-


i grew up watching men strolling across
the moon on TV, feature films of rockets,
mars monsters and light trips into infinity
and beyond

believing we would be living
in this "future world" by the
year Two-Thousand—

but the imagery of space shuttles parked
along the streets, rocket bubbles zipping
across tree-top avenues and astronauts
spinning end over end while they wash
high rise windows with computerized
squeegees finally came to an end in 2001

realizing thereafter that
we may remain here on
Earth to throw bones at
our adversaries—

until the last one perishes,
still stranded
                         in orbit..


s jones
Mar 2022


.

0100110110- etc..
  0 & 1 & 2 is 3
         " ? "

i know two numbers,
one and zero

though the "two" cannot exist here,
the inclusion of an additional
element becomes a necessary evil,

for zero once paired becomes
a paradox resulting from three
instances of enumeration

(presumably at once)

since the zero is involved in all this,
its very existence must count, even if
in fact it only represents a void—

to correct this numerical anomaly,
the two must exit this array by first
taking nothing with it...


"a binary mystification"
© 2010 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

.

lights spin backwards in the awakening
of midnight with all the youthful bodies
moving in reverse to it's rhythm

one moves naught because of his wish
to step forward against the flow and
is thus fixed                        
                            stationary
­
a too-late-to-adjust suspension, the view
from his seat for the upcoming show
is his only companion

he is most eager to be drawn into the
perimeter of the stage with his bouquet
of wrinkled dollar bills

stripping down to a personal submission,
he presents to her his graying embers

and with a grin~

she takes the green from the blush,
exchanging it for a golden touch

he smiles,

with a wink, she spins away with
a quick stomp of her heel

he smiles,

he returns to his seat to sip down
a drink that fizzled out years
before she was born—

he grins...



"a dance for the humble"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

-

they have figured out how
to numerically make a
chainsaw function in reverse

in order to restore
a tree felled by it
to it's original state–

and somewhere there is
an effort being made to
airdrop maple seeds into
the path of a tornado

so a machine inside of a
huge building has posted
on the internet—

for what it is worth
these wood probably
look good on paper...


.

-


i cast only shadows
of twilight,

but like a ghost, i can
spoon deceptively well~

following just a fingernail away,
i can scrape the periphery of your
senses at any given moment

yet i remain outside a passing glance,
just beyond the visual reach of mirrors

for i am the corpse you sleep with nightly,
evidenced by those occasional scratch marks
i leave on your shoulders, neck, buttocks

the thing you've spent most of your lifespan
dismissing as some graveside mourner you
simply turned your eyes away from

yet as a faucet of sand left dripping,
you pool into the spaces between
the plankings of oblivion

Someday,

you will wake to a rope-snap
suspension upon the gallows
of my choosing

as you pour out the last
grain from the hourglass
of your lifespan

your fingertips slipping
down its smoothed
surfaces

— knowing — 

as i watch you
fall away

from far,
far
         above...



s jones
May 2021


.

-

i used to imagine as i lie
on my back in the grass

looking downward from
the foot of a great oak

watching squirrels cling to
the thin twigs and wonder

what they would think if
they lost their grip and
fell into the clouds,

sensing they would
splash-land forever—

into heaven...


s jones
2021


.

-


joined by an imaginary sinew,
four walls featuring dust
compressed into sheet rock

face away from one another.

smooth within and
on the outside,
brick

like so many houses in
this neighborhood–

everyone is insulated from the
empty stares over so much
strewn building material

yet —somehow—we are
protected from the rain

—

the oldest wall
no longer
stands

the others slowly
fracture

my wall—

shedding tears like
tiny shells piling
upon a beach

breaks with the
waves into
shards of sand—

leaving ashes 
and
               dust...



s jones
2023




.

-


we are all imaged by those
who would see us at our best

along with the paint that
inevitably chips away
in yearly frosts
and summer
droughts

because we will remain
—as always—
the easel upon which
God was inspired to
draw us...



s jones
Feb 2022



.

-

the Clause read–

"by signing, you agree to have
your imagery and collected works
manifested into any digital scenario

chosen by the staff, associates and
management of this organization
throughout perpetuity"

So,

does this mean Bob Dylan and
George Lucas might appear
side-by-side on TV some
Christmas Eve

as dying trees ornamented with
numerical fruits which dangle
from their frames like the

links of Marley's chains ?

given his extensive background
on the subject, Santa knows full
well this will eventually happen...


s jones
2021


.

-
as i lay down for the transition into a
difficult sleep, i notice the shimmer of
a slight convex on the surface of my
ceiling fan winking with each rotation,

drawing my attention away from visions
of to—day as i attempt to erase them with
heavy sore blinks, pouring tears into

the fires of the immediate past, knowing  
all too well they will steam back into the
clouds that return for tomorrow's rain—

(you just gotta love the water cycle)

i re-imagine it as the incredulous stare of
a dolphin or maybe a sting ray lost in the
oceans of eternity, bereft of any suitable
media to push it's useless fins against

my lids slide downward to dismiss its fate
because my place is somewhat above their
high water mark, being fortunate enough
not to have drowned within such depths—

yet this lingers to mind as the last image
of the evening, blinking shut the thought
of some creature leering down at me with
its one envious eye...




"a glance between waterlines"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

-

-No need in worrying about some huge
"Billiard God" situated behind the Moon
with a pool stick, thus rendering it possible
to count the lunar craters with relative ease
as it approaches Earth—

( they have already checked,
there is nobody back there )

-Best not concern ourselves about collisions
with dinosaur droppings laid in your path as
they stomp about in pursuit of small vehicles
for an easy meal—

( as they were effectively wiped off the face 
of this planet by the droppings of much
larger space rocks )

-Pointless babbling about Poseidon's
release of the Kraken upon our cities—

( as the Romans had abolished such religions
in favor of one palatable enough for the
populace to digest, as opposed to
being digested by said elements
of the aforementioned faith )

-And finally, no cause for alarm if your
particular candidate —for whatever office—
fails to receive enough votes to win his/her
seat in this year's Election, regardless of
your religious or political affiliations—

As This Country has seen
The End of the World
numerous times,

and Will Continue,
just like it has done
for many decades,

Because—

We have seen Worse...



© 2020


.

-

"it indicates much skill and
agility with either hand",
someone told me in youth

meaning i can throw and
catch baseballs with
either hand,
             with great difficulty

suggests i can knife and fork
food into my mouth with
either hand,
                  after a fashion

implies that i can
write legibly with
either hand,
                    just barely

insinuates that i should be
able to juggle tennis *****
with fire all over them,
                          No

Well then,

given the above
I find that
"ambidextrous"
might mean for me—

an embellishment in
compensation for
skills lacking in
both hands,

                    Definitively...


s jones
May 2021

.

-

There were five of us working late
when i saw this creature crawling
rapidly across the concrete floor-

one of the employees counted the
legs on its right side, he said there
were seven-teen of them–

more than enough
to carry all of us

We left it be to continue its destiny
in this place where we must make
our living as everything else dies
outside in a midnight autumn frost

A curious distraction,
this singularity —

moving about thirty-four
steps per second in the
midst of a ten hour shift...


s jones
2021


.

-

in order to
"poem"
             BIG—

i must learn
to write
              small...


s jones
2021


.

-

an icicle broke off from
the gutter of my porch,

stabbing my hydrangea
bush right in the heart.

i could reprimand the
shattered remains of an
icy spear,

and then bandage the
wound with a layer
of snow–

yet it occurs to me to maybe
quarter an apple with a
Swiss Army knife,

this pooling of thoughts like
pale blood seeping out of a
painfully frozen morning—

turning me white like
heavy frost over
so many early roses...


s jones
2021


.

-


He is home now,
her metallic
soldier–

and has brought with
him a few souvenirs
from "in country" ;

things like sand,
sun-bleached
boots

and a script he
submits to her
daily

she will be returning soon
with groceries wearing a
simple paper mask–

driving between stoplights
at each intersection, she
counts the remaining with
tightening fists

as red concentric circles
fade to black inside
his desert.

"On set for the
performance–
             
                        Places Please !"

an enemy now arrives
at the flank of the
forth curtain—

She is home now...




s jones
2021


.

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

-

.
!!
!!!!
BANG
projecting
stars and cloudy
nebulae, forming amino
acids, making wiggly blobs that
eventually find direction towards the
capacity to think about how long it takes to

count backwards
to zero
!!!!
!!
.



© 2020
-

-


i can just imagine how things would
end up, me being a little more than
hesitant to even consider vocalizing
myself "Live" to dozens of listeners

—me—

starting out on a platform in some school
gymnasium just a short million miles away
from the safety of my writing cubical deep
inside a worm hole underneath my domicile

im sure that a few in the crowd will wonder
what this thing is doing there, my thin, shaky
form walking erratically to center stage with a
tablet in one hand and a cup of water in the other—

well, it could be *****..

the microphone will be way too big for
what little i have to say, commencing
with an unsteady vocal that many will find
indistinguishable from man or woman,

the rhythm should get better after the first
of several stanzas, but i will have already
spotted the ombudsman standing near the
emergency exit listening in—

just as i feared,

and as our eyes meet, his expectation
of structure and rigidity will boil me
down to the hardwood floor, reducing
me to the basic size of a Cornish hen,

spun lengthwise upon his rotisserie,
roasting away as a smoldering torso
from his slow hand-cranked rotations

over the campfire which he will light his
cigarettes from, leaving me choking
from the smoke of his evaluations
as i drip into the cinders and
evaporate along with most
of my self ~esteem..

i realize that he'll just be some ghost
that has haunted my every attempt
at simple boldness,

but i know he is gonna be right there
if i ever climb up to laser like stares
and the wide-open ~hears~ of
kindred poets and curious ears,

an easy fellow to pick out—

he will be the one
holding my neck
in his hands...


s jones
2008-2020


.

my ears soak inside-out in a seltzer
filled glass on my bedroom nightstand
each evening so that the ringing will
hopefully dissolve and settle to the bottom

they dream of wingtips that the
maple can hear through the leaves
as they stir the breeze upon landing,
the patter of avian claws gripping
the bark in short scoots,

the stretch of a twig bending downward
with the slightest brush of a feather, the
splitting noises of a newborn’s egg,
and even the breath taken before
the whoosh of a dive—

they awaken this morning with
words and imagination bringing
forth a new voice,

one which reads aloud to them
about the simple sounds
that birds can make...



"a whoosh unheard"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

-


i had wished upon stars once,
picking twinkles in space to
fasten my dreams upon

and the next evening i saw holes
where they used to scintillate,
having fallen from such weight–

i apologized to the sky,
replacing them with
simple hope...



s jones
Mar 2008




.

-

the switch reveals a hesitation
acted upon with unconscious
awareness as my fist releases
its grip from the door ****

altered yet again by another
iteration, just enough–

i blink each morning into
the mirrors just behind
the surfaces of my eyes—

to rinse and later return
to the place
that burns them...


s jones
2021

-

in case you was curious,
that "©" which appears
at the end of a writer's

printed work is purposed
to indicate copyrighted
materials within it's body

recorded —somewhere—

on government stationary in
a government office located in
a government city guarded

by government agents who
typically are out to lunch on
the government's dime

(our dime)

but My lil " ©" doesn't
cost all that much, like if
you buy stickers from

an alarm security outfit for
seventeen bucks to throw on
the front and rear windows
of your house,

instead of the $ 1,700 system
that wont go off unless
YOU are there to
turn it off.

still, its nice to know—

a burglar would be less likely
to risk setting it off from
reading the copyright notice
                                                   anyhow...



s jones
© 2020

.

-


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

-

why is it every time
i look into your eyes
i am upended

falling into them
like a pouring into
your crystal goblet

of some
unqualified
                     spirit



s jones
2021



.

-

the owl hoots from across the field—

pulls the sun out from
the ground by its talons
and tosses it into my
kitchen window

winks at me

and then takes off into
the morning with its
fully cooked meal...


s jones
July 2021



.

-

One day,

I found the letter "W" laid
face to the ground-
i knew this because it's center
was pushed downward,

like a nose in the dirt.

with every attempt i made
to stir it, it would only moan
and remain still, its thin arms
bent around backwards.

this is not the first time
iv'e seen a "W" laid out,
having witnessed many
letters and numerals bite
the dust of misplacement-

it is just the sad truth
of our language.

i found a cardboard box
and picked it up carefully,
making sure i didnt injure
the poor fellow further.

it looked up at me and
made a weak smile,
knowing we all make
mistakes—

upon it's passing away,
it was this expression
i remembered most
when i buried it
next to an
"M"...



-© 2020

-


in case you may not know, it was the last car
at the end of a train, usually it was a red or
occasionally a yellow color which would be
clearly noticed

this car was manned in order to monitor the
train from that end for any issues, particularly
in case an axle from one of the coal cars locks
up and catches on fire

but i guess this feature was eliminated due to
improvements in the wheel assemblies, or maybe
because they had new electronic monitoring for the
crews in the locomotives

if you are under the age of thirty, this may not have
been general knowledge to you since the use of these
cars were phased out sometime in the 1980's, now a
red flashing light signifies the end of the train

you can see one of these cars parked near the city
square just north of the Tennessee/Kentucky
border in Guthrie— there is just enough rail
underneath to hold it braked in place

i think the rails once extended to the mainline
and the car was trapped there when acetylene
cutters terminated its route in either direction.

the men who rode it are now
the ghosts of everlasting
employment.

now we have thousands riding the
caboose of their careers amidst
red blaring lights that flash
from all imaginable
directions—

many of them sitting motionless
upon routes that go nowhere...



s jones
2010-2020

A Ball works its way downstairs
through steady staccato beats,

airborne and then plunging until
banking against the baluster
and then over the edge,

bouncing hard from the sooner
than expected change in height
from floor to wall, it is then

Snatched from the air mid-flight
by the jaws of a Canine, a
quick and limber ball-stopper

that runs outside with the ball in
mouth, it then notices a shadow
casting over his own and is

Snapped up by the jaws of a
Velociraptor that just happened
to wander by.

Canine in mouth holding a ball in
its jaws, it runs across the street
and into a field through loose dirt,
as while in mid-stride it is

Yanked downward by an
enormous Ant-Lion—

that now holds a ball snatched up by the jaws
of a dog that was snapped up by the jaws
of a lizard which was yanked down by the jaws
of an insect that in turn was
Swallowed
by
      The Earth,

which is, all in all—
a Ball, after
                    ALL...



"captured events"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

-


all my mistakes in life
add weight to a scale
of self-judgement–

so far i sense
a balance—

yet it feels to me like
i've let so much ballast
get washed overboard...




s jones
2022



.

-

               a suspension in the sky with refined silver cords
                 bearing tiny droplets full of crystal reflections
                     in a slow rotation which disintegrates the
                      periphery into gently unfolding louvers
                         that carefully define feathered edges.

                               i wish for it's pull chain over
                                    my own midnight sky—

i have but
small candles...




"cloud chandelier"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

dark fluids unwelcomely
invade relentlessly into
materials unprepared

creeping brisk black hot
indiscriminant and unbound
consuming lust for gravity

over the edge
         down the legs
               onto my lap
           down my legs
over my edge
         into me—

offensively...





"coffee-brake"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

-

Just basically an accounting of
language as it is conveyed
between media types

namely,

Air, Silicone and Mail ;

in Air,
you have to
basically be ready to
respond within a reasonable
period, say about three or four seconds

upon Silicone, you could "afk" and then
mix a drink- rinse out the mixing
utensils and type a response
with some degree of
forethinking

in Air,
you could breath
in the real-time vibes that
trigger automatic subject sensitivity,
like, (something too disturbing for me to detail here)

upon Silicone, you would be able to digitally
sort and discard these disturbing elements
and then lie to yourself about the
true weight of the
conversation


in Air,
a comedian can
deliver a punchline in
order to impulse a laugh out of you,
even to the point of spitting out your wine

upon Silicone, latency can cause punchlines
to be misinterpreted as an offense, which
will likely sully those carefully
established digital
relationships

—

You
could encode
the Air in the fashion
that Native Americans did
with campfires and blankets,

but i would never suggest that
you try and breath Silicone__ !

nor pattern the "the ins and outs"
of breathing within the basic scope
of a vacuum in order to encode
it upon a microchip that
can only be read by
a machine—

either way, in case you
may not have noticed,

Personal Letters are —at this moment—
asphyxiating into blue screen
oblivion,
deep inside the
Lost Mailbags of Redundancy...




"Comm_Check"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved


.

-


oh, considerate
counselors~

i fear the scars of your instruction
will never erode, even after i
melt down your mental
tarbabies
with a solution
that i hope will make
them chemically dissolve away,

leaving nothing but your staples.

what was it really ?
hyperactivity, autism,
anomalies of perception,
social detachment,
maybe—

a Gift ?

well, i guess it would not have
made a difference, everybody
knew of this but
                                  me-

patching up my gray matter mistakes
with remedies permanently cemented
between impressionable foldings

i feel this cure like masonry damming
where free-flowing thoughts that ride
upon streams into oceans were supposed
to have discharged naturally,

stopping me from causing my
summers to mix with everybody
else's winters (or vise versa).

you see, my natural configuration
would have sated for me what
would —in turn— infuriate others,

thus the picket around me was built
sufficiently lofty so i would never
grow tall enough to oversee it.

these days i often mistaken this perimeter
for bricks that line the inside of a well,
complete with a leaky bucket
swinging overhead,
beyond my
reach—

of all things an adult child could ever
want for Christmas, the removal of
what now prohibits true potential

these things they instilled into me
so i could not violate the principals
of conventional wisdom in their day—

but this is
My Day
now !

and dead counselors need
not protect their world
from Me anymore !

and this Gift ?

it continues drifting
conspicuously aloft
in my gray ocean—

a Divine Gratuity that remains
—to this day— unsuitable
for redemption...


s jones
© 2020


.

-

hiding either in
a bathroom
or behind a desk,
a single hand can render
a mass manipulation
of mentality,

yanking along with it
by-way-of an
electronic leash,

the soul–

as if so many fingernails
were being driven into
these thin plastic
brain coffins—

millions
of
       them...



s jones
2021


.

-

the hands–
they still move

when i was too little
to know what it was,

i slobbered all over it
and knocked it over

daddy would just
wipe it off

check the time

and put it back on
the night stand

—

they still move...



s jones
2023




.

-


as a kid
i felt along
the walls of a
perceived dark
confinement for
escape

imagining that creatures
were taking swipes at me
with their claws and tentacles

knowing —full well— that
discovery of a light switch
would end this game of
nightmares


YEARS—


my illusion of exploration
has been reduced to ashes
from decades of rapid
illumination

just as well, i cannot afford
to trip my way through
the dark anymore

still

some nights i will turn the
lights off and imagine myself
searching patiently along
pitch black wooden panels

hoping next time i will
miss the switch &
instead


discover a lost childhood...



s jones
2021


.

-


why is it that on certain
occasions i cannot
digest    

 )—* ~Poetry~*—(

?

this exquisite food-for-thought
which tumbles like shot rock
into my belly-bag underneath
the dining room table

usually due to an absence of a
detailed chewing on my part

yet,
there persists
this terrific hunger—

thus on some evenings
you will find me
writing
my own dinner...



s jones
2023



.

-

nothing might happen if i put
a blank sheet of paper in front
of me and hold a pencil over it
long enough to count the number
of beats it takes for my heart to
forget why i wanted to give up
on writing—

and then i notice a teardrop
right in the center of it...


                               
                        ,





.

s jones
2021

-


fine grains of desert air
stir into the tightening
manifestation of a

warrior slain in a charge
with such quickness—

he ran several paces before
jettisoning his weakened
vessel in order to continue

the assault...


s jones
2021




.

-


Lines border my eyes like new roads
to more distinguishing characteristics,
signifying for me many a morning frown.

I draw my face closer to the mirror to
examine them in more detail, mapping
pending destinies laid fresh like asphalt.

Traces of purple fans out from the exterior
corners, I think of them as ink spatter that
gets larger every time I endorse

a small check.

I cannot stop the runs but I can
hide the evidence with concealer
creams and foundation,

establishing a façade upon which
the viewer will find as pleasant
from just the right                          
                                       distance.

I stand back just so approximately
from the mirror to admire
an illusion of youth,

and then move forward once more
to fathom the texture
of experience—

"Maybe less this time" I think,
have I not earned the right ?


s jones
2011-2021

.

-

A displacement exists,
yet specifics defy the
scope of my radar,

sensing amiss like a
fellow would perceive
an absent billfold or

the way a hen may
feel one egg less
in her nest.

A lack exists for detection,
whether it be far away
or way too close,

it's gravity pulling me
toward the last glimpse
of it before fading into black.

Not so obvious as a
matador might lose
his cape to the bull

Yet,

somehow i just Know,
with question marks
drizzling about—

sweating beneath the
skeletal remains
of my umbrella...


s jones
© 2020


.

-

That ******
Mirror—

the thought of faces in humanity
showing scars of cast'd regularity
now mutes my expressions ;
~
jovial faces display smooth contours,
riverbeds of smiles and amusement,
a'flow— gleefully downstream

sullen faces carve heavy heart canyons,
white rapids pushing difficult rocks
in opposing directions
~
all of this scribbled down
in short-hand by the
Surveyors of Time.

—

i now relax my
composure
to this—

carefully drawn maps of
experiences, upon glance

face to face, year by year,
smoothed and unfolded

ever so slow melts
my candle, abreast

whilst smiling my bones
with an approval
from Death...


© 2020


.

-

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

.

im not forty-five just yet~

the picnic table to celebrate this
occasion was likely constructed
in the 1960's just as the illusion
of security began to unravel

it will have marks cut into it from
a paring knife some kid snuck out
of his mother's napsack to

scratch in a few here-and-there notches,
juvenile swirlies and crisscross patterns
expressing out with what little language
he could muster at the time

and —of course— some initials

two letters representing a presence
which will later metamorphosize this
simple gathering point into somebody's
threshold between the sky and the grave—

a horizon cruel, unyielding and
dead straight

i wonder how many have sat there, pondering
the timelines carved into this rest area where
forty-five years of inertia will be spent in a
long venting breath

the picnic basket will be packed light when my
day comes, observing in the company of old and
weathered timbers, feeling the etchmarks with
worn fingertips for a name i never was...


"forty-five"
© 2009 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

a keeping of structure framed into the confines
of expectations for readers who are by far more
educated and better read than if i can just keep
to writing within those experience perimeters of
uhhh, someone else—

who claims to have seen that the world is about
roughly the size of a really really big asteroid,
hiding behind the thumb of an astronaut floating
some distance away from the pad i wrote my
last poem on a quarter-sheet of tissue paper

with a china marker.

As per the vocational experts of my youth;
i may well have qualified for the position of
"document shredder",
or even the author of small gift books—

—had ANY of this material fallen into
the wrong hands...

"freeverse"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

-


when the dinosaur roamed the earth
they made little dinosaurs that would
later wander upon its surface,

following in the footsteps of
their ancestors.

something fell from the sky
and made them all stop–

passing down to creatures of
the future a few precious bones,
fossilized feathers and footprints..

—

when mankind roams the earth
they make little men that will
wander upon its surface,

following bigger men.

something they have fashioned will
escape control and make them all stop–

leaving only to what few creatures
that may survive their presence—

an abundancy of ****...



s jones
2021


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