Author Archive

Hypoglycemia During the COVID-19 Crisis

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During this unprecedented time, I have found it difficult to write what I want to write, or should I say that I have found it difficult to write what I had planned to write in 2020. Everything has been about the pandemic, and I refuse to let the pandemic have everything.  COVID-19 has taken too much already. I will not allow it to take my words.

The following poem was published by Guesthouse this summer.  Thank you Jane Huffman and Diane Seuss!!!


Hypoglycemia during the COVID-19 Crisis

She is on the stairs.
Hears two
sacks of potatoes
dropping. The sound,


body hitting tile.
The image, dark
rag doll drenched
between toilet and wall.


He is Black.
Too afraid
to go to the hospital.
Too afraid


to be denied
a ventilator.
Too afraid
to suffocate alone.


she plays nurse.
Googles symptoms.


Takes his vitals
with her own hands.
Feeds him chocolate
from her palm.


Shawn R. Jones

Guesthouse (2020)

You can read other magnificent poems from this collection at the link below:

The Life That You Saved

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I am a poet. However, I have decided to write a few short stories. This is the only short story I submitted from my

small collection of stories. It was accepted for publication by Obelus Journal. I was excited to see it in print! I am

hoping I find time to revise my other short stories while I am writing poetry.  Here it goes! I hope you like it or at

least appreciate the amount of effort I put into it. Let me know your thoughts. By the way, it was published months

ago. I just had to find the courage to share it on my website.


I am not sure why the link appears so far away from this brief introduction, but I’m working on fixing that soonish 😉

The Life That You Saved

Poem Accepted by River Heron Review 2018

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Admission of Guilt


Their first home was in the bowels of Camden.

I gave them birth. It gave them depth

for wherever their wooden legs would take them.


They would remember the shack

out back with no windows

men and women coming in and out


of its wounded orifices like rodents

foraging for food, sex, drugs.

They would remember the 75 pounds of cocaine


that fell from the sky and landed

on our freshly poured stoop.

It fell like snow, so I told them,


It is snow,

but keep your tongue

in your mouth.


They would remember the woman

running naked in front of my car with rain

shrunken hair and bloody beige breasts.


Then they would remember

yellow buses carrying them a couple towns

over to an immaculate school


where they were not allowed

to color Jesus

or the angels brown.


Shawn R. Jones

River Heron Review (2018)


“Admission of Guilt” was published in River Heron Review’s debut issue.  You can read the issue at the following link:

Five in the Morning


Branches bow
and nod heavy
with white
frozen wet wings

as ice cream coned hedges
take winter’s first lick
on a snow covered
crisp crackling dawn.

The house is quiet.
Ghosts are asleep.
Not even dad
can haunt me in this space.

Yet, as I flush
another poem
through this vein,
I know nothing
is gentler…
or scarier… than this snow
that reflects
the pale blue light of dawn.

By Shawn R. Jones 2015

You do not want to be here

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Your bitterness,

like a shawl

wrapped loosely

slips off my shoulders like silk.

No matter how many times

I gather you up in my arms,

you do not want to be here.


I can see your bitterness,

the same vacant look

in Grandmother’s eyes

before she died—

here but not here

there but not there,

cursing that liminal space.


I can hear your bitterness,

lightning silenced by

the opaque clouds

of forged laughter—

a serpent

constricted by etiquette and religion,


shedding through cracks in the wall,

bitterness curdled in your veins.


Shawn R. Jones





Happy 26th Birthday to My Son

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Happy 26th Birthday to my son! I have been sitting here for 5 minutes trying to think of a few sentences to describe my son and all I can do is tear up because I cannot find the words to express how I feel about him. There are no words, just love, pure and indescribable.

Jeffrey, in a week or so, you will know exactly how I feel when you look into your own son’s eyes and cradle his tiny body in your arms for the first time. 

I love you! Happy Birthday!

Photo credit: Julia L. Jones

My New Password

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Let’s start with technology.  You know that famous quote from the book A Tale of Two Cities? “It was the best of times. It was the worse of times.”  Well, that quote pretty much sums up this age of technology.  We are more efficient, but less attentive.Everything moves faster, but our minds move more slowly. We no longer memorize 7 digits because they are stored in our cellphones. God forbid if we lose our cellphones or lose the data in our cellphones!  We wouldn’t be able to call our own mothers!  The least we could do is memorize our mother’s phone number.  Oh, and dad’s number, too. Oh, and our kids and grandparents… Yes, there are certain numbers you should just memorize.

Oh and don’t let me get on the subject of passwords.  I have at least 10 passwords, maybe 15! I am so afraid of folks stealing my information and identity that I make them extremely complicated like 89Cab42Crackpot500Skittlez!!!  Then I have to remember it by saying something like, “My 89 year old grandmother caught a cab on 42nd Street and the driver was a crackpot who ate 500 packs of  skittles with a z!”  Really? Do I real…ly have to go through all that because there are a few brilliant, misguided crackpots out there stealing identities? I mean if you are brilliant enough to become a hacker…why can’t you get a real job?

I had my identity stolen before. It took me months to get it straight. Months!  And then guess what? Two years later, I realized it still was not resolved.  What did I do about it?  I robbed a bank and they got locked up!

Just kidding! I just changed all my passwords again! I don’t do on-line banking and I don’t pay my bills on-line. I am an old-fashion pen, stamp, and envelope girl.

So now I have  a new password: Ifyoutrytostealmyidentitymydeceasedgreatgrandmotherwillbeinyourbedtonight

I figure if I start making passwords like that, the hackers will assume I am crazier than they are and just move on to the next person.

Well, readers be wise and be safe and have a great night!

Branches Hang Low

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Branches Hang Low

Branches hang so low, icy fingers crawl across the snow when the wind blows. – srj

It Rains Cold

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It Rains Cold


We take a long drive

to the shore

and collect details

of our life like seashells.

We find everything on

the same beach.

Cracked or whole,

we place them in the bucket,

knowing not to build a castle

out of sand and slime.


Shawn R. Jones, 2014



Author of the devotional book, Pictures in Glass Frames

and the poetry chapbook, Womb Rain,