Tuesday, March 29, 2016

April





April


Just a note to thank all my readers and visitors for their time and support, many of them over the course of the blog's life, and through the gates of many poems, good bad and indifferent. 

I will not be doing anything for National Poetry Month this year, but wish everyone who takes on the challenge of writing a poem each day all the luck in the world.

If I am able to write or even read, two things that are unfortunately becoming increasingly hard, I will certainly do so, but know that you all have made a great difference in my life, and provided me with vital encouragement over the years, for which, again, I sincerely thank you.


~Joy       3/29/16

 Shadows touch the sand and
Look to see who's standin'
Waitin' at your window
Watchin', will they ever show
Can you hear them callin'


You know they have fallen
On campfires cold and dark
That never see a spark burn bright












photo: Ghostoaks, © joyannjones 2016




Sunday, March 20, 2016

Notice

Once again my material has been linked without permission to a blog I will not name. This practice is rude and unethical, and while there are no tools available to stop it, I wish to strongly condemn it. I therefore am putting this notice up more prominently at the top of the sidebar for anyone who may come here and think they can do whatever they want with my copyrighted material.


I DO NOT ALLOW  LINKING, REBLOGGING OR REPOSTING OF MY WORK WITHOUT MY WRITTEN PERMISSION. ALL ORIGINAL MATERIAL ON THIS SITE IS UNDER MY EXCLUSIVE COPYRIGHT, WITH ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PLEASE DO NOT LINK, REBLOG OR REPOST MY MATERIAL WITHOUT ASKING. 


THANK YOU.

~Joy Ann Jones

Saturday, March 12, 2016

The One-Legged Pilot





The One-Legged Pilot





When the trip begins the shore
is decorated with shipwrecked sunspots,
round mirrors of messaged bottles
I save from their cold blue exile,
and littered with rags of the rescued
I've replaced with nothing 
but the silken silver whisper
of my hair on salt-splotched skin.

The sirens call us, shrieking,
arabesque on their wayward rocks,
to sing us the torment of flesh,
of which there was never enough;
They curse
each plank we walk, and
even the death below

so nothing can really save us,
yet the peg-leg pilot 
steers us onward. The beach rears up at last; 
dry sand drinks our tears

while the sweet hormonal sea,
its tidal pulsing
the sirens' operatic hypnotic, even the grace
of salvage itself
abandons ships and sailors and
I am what washes up
alone on an arctic rim, hollow 
as a rind of frozen shell.
But the demon in the song is always full

and he is true still.
He's watched at the drydock of my bed
as decades rolled themselves up
like razor wire, tangled and untouchable
drawing blood at the slightest move.
He's seen the candle lit
and blown out
lit
and blown out
til the stump is smaller
and flatter
than even the look in your eyes.

A faithful sea-dog, my demon pilot
strong on a single leg, old but hot as pitch
his ivory teeth bigger, brighter--
a white flash in the liquid night
that only shows when he smiles.


~March 2016












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Note: This poem has been edited since the reading



If you'd like to hear the poem clumsily read by the author, click below:











The Siren, and
Ulysses and the Sirens(Detail), by John William Waterhouse.
Public domain



Thursday, March 10, 2016

Gravity


Gravity

"when I do fall/I'll be glad to go..."
~Jesse Winchester



Gravity
is not a friend
to planets in shards
to mud-sided hills
or its opposite,
frivolity.

It's a cliff-pusher, 
a  shrinker, a compressor
 able to blow every ruffle out
even as it rucks skin into pleats
 and blind alleys, an old sack under
its shuffled foot.

When hunger 
looks out of your eyes
seriously smiling,
there is always a force
behind the aspect
opposing

that works to make
me faceless,
out of nourishment;
one final bounce
of the deflated ball
landing after its long fall.

~March 2016




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Photo: Personal Moonscape, © joyannjones 2015





Sunday, March 6, 2016

Sunflower In Winter


Sunflower In Winter







Bent
at the rust-wire fence
as a sunflower dried
grey, prickled winter head
tossed in tepid wind,
 blown after bloom,
crooked as doom

consumed, folded
stemmed
of air, hollow;

dangling like a dead hand,
grey fingers
on grey to follow;

my landscape
of lost
 extremes,
where winter

is only
a way the light falls.


~March 2016








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Images: The Garden With Sunflower, 1887, Vincent Van Gogh, public domain
Winter Sunflowers, © joyannjones 2014