Along the Riverbank

The luminescence of low hanging mist whirls

Agitated winds shiver the tall cottonwoods

The ever present sound of the old river passing

She stands on the small rustic pier daydreaming

Watching the waters carry an old tugboat south

She waves as the captain sounds his sad horn

A breeze catches the hem of her dress, lifting it upward

Her long slender legs and bare feet exposed to morning rays

A single teardrop falls from her troubled eye

She knows she will soon be leaving this magical place

Traveling far to the western desert, and away from her folks

She turns and leaves, making her way up the wet path

She ponders her anxious future amid the vines of honeysuckle

The smell of bacon soon fills her senses as her home appears

Smoke curling down from the antique stone chimney

Porch steps squeak, the screen door slaps, she has decided

© Copyrights G. Jones 2012

Photo by writeemcowboy.com

Teach I

To those of who love to teach

"Teaching through creative arts."

Take kids away,even if
they stay.

Stories, music, objects,
and thoughts
are what we play.

We can write,
speak, draw,
or act.

Become the place
and the thing.
Now write about us
in that place.

"I am the wind, I like to blow things."

Whatever we want
to think or be
is okay.

Make a living meadow
or a bear.

"GrrRRR!"

Take kids away
even if
we stay...

© Copyrights G. Jones 2005

First Battle

To big guns and destroyer men

The alarm sounds like a dull clanging bell.

Sailors in their battle gear run for posts.

“Hatches are closed and zebra set!” we yell.

A surprise in store for Iraqi hosts.

The towers rose from the sea like islands.

They were made of steel, rubber, and plastic.

Arab men scrambling to flee in bands,

Their boats speeding away, faces frantic

Big guns sound, blazing fire and hot lead fly,

Metal islands reduced to flaming spire.

Retaliation ordered from the sky,

Mission complete, we leave ocean afire.

Our first taste of battle went as was planned.

New sea stories to tell when we hit land.

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

"This is a poem based on my memory of an attack on Iraqi oil rigs in the Persian Gulf. My destroyer, along with two others, was ordered by Ronald Reagan to attack the Iraqi oil rigs in retaliation for their attacks upon unarmed tankers in the Persian Gulf in 1986."

Hotel Street

Memories of a lonely sailor on liberty

A swift flash of the wrist, "Eight ball corner."
Fresh brew, another cigarette, "Who's next?"
A little chalk, another new comer
Long drink, a fast break, the balls write the text

"Hey! Jam a couple quarters in the box!"
"Play some rhythm and blues for my soul."
Choose my prey from the alone, like a fox
"Rack ‘em up sucker, open your billfold."

”Another round for new friend. What's your name?"
Beer's good, game on the tube, bartender is nice
Passing the time by being in the game
Four ball in the side, "Gonna bank it twice."

A night on Hotel Street, in paradise
The most safe harbor for those of despise



© Copyrights G. Jones 2006


Author's Comments:
"Another in the series of sailor sonnets; memories of my time as a destroyer sailor in Pearl Harbor."

Late Afternoon Photograph

Fading images on the distant street

Walking and gesturing conversation

In a neighborhood of quiet shadows

And a receding soft afternoon’s feel

A mother calls her children to supper

A screen door slams, a distant train whistle

A warm breeze carries the scent of mowed grass

As stray leaves dance along the narrow street

I sit quietly, watching from my steps

A worn mitt and rubber ball in my hands

Cool sweat on my face, from bouncing and grab

Transistor radio dialed to baseball

A front porch swing rocking, a daydreaming girl

Her soft shy smile catches my attention

A distant neighbor hand trucks his trash cans

Out to the street for morning pick up wait

Looking back, I see a now empty swing

From the front door, my mother calls me in

I stand wiping my face with my shirt sleeve

Glove and radio in hand, I retreat

The day ended, but not the memory

Photographs, forever in my mind’s eye

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Late

There was no sound from her,

but that of rattling plates

and microwave beeps.

The hour was late

as I sat with the dog,

one shoe off,

jacket unbuttoned.

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006

Crossing the River Styx

The pin-striped suits with folded newspapers

Three rows of cramped and swaying commuters

With headphones, to escape in wordless song

From the clammy claustrophobic, squeezed mass

A grinding stop and sliding doors open

The rush of cool air, and the exodus

The sound of diesel engines and bus breaks

The smell of exhaust and stale urine floats

Large flocks, divided by streetlights, spread forth

Peeling into vast canyons, left and right

The endless broken conversations hum

With invisible listeners afar

Eyes straight ahead and never in focus

Unseein' and anonymously vague

A taxi’s horn, the door sliding open

A destination is given and silence

Kaleidoscopes of imagery pass by

Before halting at the entrance to Hell

© Copyrights G. Jones 2006