Saturday, August 30, 2014



The wind's given up
polishing the moon's face;
she pushes instead for
an avalanche of umber,
her dustdevils reborn 
to a grey-marled sky.
Dawn slips in short of breath;

the color it paints on is water
tumbling not falling,
night-tossed, twisted, taken
fast as kites scoop stunned bugs
thrown homeless into the storm,
all to make that flash, those stings
that wear the names of gods.

On such indelible filaments, such
lineaments of wind, we find 
our last flight, my love,
still hunting with hearts of kites
who feed on the turmoil of air;
just so we catch adam by atom
the tiny life that lets us soar.

Before we drown in the wash of years
before rain beats us flat as black matte,
rot-wet as winter leaves,
let us play blue-winged angels, 
silhouettes cut in a burn as bright
as the sun's heavy heart,
running messages 
between the worlds.

~August 2014

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Weekend Challenge: Feature Artist Kelly Letky

Kerry O'Connor has induced the multi-talented Kelly Letky (mrs mediocrity, the blue muse ) to share her other thing she does so well (besides poetry) with us at the pond this weekend, so that we can be inspired to write something to her work. It was very hard to choose a photo from the images she generously shared with us. Thank you Kelly.

 If you'd like to hear the poem read by the author, please click HERE

Top Image: November Sky, copyright Kelly Letky, at  the blue muse   
Used with permission.
You can find Kelly's exceptional poetry at her blog

Wednesday, August 27, 2014



I know I'll be measured
by the thing I couldn't help,

ruled by an epitaph:
'all-my-fault' on a headstone

completely unneeded; stone enough I've been.
Set upright in light with bloodshed and pain

to show 
there's no safety in darkness,

still, still 
I cover my eyes.

 ~August 2014

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Challenge: Words Count with Mama Zen
That woman of few words, Mama Zen (Another Damn Poetry Blog) asks us to examine if --and how--we are weird. Not far to look for me. Words have been hard to find of late, but I did manage to drag out 46.

Image: Unidentified standing stone between Millstreet and Ballinagree, County Cork, Ireland
Public Domain via wikimedia commons

Friday, August 22, 2014



In the sky, things grow wild:
pulled smoke, amber cotton
feather fretwork, light benighted,
silver spears, iron rattles
wind dances, night battles
spun sugar races of air rushing air,
vapor tails braided 
from a palomino mare,
the silver-flecked maze
round the withering moon,
gibbous face given glimmer
by her mirror of clouds.

Down here, things twitch like time:
the goosestep and the swansong,
the good life, the hard death
green-gold carpet, separate breath
black feet in the dust
black steps over lime, 
the opening door
framed in falling night, 
the short flight
the long walk up the stone hill
where stars finally talk
where blood grows still.

~August 2014

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Fireblossom Friday: Lists
The inimitable Fireblossom (Shay's Word Garden) asks us 
to consider the poetic possibilities of a list.

Photo: Mares'-tail moon, copyright joyannjones 2014 
Footer Image: The Open Door, by Henri Martin (slightly manipulated)
Public domain via


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