Saturday, March 29, 2014



There are things that we kept secret
after the bomb,
when the terrible shaking
in the walls
left with the walls,
when those falling from the towers
dropped like bloody rain
 on streets
cobbled with skulls.

Tangled in the cold
maneuvered moonlight
louvered through a broken
window pane,
globes of frozen being
in the half-light
kept close the face
the  secret soul, the name,
the blame.

The things that we kept secret
were salvation
or damnation,
how we thought we saved ourselves
and why we tried,
how the darkness that we ate
became our master.
The sickness  at the heart 
came when we died.

~March 2014 

 posted for     real toads
Weekend Mini-Challenge
Kerry O'Connor asks us to complete an enigmatic phrase, and I have done so, without, I hope, revealing any secrets

photo credit: Toni Blay via photopin cc

Friday, March 28, 2014



The white flower dreamed
and I dreamed with her

a dream unclouded
tight woven, teased out,
tied in intention;
a landscape of alabaster designed
by the dark fingers of sleep;

a dream made to trace
our own face, our place.

I don't remember how
or why or who we were
only that it was most
that we be, that if only
 we moved together, she 

her numinous lumed petals and I
my levers and iron devices, all

all in the right order,
the whole yawing cosmos--
the gasp and sizzle
the drag and fly--
would shudder itself right

and we would have at last
the world that never was.

~March 2014

posted for      real toads
Interpretations with Margaret: Flowers
The gifted Margaret Bednar (ArtHappens365) asks us to examine both 'the hidden and obvious' inner world of our favorite flower, about what its meaning to us might be, and explore it in writing. I seem to be still somewhat lost in my Jungian mesh of dreams, but when I looked, I did find a flower or two.

The header is a photo of the plant I love most in my garden, the narcissus Thalia, 'the joyous, the flourishing,' named after the muse of comedy and idyllic poetry, daughter of Zeus and the goddess of memory, Mnemosyne. The lower photo is of our native jimsonweed, whose leaves are poisonous to livestock and whose seeds are hallucinogenic.

Header: Narcissus 'Thalia'
Footer: native wild datura (jimsonweed)
Photos copyright joyannjones 2012-2014

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Friday Flash Fiction 55 Farewell Tour

Life is change, and all good things must end, and come again, and all that jive,  but today is a sad day here at Verse Escape as we say goodbye to the G-man 's Friday 55 meme.

Galen Hayes, (Mr KnowItAll) after seven years of kicking ass and taking names, has decided to hand over the Friday funfest to new ownership. I'll let you read the details over at his place. I also encourage you to participate in the farewell tour with a final 55 of your own.

Looking back over my posts, I see that I have written one hundred and thirty four 55 word poems or prose pieces for the Master of 55's, and the one below I just cranked out makes one hundred thirty-five.  


Many of those poems would never have been written without that platform, its supportive readers and Galen himself with his always warm praise and hospitality.

Galen's goal has always seemed to be to me to connect and to have fun, some of the best things we can do with the internet. He has not just patiently, but cordially waded through my incomprehensible gibberish and weekly hallucinations and never missed a beat (or a smart-ass remark.) I shall miss this weekly celebration immensely, even though it will continue in a new form elsewhere--it will not be--nor should it be--the same without him.

So tonight, here without further ado is my totally non-hallucinatory tribute to a fine meme, and a finer gentleman. I call it

Ode to the G-Man

Whether it was snow or hailin'
you could always count on Galen.

Every Friday (maybe Thursday)
every week's-end, late or early,

cheerfully he'd read your scribble,
tactfully not call it drivel.

It was real & it was fun
tonight the G-Man's done.

Gun that Harley, go take five,
then please
Have a Kick-Ass Life.

~March, 2014

55 lonely teardrops for  the g-man 


Just for fun, here is a link to the very first 55 I ever posted, back in November of 2010, the second month of my first year blogging, called Dental Work--that proved to be quite a prophetic title, eh, G?

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

The Rocks, The Snake and The Wheel

The Rocks, The Snake And The Wheel
a Jungian Triptych


These rocks are a tension
between earth and sky,
thrown abrupt against
unconscious blue,
an impulse of fire
cooled in the plunge of time.

They spoke a wheel hooped thru
a linked-inkling labyrinth
where bodies are boundaries
of what survives,
a collective of cells primitive as flint,
frail as the ash of last night's fire.

The rocks are mounded as flesh
on a woman's rib, precise as
arrows piercing the deflected sky,
a bow that grows from its string.

First we make a name,
then a story,
then a soul.


Under the spinning
the flight featherless
the long glide down
from the first tree
the dreamt garden
oscillating the golden
penumbra of perception
where Snake found his tongue,
where the fruit grew sweeter
the longer it hung,

something made him wake
to hate the two that were one,
whole and disguised in the body of light,
singing ragged aubades to the forgetting sun.
Something made the snake

bring the black limit, 
the evasion of night
the cryptic jump, 
Desire the fetish,
obsession for Knowing
as if it weren't right.

So the rock split to center, 
one became two  forever.
Go dancer, celebrant,  vessel,
come mender,
scrubwoman, shuffler 
of cards,

losing the shape
and even the name
 in sweat, blood and pain.


Snake's  in the tree,
you can hear him whistle
his whole lithe length in control,
swinging out darkness,
his bite bringing dreams.

There's a dry stiff scale
shed at the crossroads,
a  fang cast like a horseshoe,
its half-circle hollow
for the poison to follow.
There's a trail in the dustworks
of a rabbit-poor summer, a lion
in shadow, a witch in the woods.

There's a snake in the matrix.
You can hear him sighing
where the fruit hangs low
its faint scent a pulse
in the wind at the threshold
of all that will come:

a woman screaming, a baby crying
a man dangling forever
slaved to the wheel.

~March 2014

posted for      real toads
Challenge: Get Listed: Mind and Symbol
I have the fun of hosting this word list challenge today, based on words drawn from the first chapter of Man and His Symbols, by C.G. Jung. For full details and all the words, check out the link above to real toads. I have made use of a form introduced to us by Kerry O'Connor called the triptych, which emulates the concept of a triptych in the visual arts, a three-panel painting where each panel forms one third of the picture, exploring different views or details of the same subject.

Top Image: Red Hills, Lake George, by Georgia O'Keefe
May be protected by copyright. Posted under fair use guidelines.
Center Image: The Snake Charmer, 1907, by Henri Rousseau, Public Domain
Footer Image: Adam and Eve, 1533, by Lucas Crannoch The Elder,Public Domain 
All via

Monday, March 17, 2014

Into The Everlight

Dear readers, as I mentioned in my Off The Shelf post this month, I am taking one of my periodic  rests from organized blogging, though I will check in from time to time.  I'm leaving you with a short poem until I return on the 26th, then  saturate the internets  and try your patience with daily posts in April. As always, profuse thanks to everyone who reads, and makes this place a regular stop.


Last night
I saw the moon
in the everlight
drop the blackbirds' song
like water rolling
off the reaching trees,
unmask her fountain face
open her mouth
and roar the silence
that holds planets--
shattered  hearts of dragons,
 clouds of
stardust whirlpools,
the forgotten boats of gods--
all that dark light
with spring a-dance behind it,
each spinning clockwork phantom
pinned in  place.

~March 2014

Image: The Starry Night, 1889, Vincent Van Gogh
Public Domain via