Vampire

I was sitting in a salon one day

Flooded by pheromones and sweet perfume

My hair being coiffed while I stare ahead

When a little taste of death soon appeared

Moving like a dark leopard into view

Thinly clad inside a searing black dress

Cutting her eyes in throat slitting slashes

Nailing everything down in the room

Her draining essence sucking at us all

She enthroned herself upon a high chair

Lifting her long black hair over the back

Letting it fall in a dark veil, she smiled

Her eyes saying all of you mean nothing

Ordering her servant of her desires

Her diamonded hands and ears glittering fire

Opening her phone, dismissing the room

The sight of these vampires is startling

However, it's difficult to pity their victims

They wished and now they receive


© Copyrights G. Jones 2007

GPA

It is becoming very clear to me that my fellow citizens spend most of their waking hours worshiping (GPA) greed, power, and attention. It only depends upon their physical, mental, or emotional state to which they have the greatest need, but they dream of all three. I have often pondered how it must feel to them when they reach their end, to finally realize it was for not. That they had overlooked the true reason for their brief period in physical form here on earth.

The Hut

A soft blowing breeze lifted her sun bleached hair

The sea crashes on the jagged rocks below her perch

Her eyes, the gray shade of a distant floating cloud

She turns on bare feet and cautiously moves away

A seagull sails in the updraft at the cliff’s edge

The small trail snakes upward to a winter meadow

Her mind wanders as she knowingly climbs the path

She pictures the smiling eyes of the Moon Goddess

A rebirth of the God will come with winter winds

The snowy grass baths her feet as she tops the cliff

Her hands brush high weeds as she returns to the hut

She enters by sliding behind a thick tanned hide

A fire burns within the comfortable warm home

The flames lick a clay caldron simmering sweet scents

Her hand lifting a burning stick at fire’s edge

She moves toward the small altar with lighted wand

A shell of ground incense and two candles are lighted

The cup of spring water and fresh herbs are offered

Her soft knees bend as she kneels before the altar

She calls the Goddess and God to her safe circle

Oh, Goddess and God

Please open my eyes to the ancient magic

The wisdom hidden from my kind so long ago

That forever inhabits all of your creations

Within the eternal garden
We know as Earth

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

The Martyr

She always greets with a quick smile

Sparkling eyes assure her concern

A soft handshake for human touch

Turning away, the smile then fades

Her eyes grow dim and without life

The soft human touch recedes, stone

For deep inside her broken heart

Remains a self-inflicted wound

From long ago, when life began

No matter how grand her fortune

Nothing will erase the awful past

Never accepting happiness

She’ll always remain the martyr

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

The Man in the Field

                      Inspired by “Haystacks in Province,” by Vincent Van Gogh

Every day he was there

On his knees, standing, or kneeling

Gazing into the sun and the colors

He watched the road, the hay

The horizon and sometimes even me

His eyes followed my bucket

I felt, not uncomfortable, but

As if a passive madness were there

In that field

Watching, always watching

Once I stopped to say Hello

He ignored me

Standing erect, absorbing the sun

 Gazing at the golden hay

He was never in the same place

Sometimes, he was near the road

So close, I thought I could hear his breath

I read his very thoughts as I passed

Thoughts, I would never repeat

The sound of the water sloshing in my pail

And

His mind in rhythm

Yesterday, he was lying in the middle of the field

Staring upward into the sun

Motionless and still
Complete

Today he was gone

His absence left the field seemingly empty

Yet… the haystacks and the scattered straw

The sky, the sun itself

Brighter…Brighter…Alive

                                                © Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Killer Girls and Flesh Eating Zombies

My brain feels like it has a lava lamp inside

The glass has a long crack going across the front

I think it’s time to rotate the winter Mucha

Slide up the spring beauty with her berries and birds

Tis the season for old fashioned double features

Killer girls and flesh eating zombies will rule this year

Milking the eternal weaknesses for all they are worth

The pole humping, lap dancing nemesis at play

I'll drop some winter pounds and grow a new tanned skin

Feed my birdies and then the melodies will come

Make my life sound thrilling with my red ukulele

While I pour down grey geese and nibble olives

I’ll collect pie birds and light incense each day

While praying for a zoftig desperate housewife

Practice my innocent pagan rituals

And shake off my past Christian guilt like a wet dog

Hang Wicca twig men in the lush green forests

And read about the Peloponnesian war years

Polish my ceramic frogs for the porch display

Lock all my greed and ambition in my sea chest

Gripping my buckhorns on my hog for back relief

I'll turn fifty after a four twenty bong hit

Dropping in just to ask questions and make one think

Then listen to baseball while hammering fine nails

Grow some fat tomatoes in hanging flower pots

And number my candles with secret  hieroglyphs

Yes, my head will crack open like a rotten egg

Then the healing will begin, and the moon will smile

© Copyrights G. Jones 2008

Author's Note: The Path to Consciousness Series

Just Live It

To Life
Don't be asking me that Baby!
What’s the reason for life? Not a clue!
Come from me, you, or the blonde on the tube?

She wants material to accumulate
Diamonds, soccer babies, big houses
Social climbs, and trips to Cancun.
And a life support system for a wallet!

He wants fast cars, toys of every kind

Power and money for nothing

And a big chested woman that don’t ask questions

It doesn't matter if she as fake as Barbie!

What a bunch of monkey brains!

Preachers say life is to temper your soul
Trouble is, which preacher
Muslim, Catholic, Baptist, or Buddhist?
They all talking like they know
What if they wrong?
Then what is the choir gonna sing?

Professors say for knowledge to gain
What knowledge you mean man?
Ain't no one true knowledge bout anything.
You ivory tower sitting fools!

No, forget the question and the reason baby
You a figment of the imagination
of some sucker that never held a spoon.

Just live it.

@ Copyrights  G. Jones 2012