-

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


.

Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others, are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.

-

in order to
"poem"
             BIG—

i must learn
to write
              small...


s jones
2021


.

12.08.20                                    

                                     I adore watching you
                                   play with petals sinful.
                     On misty evenings during sunshine storms –
                                            you make me weak
                                   watching wandering fingers
                                          roaming depths unknown.
                            Arousal upon dancing
                            to timid moans.
                                       Tracing the lines
                                       along the map
                                                       of delicate skin
                                                  beneath your slender waist.
                                      The solo show!
                                                           ­ Performed for one;
                                              love fountains
                                                       ­  erupt.