i felt a presence as i walked
past its shadow between
restless sunbeams and
lazy dark patches

too small to fill a stadium and
too light to resist a breeze,
it could not muster the most
muted sigh of thunder

still, it singled me out from acres
of trees and multi-laid squares
of rooftop hide-aways

and followed—

to send a message of being
to an insignificant recipient

through a small break within
divided thoughts, into a brief
opening underneath—

a single drop, into a
downpour of
tears




"the cloud"
© 2008 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

i used to throw bread crumbs into
a pond full of minnows next to a
place where i worked years ago

it kept me cool in the summertime,
pulling the heat out of me and
feeding it into the winds as

a turtle snapped up dozens of fish-babies,
transforming the vision of my frame into
maybe the size of a praeternatural feather

and for a moment,

i dreamt that on a clear night through the
eyes of a barnyard owl that i could
navigate the dark foldings of
space into the beating
hearts of praying
rodents—

blinking back to a view of
disturbed green waters—

i commenced
to waking...

"the frenzy, at rest"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

-

—                                           /..\
                                              >@<
                                            when
                                       the house is
                                   otherwise empty
                            aside from me, the senses
                   of you seek out the most minuscule
               of things to woof at, a fault line between
             loneliness and apprehension slips a little in
     the path you must take to sniff my hand as it gestures
your tiny pitched notes into the silent end of this open space—

"Come..."
                                         ­   


                                                           ­                                         


"the small dog at the end of a hallway"
© 2010 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

did i lose it already ?
this fragile notion
piercing the fog
that hovers my ocean ?

i must place it
somewhere safe
so i may remember
the fragment
if not the face

perhaps this snippet
of waste?
     no, there is
not left a whit of space

Here is the vessel,
a white bleached and
prepared remnant
of an elm or a spruce        
that once
stood
         Tall
and shaded the sun
from exhausted lost
explorers—

cut stripped and
diced
to provide
               for Me
this small
space,

so i may forget...

"memory paper"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

the moon is your element,
underneath it you alight
with its pure lunar dew

all senses become the air and
the water as your heartbeat
sends ripples into me

i can feel that and more as fingertips
trace my reaction to it gently
upon your bare skin back

but it seems beyond my capacity to
channel the energy and lift from you
the heaviness of your thoughts

so we sit still as i let you
bathe quietly within
your element

if you happen to glance and
catch me gazing upward,
remember—

the stars, they are
                               all mine...


"As stars eclipse the Moon"
© 2008 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

they float in rusty rouge waters
as fog steams upward, obscuring
various uncanned flotsam

white shapes of vocabular form
disperse into random orientations
entangled by processed seagreens

i saw the letter 'k' rise to the surface,
only to slip below again as other
consonants recomposed

with a single dip of my spoon,
seven of these lifted from
their salty wakes form
a simple line of
characters—

spelling
                   nothing...


"unremarkable soup"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

second hand pushes up
the weight of minutes,
in turn lifting hours

it struggles climbing
from seven to eight
slipping back a bit

by nine it trembles
but inserts itself
notch by notch

the last fifteen seconds
are desperations of
loud ticks

and when the twelve is
reached, it brief rest
is pushed overtime—

plunging straight down
to the six again,
loosely swinging.

the minute felt a slight
nudge forward, but the
hour paid little attention...



"the inertia of a moment"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved