In the wildest place,
my mouth stopped with stars,
I came to the end of words;
the parched mint, bitter
paper plank

where I lost my balance,
on one foot teetering
along that roadway where gold-
flashing fireflies stand effortlessly
on air

to send their fragile signal
out,
every night a nocturne
of one less
til I and the last firefly

danced alone
in the wildest place
sending our last ignition
out
to find our kind

or else fall quiet
and one
with the wild that
will neither be spelled
nor known.




©joyannjones June 2023

if the reader
falls in love with the character of a book,
their love can be eternal.

he can over and over re-read
each part of his beloved.
he can just stop for a while
and gently touch the mirage.
he can even ****** a piece
and carry it for a lifetime.

but what happens
if the character
falls in love with the reader?

I set at the edge of the bed
with a blue floral spread

waiting

for the sun to blush
the sky

as the minute hand on the wall clock
quivers

the ice bucket
sweats

and breakfast  

will be soon
but is it really breakfast

if you haven't slept

And I remember thinking—
I wish someone would look at me that way.
As if they had battled it for a lifetime,
Through seasons and snow and sun -
Across cities and oceans and mountains
In innocent youth and wearied age,
As if they had finally surrendered and had no choice but to look.

In the way it takes all a person’s will and strength to look away
And they have been worn down, beaten, bruised
To the point of weakness, of giving up.
And now, all they are left with is their truest self, exposed down to the bone
& no strength to battle the inevitable
Draw of their eyes to mine.

I want someone to look at me as if I am their lifeline,
And their death-bringer.

On the white screen dance the stringed dots
Mind spilled codes of hieroglyphic thoughts
Slowly they emerge handholding lines
Not always yielding intended designs.
Something was brewing inside the head
Coaxing to weave and take it ahead
The drunken horses so wildly gallop
There is no leash to make them stop.
Nerves are taut and they won't relax
Till all is vented they reach the ******
It was thus fated the moment it was sown
What's to be grown could never be known.
As the fever wanes arrives the new child
It may be adored or it may be defiled
The canvas is washed clean as in the rain
Something is brewing to be vented again.