vermilion fall leaves

Lying, face up upon
Lush, verdant grass
Rests, a fool man
With, a ghostly hue

His soul
Recently taken to flight
From enduring
A caustic, truth

Ever so consistent
His icy black heart
Provided a hardened, gate
To the walls
Of a shadowy
Rustic bower

Encompassing
The cooling embers
Of a dying fire
Where love was
Never, asked in
Or welcomed to stay

One lifeless eye
Staring blindly, upward
The other, within the belly
Of a single
Cawing raven
Proudly marching
Upon his lifeless
Bare chest

Occasionally pecking
The empty socket
With hungry grasping greed

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Mental Masturbation


My own mental masturbation
It keeps me from going insane

Is there anybody out there?
Is what Pink Floyd has asked today

I do feel comfortably numb
Just weeding my garden each day

My dry lips silently moving
Reciting old mistakes I've made

Thinking myself rather twisted
But, in a harmless sort of way

With impatient hunger I crave
As if running for a closing gate

Searching for the true path to take
Over egos with feet in their grave

Pushing my life to its shrinking limit
While remaining here in my place

Older and even more confused
Mental masturbation, is my fate!

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The In the Weird Series

And the Radio Played

The old Ford truck was dusting the gravel roads that day
I was listening to some pounding seventies hits
My second bottle was about empty by my thirst

Nothing much else to do on a hot dry southern day
But drive, drink, and listen to the AM radio
Cruising the hills, hairpin curves, and old wooden bridges

On this particular day, I was feeling just fine
A pint of vodka, grapefruit juice, and a little weed
Lived so far back in the woods, that was my company

A troubled, poor loner, with an old blue pick-up truck
I had driven those back roads over a hundred times
A stop at a bootlegger and a lovely dream ride

This particular day, the tie rod end just broke loose
The steering wheel spun like a top in my fumbling hands
I dived in the floorboard as we went end over end

My Ford and I landed stuck between two cedar trees
I remember the quite ‘cept for the radio
Doors were stuck, so I kicked out the windshield and crawled free

After hiking about halfway up the embankment
I heard the radio still playing back in the truck
It was a Lynyrd Skynyrd classic, my favorite

“Gimme Back My Bullets”

So, I went back down the hill to where the old Ford sat
I climbed on the hood and reached through the shattered windshield
I shut the ignition off and pocketed the keys

As I started back up the embankment, I just laughed
Didn’t matter if the key was on, the truck was totaled
When I reached the road, I flagged an approaching sedan

It was two girls from school looking real scared when they stopped
Trying to look my best with blood running down my face
I said, “You ladies headed my way, by any chance?”

They looked at each other and one of them said, “Where’s that?”
Brushing the broken glass out of my long raven hair
I dusted off my shirt and then tucked it into my jeans

Looking back down at my old truck pinned between those trees
I bent down and looked in the driver’s window and smiled
“Well it don’t matter babe, as long as it’s not here.”

Ended up walking home that day, laughing all the way

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

Blue Heron


The soft beating wings
Of the Heron taking flight
Pasture grass, waving

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

Formation Steaming, Arabian Sea


Watching the leader through my destroyer’s, Big Eyes
Waiting for signal to execute and proceed
The flashing light comes. “Execute!” my talker cries
The bridge responds, shifting course and slowing speed

Twenty ships simultaneously make course east
As headings steady, I await the next command
The formation’s wakes clawing the sea like a beast
Another light, I shout the leader’s next demand

These types of close maneuverings, are tricky things
One wrong signal could result in a collision
I rub my eyes, below the engine order rings
Another signal and we dance in precision

Maintaining the columns, we plow, south, south east
All anticipating our next liberty feast

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008
 
Author's Note: Sailor's Sonnet Series

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

The Moment

Chubby cheeks pause milking
From mother’s hanging breast

Heartbeats are balancing
The drunken fan’s bawling

A fist swinging laugher
Pauses to meditate

The batter is ready
Slightly crouched by the plate

Pennants flutter gently
In the afternoon breeze

The pitcher checks first base
Then the delivery


© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

Their Last Day


He was lying on his newly mowed grass
Stretched on his back, still running hose in hand
Starring at the sky, an unblinking pawn
A peaceful setting, to finally rest

The grass was soaked from the running water
So, I went to find the faucet to close
Following the hose past lush garden color
Grape vines, and stalks of multicolored rose

There, on the back patio, a table
Upon which a cocktail sat half finished
Twisting the tap, the water now secure
A movement I spy, through the window pane

Sitting in the recliner, a woman
Watching afternoon baseball with a drink
Two brown Labradors sleeping at her feet
They were unaware of their master’s fate

I return to his side and feel for pulse
Silent, still, stiff, and cold, it was too late
Stepping to the front door, I ring the bell
Amid barking dogs, she opens the screen

“Yes. Who are you?” she asked irritated
“I’m here to inform about your husband”
I replied to her, with a friendly smile
“You’re her husband?” she inquired nervously

“Yes,” I replied. “And you must be his wife”
“I have been expecting you, please come in”
“Shall I call my husband in from the yard?”
“I don’t believe that will be required now”

“Are they both gone?” she asked, pouring a drink
Taking the drink, I replied, “Their last day”

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Note: The In the Weird Series

Unplugged

Hey, I bother you, just a couple of secs?
Can you please point me towards ole Route 66?


Thanks!


Think I will just cruise down that path for a few miles
I like taking time more than making time these days
No time to peruse, racing down some interstate
I like taking in sights and smells on the scooter

Seems like most people these days are in a hurry to go nowhere
While they’re going there, most are talking on their phones to somebody
When they hang up, it rings; another person does the same to them
Why, does nowhere need to be gotten to so fast on the phone?

I like to listen to things that are in nature
I see lots of people with things plugged in their ears
How do they hear anything in the world that way?
Riding around in them cages, isolated


Well, ole Harley Davidson and I, we'll just cruise
This road has plenty of sites, weather don’t matter
I guess some people don’t understand about life
It’s meant to be lived, learned, and most of all, enjoyed

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: A View From the Wind Series

The Die Has Been Cast


This morning while strolling
Alone, on a quiet spring morning walk
I'm reminded of the regularity of our four seasons
Steered by the earth’s preordained path and tilt around the sun
I pause to ponder my own journey down the ambling path of this life  
The meandering trail of my struggle to understand the purpose of existence
I've often reflected upon the turns I’ve taken down that long vine-like path
It's become extremely clear, no matter which turn on the lane that I take


I am fated to always return again, to my original path of destiny

A miraculous inherent die, was precast before my voyage was set to begin
I'm merely a rebellious ram, being herded by an invisible watching Sheppard
Feebly trying to separate from the herd to higher grounds and sweet grasses
With an invisible staff in hand, the Sheppard guiding back to the valley

One would think after so many attempts, I would just resign my quest
My resolute heart has grown old, and tires more easily nowadays
Yes, the die has been cast in a strong and tempered steel

And my restless journey will some day end

  

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012
 

Monday, July 2, 2012

Soul Catcher




Trees are the catchers, of lost human souls

Death, prior to allotted times, entraps them 
Their spirits, in nets of clinging branches
Mouthing silent pleas, to earthly passers

Nightly they peer, toward the magnetic stars
All craving, to one day roam the cosmos
Its magnificence calling them, upward

They wail, to reunite with their loved ones
Memories of their earthly existence
Like sirens, ever calling them homeward

Copyrights by G. Jones 2012
Images by flickr.com

Author's Note: The In the Weird Series

Saturday, June 30, 2012

Seeds

Thistle seeds, though small
Will provide hungry finches
Their favorite feast

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

Vegas Run

The highway air feels good today
Heat a risin’ like, a mirror

The rattlesnakes, on a low bake
Desert sand, rides on the warm wind

Nature’s soundtrack like bees abuzz
A soothing, hypnotic siren

A mind numbing song, stuck on play
Haunting thoughts, keeping well at bay

Birds of prey, circling the distance
A jackrabbit rattles a bush

The taste, of a cool water drink
Refreshes, my dry whiskey throat

Back astride the motorcycle
Racing, toward the sinking sun

A hot date, with a dark beauty
Restore my, Vegas sanity

Ride, daydreaming of neon lights
Hotel room, champagne hot tub, fate

© Copyrights G. Jones 2007

Author's Note: A View From the Wind Series

If Poetry Were War

If poetry were war
The form would not portray
Rhyme nor reason

The writer is possessed
By a corrupted muse
Who knows no shame

Thirsting for a power
A need to conquer all
Even to death

The loud and ranting words
Lies to achieve an end
Hidden agendas

If poetry were war
The poem would have no end
Just the ever repeating images

Of death and tears

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Home Sweet Home

A fresh green shine, covers my island home each Spring

An emerald, circled by a sapphire blue sea

Both east and west, guarded by steep snow-capped mountains

This earthly paradise, beneath the lush tall trees

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Liberty, Hong Kong

The streets of, Hong Kong, are bustling this fine morning
Out for tea, noodles, a tattoo, and lots of beer
Luckily, the ship was put to pier side mooring
Dropping my laundry at, The Fleet, I have light gear

In a café, I sip and slurp, while bird watching
Lines of gorgeous cages, sagging above my head
To, Ricky’s Tattoo, through the human mass swimming
Morn, I awake hung over and bandaged in bed

In the shower, I inspect my new dragon
Below in berthing, I adorn my crackerjacks
Up topside for morning quarterdeck watch, I’m on
Spend my time watching the seagulls hover the stacks

Another great port of call in the China Sea
City of Victoria, a fine place to be

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: Sailor's Sonnet Series

Strolling the Bridge

Night in the Persian Gulf can be, very eerie
Steaming along the eastern coast, the bizarre sights
Tall flaming spires from ghostly oil fields, so fiery
It's as if I sail the shores of hell on these nights

The seas part before me in phosphorescent curl
Menacing gun boats prowl the watery darkness
In the masts, shifting albatross silently whirl
Strolling the bridge, coffee cup for my alertness

My mind occupied by my dear wife and our home
Counting the days until I return to her smile
My searching eyes spot a light in the ocean foam
I raise my glasses and judge its distance, a mile

I report the unknown contact down to combat
Thoughts return to her, and the beach, where we sat

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: Sailor's Sonnet Series

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Cooing Spring

Lovely cooing doves
Is a sweet reminder of
The approaching spring

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

Just Bees

The fading pipedreams of my generation astound me
I laugh now at our childish thoughts of self autonomy
Of the one collective human soul, we were not aware
That we are all within creation’s universal stare

The lies of our fathers, are playing us now once again
Women die daily in wars beyond reason, young men lame
Greedy money pigs now steal, using electric shell game
The rich become even richer, and poor the poor remain

But, nothing is being done that hasn’t been seen prior
Each generation is fooled just the same as ones below
The bees dance to show the way and all begin to follow
And the cycle continues with original desire

What was, will always be, with fresh faces, Kipling says by
Robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul
Gods of the street Main are no different, then those of Wall
One simply lacks the other’s opportunity to lie

From birth, to be driven by a solitary word, me
For us, the world was all about what we wanted to see
Not once, until too late, did we realize we’re just a bee

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008 


Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

The Decision

To those who have had to decide

It was early, that spring morning I fled
Waving, crying, and mouthing I love you
Mom and Sis standing there, the tears they shed
Eighteen, scared stiff, and without a clue

Later, I would learn to miss them badly
Feeling melancholy, and on my own
But now, the bus starting forward slowly
My heart breaking, leaving them with a grown

I was overcome, a sad excitement
Not realizing, that the life I had known
Twas now ending, with this one commitment
Nor I thought, of the life they faced alone

A painful decision, young men must make
Life, or remain behind for other’s sake
.
© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Note: Sailor's Sonnet Series.

The Devil's Basement

Staring upward through tear filled bloodshot blues

She exhales a desperate helpless scream

Her hand rattling a rusted foul toilet

Flushing a terrifying pregnancy

Her tears staining the vile broken tiled floor

Her plight echoed from the devil's basement

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The In the Weird Series

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Our Ancient Spirits

Together our ancient spirits laugh and chortle

Cloaked in stately shrouds, lovingly they gather round

Their ages of memories now make cordial yarns

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Words Are

Words are magnificent things
Things are a physical reality
Reality is a reflection of the mind
The mind generates abstract descriptions
Descriptions are tools to expression
Expression is unrestricted energy
Energy is the result of movement
Movement is the song without music
Music is a mental masturbation of time
Time is a man-made limitation of life
Life is a compilation of words

Words are…

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

The Warlord Aims His Weapon and Fires

There, with RPG, from high on a mountain ridge
He follows the snaking movement of a convoy
Here, in the Hindu Kush, penned the “back and beyond”
By Kipling past, the roads, literally mean life

Carved through steep ravines and over raging rivers
They provide badly needed stores to villages
With no electricity or running water
They are ancient nineteenth century terraced farms

As the dust faded trucks move closer, he prepares
He will do what his tribe has done for centuries
From the Great Alexander to the British Raj
Defend tribal territory from invaders

The Warlord aims his weapon and fires

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness

Planting the Seeds of Our Wildest Dreams




 

I
Marvel
Now and then
‘Bout our essence
That immortal spirit
That possesses our bodies
Cultivating our sleeping minds
Planting the seeds of our wildest dreams
Stirring the premature fragrance
Of dormant flowers of thought
Mirrored within an
Image of itself
Inside our
Own mind’s
Eye

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Chinese Adventure


The year was nineteen eighty one, I had arrived in the city of, Taipei, Taiwan, two days earlier by cab ride from the harbor of Chi lung. I'd hooked up with a beautiful young Chinese girl by the name of, Sammy, or at least that was what she was going by at the time. An hour earlier, while sitting in a movie theater, we had both dropped a couple of tabs of acid I had scored in Thailand, the week before. We each had a bottle of wine in our long coats. It was winter, so one had to bundle up well to be street urchins in the city.

Speaking of the city of Taipei, at that time, the population was around twelve million. The place was enormous, but what was really interesting, were the tunnels. Beneath the city, there was a complex series of endless tunnels. They led in countless directions and were very confusing. If one were say, tripping on acid and cannonballing slugs of cheap wine, it was very easy to become confused and get lost.

Well, to make a long story into four paragraphs, Sammy and I was just in this particular situation.  To make matters worse, we had just watched the movie, American Werewolf in London. There was this part in the movie that took place in the subway tunnels beneath London. So, both of us were sure that around every corner was going to be a snarling werewolf. For what seemed like hours, we clung to each other like we were blind cripples, creeping through that unknown subterranean world with bizarre and frightening works of art plastered upon every vertical surface in site. Our entire purpose was to try and escape our self inflicted sentence to this freakish hell and return to our warm hotel room and hide under our bed.

Finally, like a light shinning down from heaven, we found what looked like a safe stairway upward, that a werewolf wouldn’t be waiting on the top step to make Chop Suey out of both of us. So, we chugged the rest of our wine, gave each other a rather lingering kiss, and made a dash for freedom. Upon reaching the surface, we found ourselves on an island in the middle of a giant downtown boulevard with six lanes of traffic on each side. We looked into each other’s eyes, smiled, and ran for the sidewalk.

As recalled by G. Jones 2006


Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Bearing Down



A resting hitchhiker, beneath a rusty sign

Watching screaming children, in unabashed decent

Beamer bobble heads, stoned in grinning decadence

Then a tunnel visioned, raging zombie trucker

On a concrete shimmered path, baring down on death


© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Stuck

Did you see the sun today lady?
I mean, I kind of missed it, myself
Trying to get out of this bottle
But, the moon, now she looks right pretty

Hey bartender, set us up a round
Just put it on my tab Joe, I’m good
One of these days I am going to go
Just haven’t thought of a proper plan

But, I have been working on it though
Trying to put a few things together

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Curiosity

There was a sound coming from back of the old house
Or, was it his imagination, in his head?
There it was again, a metallic clicking mouse
He’s the only one home, can’t be his mate, instead

Finally, his curiosity got the best
He rose from the dining room table and his book
Taking off his reading glasses, scratching his chest
In his socks, padding down the hall to take a look

He followed the noise to a dank darkened bedroom
As his vision adjusted to the lack of light
Crouched before him, large eyes looking up from the gloom
Arrival the new day, he was nowhere in sight

There’re sayings about curiosity and that
But, once and awhile, they are gotten by the cat

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The In to the Weird Series

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Across the Muddy Waters South

Sun, on its hidden night journey
Down the lonely dirt roads of home

With the picked fields now cleaned and tilled
The damp and musky soil, still cool

He dreams of life across the border
With his wife and sleeping children

In a few hours, the sun will rise
The old farmer will call for him

Near the newly sun lit river
He'll stand before his path

Across the muddy waters south

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Midway Beer Bust

To Gooney Birds

Shifting palm trees in sandy beach sunshine
Guard an immortal violet-blue lagoon
Gooney birds beg and dance all in a line
When they land it’s like watching a cartoon

As the ship is being refueled at pier
Steaks and beer on the beach with these strange birds
An island oasis it would appear
What I observed was truly beyond words

Sailors in various degrees of dress
Being chased and attacked by vicious foul
While steaks burned with cold beer we couldn’t care less
By sunset my shipmates began to howl

A bizarre lay over as you have read
We left at sunrise all with aching head

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Note: Sailor's Sonnet Series

Saturday, June 16, 2012

He'll Never Forget Me

As I walk through these misty rain drenched woods
Whispers of my ancestors haunt this place

Many times, I've passed their burial grounds
Ghosts of deer, rabbit, and squirrels are here

It's their trails that guide my eternal path
Years, I've spent at the base of this old tree

Raindrops pattering the wide leaves, my tune
The flicker of winged creatures catch the eye

Near the running stream, I pretend to drink
A cougar senses my ghostly presense

Once I strolled these paths, a troubled young girl
My confusion, slowly to melt away

I shared these trails with a shy, quiet young man
Our laughs and footsteps, still echo my mind

I remember those fine walks, in my dreams
Now the smell of damp earth, insects, and quiet

I lie beneath the ground now, near our path
I remember the day, he buried me

His secret thoughts, I'd never suspected
The day he raped me, finally killing

Dragging me to my final resting place
Marking me, with a large stone from the stream

I've felt his presence nearby, many times
Paying visits, ensuring, I’m still safe

I now walk these endless paths forever
Because, I know, he'll never forget me


© Copyright G. Jones 2006

Author's Note: The In to the Weird Series

Aerial Love

Two Eagles falling
In aerial intercourse
Before passion's scream

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: The Memory Photograph's Series

Friday, June 15, 2012

The Eye of God

The bright rays of morning sunshine
A lingering crystal shadow
Shimmering like powdered amber
Over a field of stately pines
Presents a tiny sparkling glimpse
Into the ghostly eye of God

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Note: The Memory Photographs Series

The Courier

Spinning spokes upon bustling narrow city streets
A two wheeled mouse amid prowling motorized cats
Plays games of timing and finely tuned awareness

Sudden bus stops, springing car doors, and jaywalkers
Each can be found within the dealer’s loaded deck
The sound of his coasting bicycle sings his song

Click...click...click...click.....

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Author's Notes: The Memory Photographs Series

Thursday, June 14, 2012

But an Illusion

I 've seen many wondrous images

I've seen people rambling and spouting philosophy
They’re at the pinnacle and on the bare underside

None of that means much in the grand scope of our lives
I’m not looking for rewards and things held in hand
That’s not the highway my soul forever wanders

Tell me mister, what does that mean?

What I’m telling you, my good friend
Is to open your ears to hear
And watch the corner of your eye


It's not our reason for living, my dear brother
To attach ourselves to the material world
We're merely in a transient state of waiting

What surrounds us, is but an illusion

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

The Dragon's Pearl

Traveling from east to west, he looses a toe
Moving from west to east, he will certainly gain
Within his claw he clutches his most sacred pearl
Which his benevolence is dependent upon

Protecting with magical kindness life’s cycle
He, who tries to steal the dragon’s precious white orb
Transforms the protector to slayer by burning
The prize represents last in Pandora’s Box

The sacred pearl is the eternal gift of hope

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Sharing My Days

We’ve been together so long my sweet friend
Our souls have mingled and they’ve grown far apart
Only to reunite, each to depend

Each year, our insanity increases
Our habits and tendencies isolate
But always renewing all our leases

I know you’re still sleeping as I peck away
My heart is aching at the very thought
Of living without you sharing my days

© Copyright G. Jones 2011

Wrigley Stretch



The smell of hot dogs, fresh grass, and stale beer
A constant dull drone from the Bleacher Bums
“Take Me out to the Ball Game”, sung aloud
Infield raking dust, by busy grounds crews

Seventh inning stretch at old Wrigley Field
Ivy covered walls, with a losing streak
Uniforms with faces of baby bears
The rival redbirds are taking the field

Cub fans begin to return to their seats
Fresh from a line to relief and last call
A solid round of boos from the bleachers
The batter warms in the on deck circle

At times, there is no better place to be
Chicago on a hot sunny day, free

© Copyrights G. Jones, 2008

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Salem's Sonnet

To all my sisters

A runner sent down from the distant hill
To let them know the evil has now flashed
So they now may pray together and mill
The lazy brown lake their witches are dashed

Fine straw and dried wood piled and set ablaze
The screaming bonnets and melting red curl
Ashes melt to a fine smoldering haze
Flames a breeze as hanging dresses unfurl

Children and dogs wander the village mead
Women return to stove’s simmering pot
Idol standing mules await men to lead
Diggers shovel in a grass vacant lot

Christian justice has once again been found
As young innocent girls lie burned and bound

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Sunday, June 10, 2012

She Never Sleeps

Her days of sleeping have long passed
Now she walks the halls of my mind eternally
She stops at each painting along the corridors

She reaches to touch my pained face
The image seems familiar to her in some way
As her fingers falls away, her memory fails

Next frame, I am facing away
Again, she touches the back of my greying head
I stir in my restless sleep and breathe icey breath

She stops and remembers a song
From long ago, as a distant echo in time
A smile appears on her face as I stop breathing

A portrait of a man appears
She moves her face closer, looking into his eyes
Suddenly I waken in bed, gasping for breath

Sleep, she never sleeps

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Leaving My Gardens

She offered me extensive use of her private verden
This was a very fine arrangement for me at the time
With vigor, I plowed and sowed my seeds in her lush Eden
Tilling through the afternoon until evening church chime

As months past, and I began to master over her plot
I began to wander in copious other fertile lanes
Soon, after much exploration, I found a fresh new lot
So, I cleaned and packed my plow for my newly acquired gain

While busily cultivating my new found lovely toy
I was notified in my prior effort, bloom had begun
Quickly creating a grand specimen of precious joy
Unfortunately, this produced an urge in me to run

While quietly heading out of town early before dawn
Leaving my gardens, left me with sweet memories to fawn 

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

The Hanging, It


The Teacher

He supposed the question was in the day
Just exactly as the subject is night
The gnawing hound of bothersome query
That troubles sleep and his daydreaming mind

The Veteran

The rustling dried leaves of the withered hand
Amber bottle in which its life is poured
Crouched ‘neath the wind flapped plastic lodge
Cold tears streaming amidst nightmare visions

The Cashier

She survives, passing dead items over electric eye
Her plastic ID badge displaying her saddened pale stare
As she mouths ignored identical greetings and goodbyes
Thinking of another lonely night without love, or dreams

The Student

The young boy sitting in the classroom, shying from himself
Has no eager ear, to bestow upon, his hopes and dreams
Dodging along the dangerous trail, leading to his cage
Sleeping, with a guarded diary of his shameful thoughts

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Remember to Live


I’ve grown drained of wondering why I am 
I stopped caring at fifty I believe

    Taking each day if it were my last
    Concerned not where I stand on the ladder

Looking about my material gains
Gathering dust for maid’s Friday dusting

    No real purpose have they served me these years
    Not to feed or provide me with much warmth

My prized possessions have no shape or form
They simply flutter about in my mind

    Friendships are nice, but are they really, real?
    I’m much too competitive for best friends

Food and a blanket is all I require
Perhaps something to make a cozy fire

    Being today’s civilized modern man
    In society with my fellow kind

The whole thing makes me laugh a little
While looking at my mirrored reflection

    I smile and turn away with a chuckle
    Just go baby, and remember to live

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012


Saturday, June 9, 2012

Bottom Times

Delicious pleasures

Leave the fool in dismal need

Attempting to embrace life

Lying in cheap robes

At the harlot’s feet

Bottom times


© Copyrights G. Jones 2006
 


Boat People


To those who keep the seas free

They place themselves board tiny boats at sea,
floating alone, hoping for savior's mast.
Their homes overran by threshing V.C.
We approached, fearful faces were made fast.

Their hungry eyes looking upward for trust,
one by one we hauled them aboard, swing and hoist.
There were women, children, and old men, we must!
A tent city constructed, their tears moist.

We sank their boat when they were safe aboard.
Grenades to the hull and below she sank.
We sailed them to Hong Kong, for free room and board.
Leaving them, we knew for freedom they thank.

People seek out freedom from oppression.
My shipmates and I survive a lesson.


© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Comments:
"This is an event I experienced during the end of the Vietnam War, when thousands of "Boat People" fled Vietnam for freedom. My destroyer happened to rescue 417 of them that particular day from an attack by Thai pirates."

Paper Mache


For those who teach of dragons

No, don't be silly, it couldn't have moved.
Although, for a fraction of a second,
did one of the legs and the long spiked tail
seem to shift and relax,
then, again, frozen into place?

Working late at my desk this evening,
starting to see things, I suppose.


Relax...

It was just the sound of my silver pen scribbling.
Click!!!

Whatever that was, I don't want to know.

I think I will just finish this at home.
The question is, making it to the door.
Would it allow me to just walk out? Leave?

Was the head tilted this way before?
No...

Okay...
Placing papers in my briefcase
and finishing the last of my cold coffee.
Moving for the door, reaching for the light!
Click!!!

Blackness, then it has me.
the dragon


 
© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Author's Comments:
"Teachers working late"
 
My students had created a twelve foot long, three foot wide, three foot tall paper mache dragon in the back of my classroom.

Friday, June 8, 2012

Have a Great Day

I suppose for me
Love, was never to be

I have prayed to believe!

Each time, leaving me to aggrieve
Left to love only me
My aching heart to bleed
Some days, when I awake
Upward I drag, for other’s sake
Each dreary day, but a remake
Creating the same, dreary heartbreak
A make believe love, my mind will bake
By day’s end, to realize it is all just a fake

One night, when I’m drunk
I will work up the spunk

Placing my gun to my head, like a punk
Until then, I’ll go through the motions
Applying dye and anti-aging potions
I’ll smile, and say with an honest face

 Have a great day!

To them I will say

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006
 
 




Grandma

Old buttons and fragile lace gloves
Soft swinging dress and simple pearls
Residing in a wooded frame
She is only a memory

I’ve oft seen her tired solemn face
In the yellowed and worn pages
Of old family picture books
A reflection of poverty

And a Testament to class

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006
 







Thursday, June 7, 2012

Dark Glory

To the keepers of glory

He can hear the devil locusts humming
Within him is the keeper of glory
Rockets sailing and leaders are marching
Steadily, yearly, the earth grows darker

Heart heated by the five points is unfit
Flowing stripes are faded, like his eyes
But, these days, he can no longer feel it
The sound of locust grows, his conscience cries

He has been the keeper for so long now
He asks himself if it really exists
He feels the cold sweat running from his brow
“Be strong, be strong,” from his lips he insists

With a thumb resting on a star, he feels
Dying embers in the heart that baffles
What could make it a flame? What once was steel
It's beyond repair, he knows a shambles

The soldiers take the field without honor
He wishes for deafness, cloudy blindness
So not to bare witness to the story
As his world spins into this dark glory


© Copyrights G. Jones 2012
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