Poetry Blog by Jemima Jones

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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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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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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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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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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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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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

ove...

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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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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

whil...

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What fills the spaces

in between life and death?

I call it times differently flavoured meats.

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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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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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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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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!)

an...

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