Poetry Blog by Jemima Jones

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For my friend Wendy Higson

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She's the girl who writes the things

that give my heart a pair of wings

that help my comment go and spring

onto her thingy-me-blog.

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A time when almost all, has been cloaked

the duties of everything able to reflect sunlight,

are put on hold


only neon interferences and the

comings of headlights and goings of tail lights

are allowed to fire-fly the darkness


The Owl

how easily his eyes can adapt

to the changes in visibility


and how familiar is the wise Avian

perched silently in his ta...

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Crying, laughing

noises almost but not quite balanced

instigated by opposing thoughts

accompanied facially by alternate expressions

when subjected to  either

are those we are more than familiar with


sad and happy vocal changes

born in the mind, powered by the lungs, sent up the throat

to be mouth released

and are as old as the seas we crawled from to where we are no...

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Metallically coldly echoing

his brawny arm hammer strikes


every one such a resounding

singular cacophony


turning the whole Anvil

instrumentally ring toned


this indestructably built

impact taker


on which even glowing Horseshoes

giving off sparking crescendos have no effect.


Incessantly seething hot charcoal

never diminishing


shares i...

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Lament for the selfish human

Appreciations of Summers should be heightened every Winter

not cooled into forgetfulness.

Cooled, like the shaded places that relieve the thankless over-heated

who typically every August hope hot extremities 

would find somewhere else to go for a while when we knew

they would then start complaining about the lack of heat

and moan their ways into warmer clothes till solar repleni...

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Bakelite Telephone

This now extinct old and useless unattractive device

lovingly condemned by some avid admirers to a pensioned-off life

 of being nothing more than a sideboard ornament.


This early by-product of Alexander Graham Bells inventive mind

that helped shock and amaze us into the gizmo age

until washed away by trim phones, in turn, washed away by Wifi


I think, has nevertheless re...

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Sick Silver Cloud

if he had been alive today, my Uncle

known to his workmates

as Big Black Bodyshop Bill

he would have agreed wholeheartedly

that the old, battered iconic rusting hulk

a deluxe ghost from long ago days when

cars like this made every head it passed, turn

stopped them in their breathtaking tracks

now pathetically parked on the corner of our road

and that moves no more than h...

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New words

are beginning

to exclude the old

gradually warping them

into a hotch-potch

arse end language

of slang, jargon

abbreviated shite

distorted dialects

I.T.-ish  rocket science blindings

sterile stenographies 

all with muddled meanings.

in short,

cloudings of yesterdays clarities.   


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In praise of Mr Hood.

Sherwood green, your eyes doubtlessly reflected

and gave back the same to the spirit of freedom of the forest

you have haunted for so long.

I can easily connect to that feeling of liberty

your ghost continues haunting this beautiful place with

still emanating, possessing me

envious now in this modern life

my hero

my enemy of my enemies


On your longbow, the arrows of...

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You tell me!

Contemplated during a long precarious stay in Hospital.


Why oh why

does it take

a very very close

skin of the teeth

brush with death

for the cash tills

of realisation

to ring up

the true valuation

of life?

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if natures body clock changes

Would we see for example

growing at eye level a  Rosebush?

as if fertilised by miraculousness

having pushed its way

through encrusting snow

climbing white filled skywards


defiantly beneath the bridle

of Winters air.

Blushed clustered participants in beauty

declaring bright red resilience


gorgeously, heroically,

making more than the most

of being for no...

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The sober morning after

Did I

when back at yours

slowly whirl about the room

pirouetting in the soft yellow glow

of the bedside lamp


while you

Mr at first not-so-easy-to-please lay there

facially and bodily motionless

unmoved by my passionate dancing affair

with teasing promiscuity?


Did I leave my scent

on the bed, on the rug

did I go a beautiful step further

by transferri...

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Precious hours...their sanctuaries

Black as shadows can be

seep in

clouding definite edges.

Inhalations of rain-soaked greenery too.

Everything that has sounded its name in the daytime

subsides sweetly into silence.


Gentle breathing

the rooms only slight disturbance.


If these luxurious free times

were compared

they could not be separated

from the alikeness

of a dream-made place in heave...

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Regardless of shape or size

each bodily replacement

cut and manipulated to fit

where the previous same

succumbed to the elements;

victimised by outside forces.


This automotive vintage child

born to the Father of motoring's great age

despite its wounds

still able to beg for the road.


Each renewed part a twinned reincarnation

even down to the tiniest o...

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my puerile years

Some fragments of my childhood past

I recall with intense clarity

others not so much.


Trying to remember

this far back

is like going on an archaeological dig

discovering  little scraps and shards

collected from the dust of time

and put together to form a whole.


Our old house for example

I can only recall it being a shadowy place

swum through by cooking ar...

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April drizzle softens the winds fists 

and is almost spent by the time I reach Granddads little abode.


His hugeness fills the cottage door.

An eighty-year-old-body of illness and courage.


Coming into his view

I hear him laughing

his laughter heartwarming as ever.


Doorstep toast

shovelled on with best butter and jam

soon to be partnered by hot steaming tea


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Death throes and diversions

O spirits of the night!

haunting Winters cold collaborations

with the thumbnail Moons

meagre affordances of luminosity

I sense the presence again

of your witness playing

to the death-born funeral time of seasons

coming as you always will

through the forever unlocked door of time  


to nonchalantly condone decay

and silently assist the want

in the minds of those...

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of the tide

Dozily ebbing among sand probing waders

blunt blades of surf

unsheathed waves

slowly stab ashore

like knives held in the hands

of unsure assailants

soapily toppling and tumbling

over muddles of seaweed and driftwood

leaving in their departures

scum rimmed reminders

seeping into golden graves

made to wait

for the suns evaporating exhumations

coming to raise th...

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pondering the void

it is not sunny

at this time

there are no shadows


but down there darkly

genius spirals out of control

landing imperfectly

having howled in its descent.


I worry about that sound. 

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Tick tock awake frustrated writer

till three o'clock

though your brain tries

it can't free the poem planes chocks

when they are released

the whole composition flys

without one more stall

then down on the pillow goes the knackered poet

bloody big headache and all!



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House of regret

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no more returning

no matter what the voices say

never to drink the same tears

or consume regurgitated  sorrow

I have embraced unwanted ghosts

for the last tormenting time. 

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Long Johns

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My ex-coal miner Granddad

always got up too early we thought

that's why I suppose he used to say

'you are missing the best part the day'


he, not thinking


any part of any day is just as good

as long as you are here to see it.


We, his Grandchildren ridiculed him

being fashionably addicted as we were 

to designer underwear labelled with honey trap


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Do you remember

the old-fashioned coal scuttle

it's filled heaviness that made it so hard

to shake the right amount of cobs

into the fire grate

( some hissed if damp)

and the long iron pokers that went with it

that had to be retrieved from the eventual flames 

before the handle got too hot

and do you remember the times you screamed OUCH!

when forgetting to wrap a clot...

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Direction finder

Deserted again

as on too many previous occasions

but this time I won't come begging for your return

newfound freedom and I

have broken the old chains

been elsewhere exploring other possibilities.


Like a light that once illuminated my happier days

I will unmourning see you go out

your self dominating assurance kicked aside

by the boot of my determination



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What fills the spaces

in between life and death?

I call it times differently flavoured meats.

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in other words

When very crudely requested of me

to perform an oral sex act on him

I replied

'what a disgusting way to put it

couldn't you have asked me in a nicer way?


ok, I will said he


could you please place the the teeth gated exit

under the entrance to your nasal passage

around my urine disposing appendage


to which came my second reply


place your feeding ho...

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no entry

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I could try

with loves keys

to let myself into your heart

it could for me be like entering heaven

you could make the door disappear

once I was inside

but knowing you and your disinterest

it is more than likely

you would have changed the locks

before I even tried.

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Indelible stain

I could if I chose to 

be out there having fun with Dolphins and Whales


I could if I chose to

be on a slow boat to China to pick their faraway tea leaves


I could if I chose to

be collecting fallen stars to put in my pocket and save

them for a Perry Como type of rainy day.


I could do all these things

if only I wasn't being kept so busy

with my duty of



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when poetry is pushed in to becoming a pain

It seems to happen in the small hours

but only on odd occasions thankfully 

when I'm finally able to nod off

that reasonably good lines subjects titles

or other poetic ideas 

come floating across my mind

taunting whispering

go on then you baggy-eyed sod

get up and write me down

before I go for a walk into your forgetfulness!

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Along with being told

not to talk to

refuse sweets offered by

and never get into 

the big black cars of strangers

I was also taught to

count my blessings one by one ( what was that about?)

eat a peck of dirt before I died ( definitely!)

remember that every cloud has a silver lining ( even if it sopping wet)

I mustn't change my tune once I'm wed ( but he did Mum!)


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