-


ticking is a solemn arrest, a faded white wall,
and a pattern of blank stares, all ripe for a bold
occupation, affixed to space-taking suggestions
that lie upon linoleum in small paper snippets.

i heard the hoot of an owl by the window, maybe
it was something to do with the mismatched feather
dusters hanging side by side, or perhaps the noise
i was making with the scissors.

it then spoke to me in a broken beaked English—

let me help you burn that bland confetti,
we can slip off to a place where fast boats
await careless operators,

i have so many reckless gifts of debauchery  
packed for delivery to those "Whooo" wish
to entertain the sharps of my talons—

Share with me, your most
Malignified Thoughts !

— my head split wide open and snatched down this
creature with one swipe of a dry tongue, the taste
of it was that of winter leaves and —probably— the
discarded cigarette butts from a public walkway,

it itched a little on it's way down,
concluding otherwise yet another
unremarkable event...


"boredom eats foul"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

-

Among the constellations
sail upside-down
the vessels of old men who
have risen from their
earth bound material

keeping with them the footwear
they had on in that final moment
when each saw their remains
through The Divine Mirror:

two are embracing the masts
for unrenewable security

one grips the railing, convinced
he may fall back

still another holds tightly to the
chains of his anchor

But one lies face up on the deck,
content that his reflections will
never haunt him

he holds his hand out, extending
fingers into a celestial calm,
causing wakes

a destiny uncertain,
he flings his shoes
downward—

back into the sky...


"finding grace above the seas"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

.

-

a detailing of moments
metamorphasizes
seconds into minutes,
minutes into hours-

into patient waiting
upon children
to emerge
from a toy shop

an unwanted noticing,
listening dull—a'fied to
adjacent patrons talking
furiously into their hands

almost wishing to
urinate again
just to pass
the next hour

tick—tock
sitting still,

autobiographies have been
written and published
in this time

tock—Tick
Still sitting,

Children have been Conceived
and then given Birth To
in this Time

Ticked—TOCKED !
Still—

Moons have been Known
to form on the Surfaces
of Uranus

In This Time...




"the Tick— & eventually, the Tock"
© 2020 By Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

.

The wind sighs through
the gnarled boughs
of trees with golden leaves

Though you cannot see it
it's because the eye deceives.

The leaves fall into water
a river wild and free

The gurgling torrent takes them
From the forest to the sea.

Though you cannot see the breeze
it is there nonetheless

It is like faith the leaves are stirred
by our God's caress.

It is by faith the offering falls
into the roaring waves

It is by faith the tree lets go
of gold into the grave.

To the sea go sailing ships
so beautiful & bold!

To the sea go golden boats
their cargo is the soul.

Some, they do not make it.
They crash along the shore.

But many sail and do not fail

To life forevermore.

Catherine Jarvis
aka SoulSurvivor

"O JEREMY....BENTHAM!"

He called his walking stick
"Dapple!"

He called his teapot
"Dickey!"

He called his elderly cat
"The Reverend Sir John Langbourne!"

He sits with his real head
between his legs

long after he was
dead.

His body preserved
so that it could be

wheeled out at meetings
if his friends were missing him.

At a College council meeting in 20i3
marked as "present but not voting."

Didn't believe in Christian burial
the Church's teaching "nonsense on sticks!"

Thought folks should be useful
both in life and in death.

Tears always when remembering a lady
presenting him "... with a flower in a green lane'

"Take me forward, I entreat you, to the future
– do not let me go back to the past."

-

i took no pleasantries in that adjustment
from the top shelf of Pastry Perfection
to the wicker-wire dust bunnies at the
"sole" level of humanity

after i mistakenly thought —you—  took
some element of freeverse i had posted a
couple of years ago at one of the more-read
poetry sites on the internet-

then i realized something, Poet..

that for all those sleepless hours you
spent cramming for the SAT—

i posited on how many welding rods
could be burned down during a two
hour period of trade school

and with respect to those thousands of
words diligently packed into your
undergrad dissertation—

(including that humorous description of a
knitted strap you used to keep the pencil
from rolling off the table)

i wrote a brief essay of commonalities
on how much Gerald R. Ford and
Elwyn Brooks White
actually disliked
football,

and to those thoughtfully crafted lectures
in front of scores of distinguished
scholars and senior staff—

i was projecting shadow puppets onto a
screen during a slideshow while the
teacher excused herself to the restroom.

basically this;  

as to the volumes of books
you have published
over the decades—

i have a few thousand words of
amateur poetry posted online
inside of a few years.


That Said,

for those carefully-placed words
(of mine)
you incorporated into your
latest masterpiece,

realizing poets will not always
happen upon the same instant
at any given intersection,

i recognized that most familiar sensation
we Both get when having correctly
delivered the punchline to the funniest
joke of the evening.

we —in fact— have only the readings
of fellow writers to blame for each
other's blending of creative impulses,

that during these miraculous,
yet humble birthings of verse—

i have it now on good authority,
that we all could possibly exist
within this capacity

                                      as mere equals...



"The Lanyard of Amateur Poetry"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved


.