Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Writing on the Deck

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Writing on the Deck at 55 Mountain Fern Drive

 By Shawn R. Jones


The small orange sliding board

has been sitting there

fifteen years.

I still see my daughter

walk up its blue ladder

in her purple coat and

pink, and lavender hat.

She is about four.


I look over at the

rusted snowmobile.

My son lifts its gray cover

and reaches his small hand inside.

A swarm of wasps whiz

from under its shiny red hood.

My son yells and joins them in flight.

Black framed glasses fly.

His sister cries for him.


I stare at the four-wheeler,

wrapped in worn tarp.

Debris from each season

lines its blue wrinkles.

My son walks up the red stoned driveway,

helmet in hand and head down.

He ran the quad into a tree,

showing off for a couple boys his age.

He is ashamed.


My eyes avert to the rock pit.

Yellow and blue flames

move like Hula dancers at dusk

as marshmallows crust over

bent twigs, like singed

pussy willows.

Charred goo sticks to our lips.

Brown faces glow with delight.

Snakes slither

from the pit of warm rocks.


But we do not worry.

We are not afraid.

The night is too perfect.


I stop writing and

walk back in the house.

It is quiet.

Our children are grown.

My husband and I

come up alone now.


We browse antique shops and

examine zithers, Roseville pottery,

vintage watches, and signed photos

of living and deceased stars.

We dine at Piggy’s

and enjoy foods

our grown children tell us

we should not eat.


We walk by the lake

and take pictures.

Butterflies are shy and

fireflies pose in midair

as black bears

fumble through trashcans

on the side of a wooded road.


In winter, we play cards by the fire

and swap secrets like candy

as snow piles up outside for hours.


But we do not worry.

We do not regret.

The night is still perfect.


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My friend James framed this for me. Thank you so much, James L Lanham Jr.  It is from the following haiku I wrote some years ago:


We spill happiness,

watch it like a waterfall,

and clog new worries.

Queen Bee

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Queen Bee


When yellow rain showers

germinate goldenrod

flowers’ sweet nectar hour

I become queen.

Pollen baskets yield my fame,

until drones die to mate

then mate to die—

HIV of those who

fly beneath my wing.

I close my eyes,

respect their darkness,

and lick their short-haired shells.

Then realize as the skyline’s

kissed by dawn…


this moment is mine.


Shawn R. Jones

Reprinted from Womb Rain

(Finishing Line Press, 2008)

Presently Untitled

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Presently Untitled

By Shawn R. Jones


I have always been afraid of silence

and the sounds that imply silence

like church bells tolling at twelve,

soft, faint giggles after wine,

toddlers singing nursery rhymes

in schoolyards across town,

golden pendulums swinging

behind still chains, clocks ticking

lazily behind wooden frames,

featherless gray cardinals

pacing across thin perches,

machines beeping down quiet halls,

and the insistent ring of an unanswered call,

until I heard God’s voice

drizzle before hard rain,

replacing the pain-

fully unspeakable

eerie solitude

of silence.

Copyright 2003 Shawn R. Jones

This is a poem I am currently revising. I am not sure what it is really… about, but I am sure I will better understanding of it after the fifth draft or so.  Anyway, I hope you get something out of it.  Thank you for stopping by : )

The Bellhop

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The Bellhop

Shawn R. Jones

The quiet man,

lover, and friend,

who Grandmother

no longer wanted

to love,

had children

of his own and

a wife at home

shot himself

and Grandmother

to curse

some other




to my own.


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We spill happiness,

Watch it like a waterfall,

And clog new worries.

By Shawn R. Jones






By Shawn R. Jones


Hate Loves Green

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Hate Loves Green

By Shawn R. Jones


Hate throws bricks.

It knows

I’m not quick

enough to duck.

But guess what?

It misses me anyhow.

I live in clouds with my

Brown skin in white shrouds

Of “I can do anything.”


Hate loves green, and

Greed makes mean

Folks smile.

While they hurl bricks

I build thick walls to

Surround the grounds

Of my castle.


*I am going to write an unedited quickie poem a day in hopes that some day they will be publishable.


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When I reach over

and touch your hand,

our fingers entwine,

and loose segments of me

begin to mend

and adhere to

broken segments of you.

My past, your past,

our defeated fathers, dispirited mothers,

sickle-celled self-hatred,

and disquieted memories dissipate

as our wan hearts swell

and we become whole.

No trite phrases can explain

how we regain virtuousness through love

and become all we were destined to be

in each other’s arms.

Shawn R. Jones


Author of the devotional book, Pictures in Glass Frames

and the poetry chapbook, Womb Rain,


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By Shawn R. Jones

Last night

I saw your image

relaxing in the green

suede chair

legs crossed

barefoot shaking

cigarette in right hand

drink in left-no ice

blue jeans-regular fit

dark jaw tightened

brown eyes fixed

and thin lips parted

by smoke escaping

a ghostly kiss.

Though Passions Still Yearn Deeply to Ignite

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Though Passions Still Yearn Deeply to Ignite

By Shawn R. Jones

A yellow flame pops wood throughout the night.

Orange cinders on the steel grate burn to ash.

A golden dancer hurls shadows too fast

For music to accompany her flight;

Charred feet give out before the fire’s light.

Her smoldering toe shoes she has to stash

Away in the tin urn with all her past,

Though passions still yearn deeply to ignite.


A craving blazes wildly for applause.

A formless flash of colors are aglow,

Red, purple, blue, orange, violet, and yellow.

From flames that scorch and singe behind brick walls

A trapped inferno must decide to make

Smoke-filled creation’s most wondrous of shapes.


Photo by Shawn R. Jones 2011