Poetry Blog by Jemima Jones

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Patricia and Stefan Wilde on She brings flowers and respect (Mon, 5 Aug 2019 04:28 pm)

LEON STOLGARD on She brings flowers and respect (Mon, 5 Aug 2019 02:01 pm)

Adam Rabinowitz on She brings flowers and respect (Sun, 4 Aug 2019 12:25 am)

Jemima Jones on Towards an official day (Sat, 3 Aug 2019 11:35 pm)

Patricia and Stefan Wilde on Towards an official day (Sat, 3 Aug 2019 08:50 pm)

Jemima Jones on Towards an official day (Fri, 2 Aug 2019 02:29 pm)

Rose Casserley on Towards an official day (Fri, 2 Aug 2019 02:16 pm)

Jemima Jones on Mill worker mates. For Wendy Higson. (Fri, 2 Aug 2019 12:21 pm)

keith jeffries on Mill worker mates. For Wendy Higson. (Sun, 28 Jul 2019 09:01 pm)

jennifer Malden on Mill worker mates. For Wendy Higson. (Sun, 28 Jul 2019 07:21 pm)

She brings flowers and respect

Noticing her arrival on this sun hazed and dazed afternoon

it's late goldenness still current in the sad everywhere of about.

Rank upon rank headstone announcements of past lives

some illegibly obscured by the darkening of age and lichen

gently agitating the memberships of the living

with untroubled duties of remembrance.

 

A beloved epitaph beckon's mournfully

weave's it's...

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Towards an official day

Precious new member of humanity

flesh flower about to grow in earth's garden

lullabied into every slumber with soft songs and sighs

wondering how that little yet fully unwrapped mind

will go about life composing. 

 

Soon to disown namelessness and disrobe swaddling attire

pretty passenger alighting from the wombs nine months journeying carriage

unlocking existences door.

...

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Mill worker mates. For Wendy Higson.

Charabanc to seaside outing

and in being with them all

out went the tide drudge of work

in came the tide of pure enjoyment.

 

Skirts tucked in knicker legs

little screams when they couldn't jump high enough

to stop cold seawater from chilling higher up moon white legs

 

small laugh inspiring shocks

later laid to rest with hot fish and chips

followed by a couple of ...

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Student poetess

Arising in bedsit land

tunes her learning mind

into hearing above the towns waking noises

the bell ringings call to academic arms superiority.

Sifts the coming day's literary, needs

appropriate hard backed educational harbingers.

 

Below her creaking floor,

other achievers to be

are joining in the morning's usual routined mayhem.

 

Shelved in sunlight Coleridge rep...

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Downtime despair

Needing a finale.

Night worker.

Going off with my ever so long ladder

to descend into the void

of midnights black slumberless mine

frustratingly chipping away

at the layers of withheld sleep

trying to hack out gems of subconsciousness

restlessnesses reparative rubies

while keeping an eye on the tenebrous sky

knowing that when the Moon instantly hides its face

and...

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Left wanting

Coldly do I contemplate abandonment

by two foolish to themselves lovers.

 

He who now wakes to greet nothing but loneliness

each sunrise

icily teared

sad, wintry faced.

 

He struck by realisations lightning

regretting damaging words

impossible to regurgitate.

 

Inciting the question.

 

Do both their hearts

intermittently break

like mine? 

 

O! ...

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Pillow prayer.

Soothe me with dreams, dream-maker when I sleep

pour them generously, softly into my slumbering mind

as it escapes from the world.

 

May each burn brightly

with the flames of,  a beauty, a peace

yet undisclosed to the light of any day

 

those of a kind my heart has never before felt

those of a kind my eyes have never before seen

those of a kind my soul has ever before...

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Crying Globe supporter

I'm writing in sorrow

about loss, waste, and sheer stupidity

moistening this paper

with yet more angrily burning hot tears

for a planet being increasingly abused

whose end we hear knocking louder and louder on our door.

 

No, there will not always be another tomorrow

mornings will not be broken like the first morning

just broken-forever!

 

That once reminding breat...

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Come along now human vultures.....

......move along please

there's nothing for your scavenging eyes to feed on.

 

The hot breaking news

of whatever violent act took place

the bloodstains on the pavement tell of

have become yesterdays flames 

now extinguished by the lack of daily interest

and behind the yellow police tape

only the passing of time and echoes of condemnation remain

like a barren field

...

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Utterly besotted

entry picture

Of Paul Newmans absence

her sadness has never been greater.

How his blue eyes released a kind of beauty

she will never see again

even now as she recalls all he has given to her adoring world

he still has her

her idol, her maker of sexual fantasy

dying in the heaven of his arms

dream by dream, kiss by ghostly kiss.

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Bastards!

Close by to and smelling the smoke

of cruel fingered, beautiful Pheasant killing guns on a hillside

their hot twin barrels poking out from clusters of undergrowth

causing me to partially inhale

the little slow drifting clouds of cordite they emit.

 

I know these images I am sketching for you with words

are not humane ones by any stretch of the imagination

but I need to use ...

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Replacement

It was soon after your beloved dog had passed away

that I saw you at the animal sanctuary

looking in each kennel.

 

I could all too easily imagine

you having your heart and soul

benevolently wide open

 

like two angels showing you the way to redemption

showing you how to light the new way

back to your old canine loving happinesses.

 

  

 

   

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Returning to the embrace of echoes

The lonely old man 

entering his front door......calls out

Hello empty house, I'm home home home home

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Winters uncontested Minstrel

entry picture

With Snow falling

at this time of year

mornings whitely declare themselves

with a glare.

 

Everywhere is Jack Frosted.

Yawning early morning risers exhaling misted breaths.

 

The glitterings of suspended icicles

bejewel whatever and wherever they can

and all movement is slowed.

 

On his icy stage the charcoaled singer.

How honey toned, melodically and opening...

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From Fly to fertilizer

I own a little plate sized graveyard

in which I have buried many flies

a plant pot soil filled cemetery

a lovely flowered place of rest

for every one that dies

but if you think I say a prayer over each one

don't worry my reply to you won't be stroppy

because its true-I DO! and do you know why?

it is because I'm the Queen of all things soppy!

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Necessity of repetitions

Heading towards the sea

a little boy doddering over sand folds

won't give up and can't be parentally coaxed back

keeps right on course, leaving doll sized footprints in his progress

down to the waves

getting there his tiny toes are lathered by cold foam

he lets out a joyous scream but doesn't retreat.

 

With age and healths allowance

he will bring his guardians back here...

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An inevitable eventuality

Sorrow, in the heaviest form

had me counting memories

we had both shared Granddad

testing my capability to hold back tears

and stop my heart from breaking into pieces

hearing about you passing away in a retirement home

 

picturing your final scene,

the earth rising above you

as you slowly, slowly descended

submerging into the darkness

on your way to the light.

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Three is a crowd

In the bright Moonlight, I saw two Owls in the tree outside my bedroom window

 perched like two escaped book-ends that no longer wanted the job of propping books up

two hooting head 'swivellers'.

 

Out of the shadows, a gatecrasher tried to join them,

a Nightingale, one of the churring songsters

famed for melodiously lulling to sleep the residents of Berkeley Square

The vocal...

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