Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Reposts for Christmas

Hello again dear readers. We are getting ready to go out of town, and I'm not quite ready or able to come out of my hole, but I feel strongly, as I read your poetry, that I should have something here for you to read in return until I get back. So, I am going to post an old poem once a week or so, not linked to any prompt, or with any expectations. Feel free to comment or not, read or not--just my attempt to give back to those of you whose work gives me so much comfort right now. Here is one from last June.

Incubus VIII

Untitled, by Zdzisław Beksiński

Incubus VIII
(Bloody Hell)

Hell is lonely without my demon--
my personal one, I mean, because
there's no shortage here of devils.
Basting on the liquid lava's lips,
I'm alone in brimstone sunscreen,
no ruby pitchfork's flip
when one side gets too burnt,
no serpent sapient tail to scale me,
just the brisk popping of my cookery.
I thought my demon knew there's no
vaccine for the maenad's bite, that
nothing says forever like damnation.
I was killing more than willing
to lie griddled on bloodred coals
and call it love; but I missed his
listening kiss in the hissing steam.
Hell is lonely, bloody
empty without my demon.
I thought this blistered blaze might power
his blade-heart's forge, and this hammer pain
might twin us bright as living never did
yet after the first in-twisting, after
first blood spilled
he disappeared
and that is Hell for you.
~June 2013
[ This was originally posted for       dVerse Poets, where Karin Gustafson (Manicddaily) challenged us to write of twins, twining, combining or uncombining. Though I thought I'd finished with him, as I've written many little scribbles about my twin the Incubus, still he seems to linger somewhere at the back of Hell's waiting room.  If you'd like to read the others in this series, you can find them  here.  ]


Sunday, November 2, 2014

Urge For Going


 Dear blog friends and readers, 


I believe I have come to the end of the trail here for awhile. 


Thanks for everything you have given me through your own creative gifts, and to the few who have stayed with me throughout this journey, through your most generous gift of all, consistently reading and giving me feedback on my poetry. I can never thank you enough for that.


If circumstances permit I will be back, and no matter how empty the chair, there will always be a candle burning for you and this place.









Image: Paul Gauguin's Chair, by Vincent Van Gogh

Friday, October 31, 2014

Ghosts of All Hallows

Ghosts of All Hallows

This night puts two specters
always beside me: the
white wavering hand
of an ectoplasmic man
reaching up its rebirth
from the past's still river

and the red-trimmed ghost flint
of knife sharp December.
First one will cut me
then the other dismember,
making their wailing
promises for breaking, insisting

to midnight how real, how strong
how mine their congealing,
my self-propelled hex-helix
to annex the fetch of a feeling
or the sterile slipping steel
of each coward surrender.

How I remember--you didn't mind the knife
if it was in your hand.
I didn't mind the blood
so long as it was mine;
now it shines, the pale smile of the drowned
as if murder makes a healer not a butcher.

Oh it may; still it's time
to switch off the sound,
kill the moon,
cut to black this double feature
so both erase except for what
is left behind them in the mirror---

no lie is ever dearer
than the one you tell yourself.

~October 2014

posted for    real toads

Challenge: FireblossomFriday
 from Shay at the Word Garden:  Hallowe'en.

Three Hands, Two With Knives, Study, 1884,Vincent Van Gogh
Public domain via wikiart.org

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

The Song

The Song

There's a song that's made
from the end of night,
a fold in the black
where I tack paper stars,
(stiff silver, crumpled points
pushed into soft velvet ) a music
shaped like sails in the wind
sewn with mind's needle 
and air's cloud-thread, 
that pulls me ahead.

It burns the candlelight
behind my carved eyes
where I sit on the steps
on October's last night;
without that flame, mere holes in a shell, 
without that match, a hallowed-out
system of shrink and loss, 
seeds stolen, 
fire-roasted, split open

There's a song
my love makes,
a whisper of nocturne
that names the night,
a numen in flight
that outlasts the hours, 
and mine
the cold hand on the harp 
of winter that waits,
its inchworm comfort
the nature of flowers.

~October 2014

posted for    real toads

Challenge: Nightingale
Susie Clevenger(Confessions of a Laundry Goddess) adroitly avoiding the ubiquity of Hallowe'en, gives us the theme of that full-throated night bird, the nightingale, to explore in writing. I hope she forgives the slight intrusion of the season here.

Images: Night, 1953, by Marc Chagall May be protected by copyright.
Fair use via wikiart.org
Winterseeds,  ©joyannjones 2013

Monday, October 27, 2014



The tree came to the feeding
in eddies of dreamdark
night thunder and wind
discussing the storm
blowing up from the south
and the blood of the age.

I was an eavesdropper
a spy in the heartwood
of the wide-running world tree,
a hatchling consuming
its blind spiral highway
from root to the crown,

my corpus a conduit for
time's succulent cambium,
green life pushed through me,
brown years my droppings.
I twisted my wormhole
from mud to the stars,

felt myself swelling
at the opening
with the turning inside me,
skin twitched over half-wings
as I poked my pale head out,
lightning burned into

the thousand sharp mirrors
of my faceted eyes--
but I saw what I saw
just before
the black beak
plucked me out.

~October 2014

posted for         real toads
Open Link Monday

The Angel Oak (Quercus virginiana) John's Island, South Carolina, 
by Scott Campbell, via wikimedia commons 
Shared under a Creative Commons License
Footer: The Thief, 1996, by Jamie Wyeth
Fair use via wikiart.org

Unless otherwise indicated, all content © Joy Ann Jones 2010, 2011, 2012. All rights reserved.