Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Objectivist Free Will Nightmare

Objectivist Free Will Nightmare

Last night I dreamed
Rand Paul walked up to me
as I sat working at my desk,
in his suit and wide red tie,
curly hair oiled
like a delicate machine.

He tipped up my chin, grasped it firmly
and planted a kiss on my lips
while I froze.
"My god," I whispered,
"I've kissed a libertarian."
and sunk my face in my palms.

A wave of shame consumed me,
as I sat deregulated,
more broken than an oil spill;
Mr. Paul smiled a small
controlled happy smile,
and walked on to the next desk.

~ January 2015

Yes, I really dreamed this. Not much of a poem, but it cracked me up, so thought I'd share.

Edit: Forgot to add for those not into U.S. politics, that Rand Paul is a republican-libertarian Senator from Kentucky, and  son of Ron Paul, de facto founder of the Libertarian Party.

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Scrimshaw Sonnet

Scrimshaw Sonnet

I am a woman only of earthenware
bare as windy hills if not as pure.
Your every thought to me bore the potter's mark
stark from a god's-eye that's never yet met mine,
fine and barb-hooked as if on a fishing line,
vined in words that pulled like hungry sand.
Bands of ivory cloud meet a starving knife,
life drips enough to wet the driest grave.

Save the lesser light of windflower spring;
bring the lamps of your eyes imagining.
Sing like sheaves of whales under blue-white wool.
Pull from your sleeves the darkness between worlds

curled away in sighs, then suddenly spilled,
filled to the brim before all things are stilled.

~January 2013
slightly revised. 2015 

posted for    real toads 

The Tuesday Platform
revisiting a poem written two years ago... this is in chained rhyme where the last word of every line rhymes with the first word of the next.

originally posted for   real toads 

Process notes: This is deliberately written in a somewhat non-traditional sonnet form.

scrimshaw  — n
1. the art of decorating or carving shells, ivory, etc, done by sailors as a leisure activity

~World Dictionary

Image credits:
Header image: The Rocks with Oak Tree, Vincent Van Gogh, 1888
Public domain, via
Shared under a Creative Commons license.

Sunday, January 18, 2015

The Hourlass Of Crowded Demons

The Hourglass Of Crowded Demons

With every
grain that pits my sleep 
a demon falls, sliding past 
his subatomic twins
down the chute 
of  another
narrowing night
to rattle in a pail of dreams
that rouse themselves and shake,
wet cerberi of dullness or desire
carrying each his bleached 
memory-bone to the fire.

~January 2015

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Kerry's Weekend Mini-Challenge: Word Substitution

Kerry O'Connor (Skylover, Skwriting ) once again picks two titles in her mental shellgame of word substitution, asking us to make something appear where least expected. (In the spirit of the mini-challenge, I have made this one quite mini.)

Apology: I just realized as I was tweaking this I changed the original title which was The Hourglass of Dreaming Demons--sorry Kerry. I did keep the dreaming part, tho.

Images: Top: The Hourglass Nebula, (" MyCn18, a young planetary nebula located about 8,000 light-years away, taken with the Wide Field and Planetary Camera 2 (WFPC2) aboard the Hubble Space Telescope (HST).) by Raghvendra Sahai and John Trauger (JPL), the WFPC2 science team, and NASA/ESA" ) Source
Bottom: Skull Hourglass, by Brynhilder on deviantArt, shared under a Creative Commons License.

Thursday, January 15, 2015

The Winter Door

The Winter Door

We sat together in the cold starmelt
close as blackbirds murmur in a leafless tree
or spaced high and still on a windy staff of wires,
when you brought out the wine that opens doors
and thawed my throat enough so I sang it all,
as if it were the last chance secret freed;
everything you'd want in words or need
witch-written jade in a moon white snow-- I sang it all,
curving in its loop the necklace for
a much softer pillory than the one I wore.

After the seventh glass, you gave out a flame
that threw its sulphur flicker on the deep,
flew your bright oriflamme of crippled grace
that shivered as it blew, and turned your face.
I had to guess it all from one lowered glance,
what hard secret hid below ones freely told
shadowed on a window where behind
some changeling moved---before it turned its face;
still, words are not a thing that blackbirds know
who pose no avatars in jade or snow.

When we sat in the light that fell
before it rose, in a country
cobbled crazy from a broken spring
to float its leaping green on silver ice;
when we laughed
to watch the way it is time bites
the coldest decade down to a burning drop
star-beaded for Orion's gut bowstring,
we were then as we are now, translated stark:
two who find their doorways in the dark.

~January 2015

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Fireblossom Friday: Winter
The ever-blazing Fireblossom asks us to examine winter without any naturalist's delirium, and of course, absolutely not with a haiku.

Image: Blackbirds, © joyannjones 2013

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Cactus Eye

Cactus Eye

The cactus eye is watering
watching, thinning,
its saving all in vain.
The needed day is now;
unindemnified, unsanctified
the indifferent sun will magnify,
will dry the drops of living
at its root,

and the bulge it held so long, life
parsed from long-fingered air, will shrivel
split the skin and spit the spines,
consume itself the nectar 
hidden in its wounds. The hungry dark
will fall like sharp-faced birds
and the cactus eye will close
at last dried blind.

~January 2015

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Weekend Challenge: The Poetry of David Huerta
Grace (Everyday Amazing) brings the work of the Mexican poet David Huerta to us for inspiration. Reading  the poems she shared, as well as some of those in her linked translation of Before Saying Any Of The Great Words, led me here, though I'm not sure how.

Images: The eye like a strange balloon goes to infinity, 1882 by Odilon Redon
Public domain via  I have slightly tinted this image.
Photo of the northern lights seen from space, author unknown.

Friday, January 9, 2015

For The Road

For The Road

He bought me a car
so I could drive it for him,
the Drunken Master, the Blind Buddha
high school wrestler with a karma
stronger than the Eight Immortals.

So I worked for my license,
drove my teacher (Eddie Sneath) to drink
with the stickshift stall and rollback of 
 San Francisco hills,

learned the caress and nudge of a tight clutch
the tap of foot/ hand glide/ accelerator slide,

but still, I always knew
it was easier
than learning to fly.

~January 2015

posted for    real toads

Challenge: Road Trip!
Corey Rowley (Mexican Radio) asks us to travel back in time to our first ride.

Process Notes: 'Eddie Sneath" was an alias and alter ego of a friend. The car was a '64 VW microbus named Ruby, purchased by my first husband. (She had the white and turquoise paint job pictured above, so Ruby described her personality, not her color.)When I was put behind the wheel one foggy morning on Van Ness, I had never driven a car in my life, but I learned. 
The flying, that was harder.

Optional Pop-Psychedelic Musical Accompaniment

Images: Authors unknown. I have slightly manipulated both. 

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