Poetry Blog by Terry Jones



Before the spirit left,

you had one leg out of bed, toes

touching the floor,

hand tightened on the sheet

as if for a moonlight flit.


I stayed with your cast,

rearranged leg, hand, sheet;

I even called you back,

but you were walking quickly,

lightly towards morning.

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Collecting Bins at Emily Bronte’s

                  Collecting the Bins at Emily Bronte’s


                   ‘What is the matter, my little man?’ I asked.

                   ‘There’s Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t’ nab,’ he blubbered, ‘un’ I darnut pass ’em.'


                    Long after she’d gone, being reborn

                     on teapots and table mats - daguerrotyped,

imaged and impressed ...

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Lovers By the Ice-Age Tarn

                               Lovers By The Ice-Age Tarn


Lovers by the ice-age tarn

locked within the season’s frame

tender to the ancient sun

all their urgent naked claim:


"Until the climate takes my eyes,

sun is darkened with its spores,

and all the twisted ammonites

turn to brittle amber tears,


bend me by the golden ice,

tip me to reflected stars;


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My mother leaned against dreams.
                        Listen carefully;
she did not row above the river of thought,
she did not bleed a flower of imagination –
my mother leaned against dreams.
On a morning when her children rose in sunlight
to squeeze the kitchen back to waking,
and the table found its legs like a foal,
the black cooker shook its head,
chairs were branch...

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Moth-Print Spring

                                                 Moth-Print Spring


Pressed in the pages of this book

the moth that must have rested here

has turned into this powder blur,

the one dimension of itself.

Someone reading one Spring night

shut a sudden paper tomb

and trapped this echo of a flight.

A feint of light drew it there:


a dull reflection off the page


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The poor apparitions.  It would be easier

if they ceased to care and took their nowhere

as the end of being here.  Substanceless,

 forgetful, they miss what has come to pass,

and nothing remains of them but pranks?

They dull cold mirrors; barely sway candle flames;

on anniversaries appear in dreams;

in thin involvements bumble under glass,


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I will teach my child to read fences

tell the X, from the Y, 

judge tension in the note and the not


I will teach how to curl like a mouse

sense thunders of touchdowns and tarmacs

climb, roll, smell borders


Mother, lover, blood-trafficker,

for sheer map and milk of her life,

I will teach h...

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As loved ones buried

grow nails and hair

past recognition,


a fistful of peelings

thrown slovenly to earth

came back in Spring,


leaving me to finger,

stunned as Crusoe,

a row of cold knuckles.


One, forgotten in the cellar,

turned pure alone

and grew a halo of white hair;



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power company

power company


stop leaving all the lights on I say

we live in a dark house

I want to see you say

get used to it, bats can see in the dark

they get used to it

bats can't see in the dark

course they fucking can, with sound

you mean like with rhyme

shout and bounce it off the world

whisper it into corners

we turn the lights off and try it

bugger you shout


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Recent Comments

jennifer Malden on Collecting Bins at Emily Bronte’s (2 days ago)

Beno on Lovers By the Ice-Age Tarn (7 days ago)

Terry Jones on your-hope (7 days ago)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on your-hope (7 days ago)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on Moth-Print Spring (7 days ago)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on Apparitions (7 days ago)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on Aubade (7 days ago)

Martin Elder on Aubade (7 days ago)

Adam Whitworth on Aubade (7 days ago)

jennifer Malden on Moth-Print Spring (8 days ago)


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