poems are often used to express an idea or emotion
a thought or a plan
or something along those lines

they sometimes have structure
to control the hurricane of feeling
being scribbled on the page

I ask of you
why
if poetry is meant to be from the poet
why follow another's standards?

Past
     closed up pizza joints
Past laundromats, through the dying noise
the nights tick on like clockwork
watch the calendar as my steps unwind

I'll wait for my thoughts to ferment
pick my words, hope I don't slur them.
Flip back past the page of these days
     get a read how I got to this age

From the summit where I'm stuck and posted
          reread the books where I come the closest
From the shelf spill my guts to ghosts here,
and relive old nights in Bozeman

          When I found a place
where the nights grew longer--
grew confident that I wasn't always wrong
and just drank the moon
          under dawntide tables
rolled the dice with the greatest friends
we said,                           "We're not old yet."

          Through
     crumbling bones at night
past skeletons of the city's size
the nights fall out like sand grains
curse the hourglass as my fate unwinds.

I'll wait for my brain to discharge
its contents on hospital charts.
Glued the book shut, stuck in the time
I gained my crutches and misplaced my mind.

From the bed that I'm ******* glued to
to cluttered basements I can't wade through
The foundation just won't hold up
against the cracks formed in Missoula.

          Ran off the rails
where I stumbled and stammered
grew comfortable beneath pint glass hammers
I still drink the moon
          under dawntide tables
grown apart from the greatest friends
who said,                      "You're not dead yet."

The pages seemed to come alive
I tell you this and it is no jive
The story capturing an old man and a house
Somewhere in the story it also involves a mouse
The story begins with a sunrise
No idea what the day will be so it is a surprise
The old man is a retired Lumberjack
He would be chopping lumber to build houses
But the old man certainly was never alone
At least this is what the house had shown
There was always this mouse
The mouse seemed to be a companion in the house
The mouse would often sit by the old man
There seemed to be an understanding and no command
The mouse was always given some cheese
The old man made the mouse feel like he was his squeeze
The old man would often talk to the mouse
It was always the old man’s words throughout the house
Then one night a big Thunderstorm came
The storm was like battle stations ready to take aim with all the thunder, lightening and rain
The moon seemed to be given a vacation as a shade among the clouds
A theory of the night
The heavy fog that blocked out sight
Yet the mouse showed no fright
The old man felt he wasn’t going to make the storm his plight
He didn’t want to feel uptight
The mouse knew how to keep the old man calm and suddenly not alarm
Well the storm finally passed by
It was courage in the old man’s try
That old man and his house
Being together including a mouse
A house built for more than just one, and a creation of a foundation being done.

what have i to do with these grips,
these squared, white knuckles
holding tight to handle bars?
what have i to do with these empty stares,
eyes void of truth?

these "fill-in-the-bubble, A B or C, music only reaches the ears" types of humans
attempting to tell me how to carry out my existence,
attempting to tell me the most efficient
practical
mindless ways to die?
attempting
to tell me
to show me
the most rewarding ways
to die.

what have i to do with these sculptors
who try and quantify the rain,
who try and evaporate
the sun?
what have i to do with these ideas of perfection, of what is best?
these assumptions of false fulfillment,
these preludes to orderly, institutionalized chaos
and contempt?
what have i to do with all of these cardboard boxes
which cannot differentiate between being filled
empty
open
closed
soft
rough
dry
loved?
what have i to do with those who cannot detect their own storms,
their own energy waiting to explode?
what have i to do with one shade of blue?
what have i to do with feet that cannot move,
knees that cannot bend?
what have i to do with white houses
black cars
trimmed bushes
a front porch?
what have i to do with stationary?
what have i to do with these wings
unless they are free to flutter?
what have i to do with structure
with corners
with average
with plain?
what have i to do with boredom
with settling
with insignificant breath?

what have i to do with waste?
what
have i
to do
with waste.

A home that I saw
It was in a neighborhood that I had to explore
I certainly couldn’t ignore
The best way to describe
The wood paneling was magnified
It was a two family house
There was plenty of room even for a mouse
The antic had to room to store
This I know for sure
The house stood out on the block
The doors were sturdy with a strong lock
There was even a long backyard
There was space to move backward and forward
The fireplace was something to see
I like the house, but this is between you and me
My dream house in my mind
It has every combined
That is my house story, and I am smiling in my glory.

I thought I'd write a villanelle
though form is not my forte
yet I'll try, what the hell

Let's see if I can do this well
as an exercise in structure
I thought I'd write a villanelle

Can I make my verses swell
write five of them as tercets
well I'll try, what the hell

For to my inertia quell
while my muse is absent
I thought I'd write a villanelle

Now I've fallen to the spell
but the next must be a quatrain
so I'll try, what the hell

My words upon the page do jell
and this is almost finished
I thought I'd write a villanelle
then I tried, what the hell

Cynthia Pauline Jones, 10/5/2014

WHEN MY BONES BREAK
FROM THIS LIFE I'VE BEEN LIVING,
WILL YOU BE THERE
TO PICK UP THE FRAGMENTS
OF MY ONCE-LOVING STABILITY?