Monday, August 4, 2014



Even the bee is lazy when it rains
humming in her fitful dry hive-dance 

while the hungry dust turns mud
and liquid silver rinses out her cups.

These clouds, so high, so wild,
because they want to, come.

They play instruments of earth,
wind section, tree-cellos, stone drum

but make the music of a soul;
if we hear, it's not because we paid.

These gifts--each breath, each note
each bee, each yellow bell on fire

for ruby throat, each handful of bending blades--
outline the coast of a country never mapped

and like every gift that comes without a cost
or a desire, it stays unwrapped.

~August 2014

I will be offline for a while as various things in my life work themselves out. See you on the flipside of all that, and may all of you enjoy the gifts of summer.

Photo: Redbuds, Grey Sky, copyright joyannjones 2014

Saturday, August 2, 2014

The Girl In The Purple Sweater

The Girl In The Purple Sweater

The girl 
sat drooping,
dressed purple-pink
 as the wall of a liver 
in the sun, ciphered eyes
 weeping black seeds
 into the frozen.
Each one
grew a pointing finger,
for dark matter
on silver plate,
for snowy eye or yellow bone,
or crab within that crawls
from home to home.

~August, 2014

55 bad seeds from the children of dreams

where the incomparable Fireblossom (Shay's Word Garden
once again hosts the monthly 55-fest

Images:Portrait of Mademoiselle Jeanne Roberte de Domecy, by Odilon Redon
Study of Crabs, by Leonardo DaVinci
Public domain via

Wednesday, July 30, 2014



Do the stars
call to each other
as you call to me
a restless wave
across infinite dark
spark to cellular spark?
Is it distance you see
measuring me
or disastrous proximity
the way light bends congruent lines
a star-egg prism'd warm
from eye to eye
before the breaking door,
the solar storm of crypted time?
Can those hunting specks
that dust the desert blue
in their shaken glass globe so
identically bright, so sweet/saltpeter sour,
in their cyclopean run
in the isolate absence of heat
dance the desolate dying of suns
knowing they'll never meet?

~July 2014

Optional Musical Accompaniment

posted for    real toads

Kerry's Wednesday Challenge: Alienation in Outer Space
 Kerry O'Connor(Skylover, Skywriting) has brought David Bowie, post-modern alienation, what it means to listen, and outer space together for one of her always compelling challenges.

For some unknown reason, perhaps because this is Kerry's prompt and I know her love of forms, I had an impulse to rewrite this poem as a sonnet. As always in these free verse-to-form exercises, it's the same, only different. (Please don't feel, anyone, that you have to read both--just my over-achieving self-indulgence.)


Do stars so far call out one to another
the way your call to me crosses infinite dark,
small voice to voice pitched low, never uncovered,
restless wavering spark to cellular spark?
Is it distance that you see, measuring me
or the damage of diffracting proximity,

the way the light at dawn bends congruent lines
in colors breaking down the prism's door?
The ragged beat tapped out by contracting time
compels the specks that dust the ballroom floor
so identically bright, so sweet/saltpeter sour,
sparkling as their shaken glass globe's devoured,

to make that falling run in isolate absence of heat
and dance the dying of suns, knowing they'll never meet.

(July 2014)

Images: The Voice of The Blood, 1948, Rene Magritte
Time, by Wojciech Siudmak
Fair use via

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