Time came unbound
like your feather wild hair,
the feeling shadows of thorn,
endtimes laid on the plate
of a destitute breast.

It was hell dark
in the filthy theatre.
The old ticket-girl sat ****
and tattoed, like Madame Defarge
knitting the playlist for the guillotine ball.

And so clicked the tale
from her needles to mine;
how He spoke to the girl
in the bathtub forsaken,
razor-naked and numb:

'You die before living--' said
the Dark Prince, 'a sad backwards thing;
spread for me--learn.'

He brought her on velvet
the delight-box of tortures,
the ambrosia of Tantalus
to put between her legs.
He artfully taught her

to rub out the human
for the animal clench,
to **** all the sweetness,
climb hard for the falling,
then took it away

from the mad thing a-mumble
in her wilderness skull,
wearing the blind face
of an ancient race
we can no longer know.

He left laughing
laughing
on His way through the endtimes,
for the Fall was forgotten
and Death held no ease.



©joyannjones February 2013

the river has no voice.
blue sky no heart.
the swan trumpeting
in the black of night. my soul

longs to be far out
lost in the vastness of ocean.
nothing but rolling waves, grey dark sea.

(no mercy
from the swan's sad song.)

I want to vanish in a cabin in the woods
away from people

and caught on the dock at the lake
in the pouring rain,
i beg the rain,

she's crying
to me
to come to her.

heart of rain,
black phantom born of sorrow, wings whirr,
vanishing into the hush of night,
wings grow distant in flight.

the black swan a ghost light flickering.
she is the echo of every sad goodbye.

I've unpacked the moon
from her nightboard box
so many times
I've worn out the ribbons.
I've hung her up
where she couldn't be missed
unless you were
watching
TV.

After a time, however
things loosen. The moon falls.
That paper crackle under the boot
is the crumpled bonesnap of
last night's hopeful crescent,
broken like a shotgun
that has two black eyes for
what it scars
and always fires blind.

So I gave up being
a moon-hanger years ago.
Now I'm retired--fallen
by the way
some say-- too tired
to lift that heavy glow
or to reach a sky that high,
but I have gotten by
by being very good at
dodging bullets.




©joyannjones~October 2015

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

At night the little scorpions come down
to watch us playing at our poison kisses
to study from the dustbath where we drown

the sting that sinks the deepest when it misses.
I found flowers once where you had touched me;
black poppies sown in moon-distempered hisses.

Now the sun is crawling through the ivy,
its dawn a flickered fire burning wishes.
You're a green ghost spitting from a tree;

promises float away like silver fishes
and Love's a child who suddenly confesses.






  ©joyannjones April 2022

Lonely As A Dream

If
you come through the door
you see at once it's an old woman's house
smelling of apples, eucalyptus
and yellow books rhyming by size.
Nothing is new.

Incense
burns in the bedroom
for the sake of a man's memory
smoking and braiding in soft light
that slips through heavy drapes
like a child's song, clear in the silence.

Peace
is there, and emptiness.
The ghost has learned to
keep to its corner, and seldom speaks to
the woman who gambles with words
in the hunger before dawn.

She's
the laugh no one hears
at  the midnight carnival,
the road no one takes
winding back on itself, the sprout
light's pulled too thin, too tall
in its mirror, shadow.

Besides
the dream, she knows only
a sky flat with heat
that eats birds and rain,
a plague without cure
that stretches its dead skin
to infinity.

But
everything passes. To all things come
this tension of maximums
just before the breaking
and the letting go.


©joyannjones  September 2022

After
the explosion
I found
pieces of you
in all my poems,

embedded shrapnel,
unclean words,
full of fever's fester.

I scrubbed the wounds,
massaged the scars,
repeating,

autumn is a doctor,
winter is a nurse,
night's blue sky body
arches over
the surgery of the gods,

poppy-soft, ocean-deep, capable
of illuminating
even
your lies.




~October 2013,
revised May 2014