The Matrix

What if nothing was real?
Your country
Your religion
Your relationships
Your very profession
Your sense of what’s right and wrong
All, a series of purposely placed
Lies and deceptions

What if you abruptly found out
That your entire existence
Is to be a consumer of goods

The lot of your learning
From a very young age
T'was to prepare you
To be a mindless want

That through constant media bombardment
Your every sense is filled by propaganda
Sending you on the never ending path
Of buying from those who wish to sell
Useless garbage that one would never need

You realize you’re a sheep
You've worked a lifetime
Squandered precious time
For greed, power, and attention

Poorer then a slave, you’re a consumer
Who benefits people you’ve never met,
Whom themselves are eternally enslaved.

Copyrights G. Jones 2010

Highways

 

The

etched memories

upon photographs

show the youthful face

radiant eternal.

Before years roadmap

it with the highways

of life’s journey

home.

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

 

Good Morning

 



My

Mind

Often ponders

About odd things

As I watch the sun rise

In the sky each engaging new day

Soil is the beginning of all and the end

Religion is the salve for the truth of mortality

Elitism is a trick to prop the cowardly academic

Bad memories are the weeds of the idle mind

Laughter is the reaper of our depressions

Abuse is the killer of the child’s soul

Love is the tariff of the spirit

Hate binds the senses

Wisdom is liberty

Escape can

Provide

Ways

To

Cope

One

Must

Return

To reality

The Sun will rise

Suspects will be rounded up

Pains will be inflicted and endured

Judges will be made ready for prosecution

The white male will be blamed for all things evil

 Presumed guilty souls will be blessed and forgiven

The dramatic rescue will be attempted and failed

Our hand written requests may not be delivered

Speakers will ask for our continued support

The delicate feelings of others will be hurt

Lovers will caress and the sun will set

Our old world will continue to spin

And we’ll continue our journey

Reincarnated and repeated

Ever Pondering

© Copyright 2006 G. Jones

 

The Chair and the Promise

The window slowly creaked upward
I clapped and rubbed my hands together
Watching the old dust drift out into the air
Tears began to slip down my tired face
While my mind drifted from the dusty room
He, silently resting in his chair
carefree, old and gray
His years had been talked away
I had listen, sitting beside him
in the soft twilight

Wins and loses he spoke of, unfinished things
The love of his life and his betrayal
He remembered old dogs and cars, pickup trucks
And friends long passed
He smiled at times of honor
And laughed at the many failures

Looking back from the window
The chair, his thinning gray hair at the top
His favorite chair, in it he sat as he had for years
Eyes fixed ahead on the black and white
Early morning news

Brushing the tears from my face
I took a breath of new mowed lawn
The sound of morning bird song began
As I walked back into the room

The room was sparsely furnished
All that was left of a long life
I knelt down before him
Looking into his lifeless eyes
I smiled at his stony grin

There was a narrow trail of dried blood
That had leaked from the tiny hole
It had stopped and pooled
At the tip of his nose

I looked down at the pillow on the floor
I had used to muffle the sound
Checking my jacket pocket, yes, the gun was there
I pulled a cigarette from my shirt pocket

I reached down and picked up the old metal lighter
From the table next to his chair
He had said his dead son had given it to him
Long ago, as a gift
I flipped it open and lit my smoke
Snapping it shut, I let it drop in my pocket
Next to my gun.

I stood, paused, and gave him a quick salute
I turned an left, softly shutting the door behind me

© Copyright 2006 G. Jones

Hog Catchin

Look here boy, take this two by four

He runs at you, whack his nose

You do that, and he’s gonna turn

Don’t slip in this slop and fall down

Do that, and he’s gonna get ya

Be on you before you know it

If he gets his mouth around you

He’ll pick you right up in the air

And shake you, like an ole dish rag

Now, just pay attention okay?

He’s too young to be in there!

Hush now woman!

He’ll be just fine

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

 

The Graveyard Shift

He lounges behind a desk in a late night vacant foyer
Answering calls, making log entries, and filing papers
The dark hours slowly leaking from his tenuous life

The phone rings and he repeats the same weary greeting
He issues information to faceless enquirers
Hanging up, sipping his coffee, he makes notations

Outside, the empty parking lot is speckled with light
Emanating from lonesome uniformly spaced poles
Illuminating the white lines of vacant parking

The sound of rushing steam, clanging metal, and cold rain drops
Echo upon the plate glass windowed empty cocoon
That bares the reflection of his tired, lost in thought face

Anticipating the next abandoned grave yard shift

Copyrights G. Jones 2008

The Rolling Seas

 

When the time arrives for me to depart

From the sunlit harbors of the living

Take me aboard a navy fighting ship

And carry me back again to the sea

Order the boatswain to construct a skid

Made of wood and painted with fresh white paint

Build it to hold a gray weighted coffin

Draped by Old Glory with her stars and stripes

Cruise the coast of my beloved home Whidbey

Until full abreast with Ebey’s Landing

Muster the funeral party astern

Play taps and slide me into the blue drink

Let the storm-flecked waves of the rolling seas

Pass this old sailor in his final sleep

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

 

There Once was a Time

There once was a time when he cared

But, that has long since passed

Now he spends his days killing time

Sure, he had it all figured out

The world was his to be conquered

The immortal knight, the brave king

Once, he was filled with his duty

His sharp mind and his body lean

No task for him was too daunting

Lately, projects go unfinished

Pills for depression are taken

Cocktail hours arrive earlier

Failure was once not an option

Like clockwork, his plans were achieved

The best of his profession, he

There once was a time

But, that has long since passed

 

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

 

 

The Street

The clown, with his red cherub face

A maggot twisting, in his brain

The jack-booted leather Christian

With dull razorblades, down his spine

Staring down, from high windows

The taste of gin, upon their tongues

Lusty fire crackling, in red eyes

Peering, through a glowing skylight

Her luscious body lies reclined

Naked, upon a soft, red divan

Bathed, by the nocturnal moonlight

Dark hair, caressing full breasts

Wineglass in her ruby nailed hand

Cigarette smoke hanging like a mist

Within a glassed, fishbowl perch

She’s well aware of her voyeurs

In the concrete valley below
A wood fire, perfumed grey fog

Creeps, through the emerald city

Soft street sounds, echoing upward

A lone saxophone, serenades

The battered open case, lying

Before white patent leather shoes

A hooded figure at the keys

With faded, fingerless gloves

The sound of blues, bathing the air
Reflecting off tall, smoky windows

A yellow cab, slowly crawls to a halt

Door popped, by a finely dressed doorman

He receives, a firm diamonded hand

Stiletto heels, strike concrete

She walks the carpeted runway

The cipher locked door clicks

A crisp, fresh, twenty is passed

The green silked image melts inside

A close siren screams, and hearts skip

Gunshots ring, and distant tires squeal

The saxophone player pauses, for a breath

The clown and Christian, shift their lusty gaze

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Where the Beast Can't Follow

Born into the raw flesh of the physical world

We are placed in the burning fire of refinement

Each lifetime in this world is a spirit lesson

The world of the beast contains the rapist and saint

During one life we’ll be the hateful abuser

Next time we will be the helpless and torn victim

It is the nature of the beast



Evidence of the nearly completed spirit

Are the children who die at a very young age

They are always calm and serene comforting us

There’s not much more refining for them to complete

They’re prepared to start a much more complex journey

Beyond the world of the burning lustful raw flesh


Where the beast can’t follow


© Copyrights G. Jones 2012