~paulSN
(in exile, for failure to rise on the third day)

~

There is a spectrum of light
so deeply embedded into darkness,
that it is no longer discernible
as light to the human eye,

And so it is beyond the scope
of certainty; the realms that
this spectrum of light operates in.

And there is an observation point, wholly
outside the realms of human introspection;
as is there is an enduring nature of
the spectrum of light  that transcends
even the fire of judgement;

(in the simple fact that it will remain
after all else   is burned off);

Yet, until that day comes,
it will remain suspended; in
an almost uneasy uncertainty--

even  of its own salvation.

Yes, it is a light that transcends it all, yet
being no longer discernible
as light, to the human eye,  

it  is subject to human judgement.

I have seen those familiar with that
spectrum.. and with things, real.
I am overwhelmed with sadness

   --wondering how very lonely they each must be.
         I hope to get to know more of them someday.


And, as for their spectrum of light--
   I would trust it with all of who  it is
        that I am.

From the outside looking in
I show the world a majestic façade.
They see only a moment of me--
The moment I choose for them to see.
A moment I captured in forever
projected on a sea, stilled in tranquility.

Through the curved glass
I see the world in all its beauty.
I imagine all the wonders out there
just past the edge of this glassed horizon.

Inside the bottle my world is small
and this tranquil sea lacks adventure,
caught in an eternal moment that ticks without a toc,
rerunning an ever out of reach dreamt of horizon.

What I would give to feel life’s winds upon my sails.
To surf the currents that lead to life's wonders,
feeling moment after moment crashing like waves around me
until I find myself landing on those greener shores.

Instead, I find myself dry-docked on this shelf.
A vessel crafted by a master hand to tame adventure
encased in inhibition’s glass,
cursed just to be a ship in a bottle.


Joey Jones

Another morning, another day
I wake before the alarm.
The pressures, my stress
deprives me of the rest I need--
just to get through it all.

The rays of the new morning
slowly make their way in
transforming the room from dark to shadows.
I catch a silhouette of you,
lost in your peaceful slumber.
Such a perfect juxtaposition
revealing to me that I have been blessed
through it all.

I remember the young girl
her golden hair, the innocent touch
whose eyes once saw in me--her future.
Though I tried, time and time again
to wreck that dream-- you held on--
through it all.

The scene takes me back, to the expecting mother
so peaceful in her sleep, bravely ready to become
what I so feared I could never be.
While I struggled to become the man, the father,
you needed and deserved me to be.
I knew it would take your love--
to get me through it all.

Now those blessed gifts,
each containing the better parts of both of us
are starting to make their own way
while I'm still stumbling to make my own.
My fears for them collide
with the compiling stress of my day to day
and I find myself again awake before dawn.

On another morning, on another day
with the same silhouette reminding me--
We'll get through it all.

Joey Jones

The poem I’d never write
is of a love we'll never know
lost to life's cruel circumstance
and time's mischievous hand
just a couplet without chance.

The poem I'd never write
is inspired when you are near
we both lust in mum refrain
careful to keep hidden the truth
our each glance in secret restrain.

The poem I'd never write
is of a kiss that we can't taste
of passions in perfect rhyme
but penned in reality's curse
of meeting in bad time.

The poem I'd never write
is a Magnus Opus
I'll never set to page
but will recite each night
through the years as I age.

So I took a walk in the cool midnight air
for I was lost in the contemplation of my life
the stars all winked and the moon just smiled
at the silly fool who walked all alone at night.

The wind whispered its rambling scheme
while the night owl kept questioning me
echoing the inquisition of my own soul
so I took a walk in the cool midnight air.

I asked the stars to shine on my tomorrow
and the moon to reflect yesterday's light
their faithful reply gave me no direction
for I was lost in the contemplation of my life

Then at the intersection of the one-way streets
of What Will Be and What Once Was I stopped
and pleaded for answers from the midnight sky
the stars all winked and the moon just smiled.

Then the ever waving hands and familiar face
of the old town clock answered my query
the heavens and Father Time just laughed
at the silly fool who walked all alone at night.


© Joey Jones

Out of place in a northeastern field,
a rock sitting quietly by my side,
we admire the rolling hills, green grass
and a horizon of fall-touched trees,
like a characters in a hotel painting.

My soul should sway in this breeze
a gentle hand to rock my cradle,
my mind should be inspired
souring with the south-bound birds,
I should find peace in such a place.

My life steals this chance of life
as I worry on things I can't change,
the money for bills now overdue,
crimes committed by unknown men,
wars in places that are just too far away.  

I envy the solace of the rock,
with this view--the whole of its world
no summer to hot, no winter to cold
no feeling, no worries, and nothing to envy.

It has witnessed millions of sunrises,
stared off into the most starry of nights,
watched seasons change and change again
the trees sprouting, growing, and dying
evolution of the living, extinction the dead.

What a story it could tell!
What a song could it sing!
This silent friend -- I found in this field.

I wonder would it include me in its story
or sing about me in its song?
The envious, worrisome traveler
who spent an autumn moment by it's side.

Yet, it can't tell its tale and it can't sing
for in the end it is simply just a rock
the only story it can have is the story I tell
a story told by a man inspired by a rock.

Joey Jones

Between the wax and wane,
naivety dawns to wisdom,
adventure turns to vigilance,
as we're caught,
caged in responsibility.

It’s as if we're cursed by a caesura
of neither feeling youth's freedom
nor the peaceful surrender to old age,
just victims to our day to day routines.

Oh, we remember our youthful play
and tell those tails with boastful joy,
as we make grander plans for tomorrow
hoping it will be better than our today.

Its here we bid farewell to our mothers
and understand the plight of our fathers,
as we write eulogies for the friends we lost
and come to the realize love is not forever.

Yet, in this pause our minds' whisper to us
in the innocent voice we spoke in our dawn
mixed with the foreshadowed tone of our dusk,
that somehow the noon is indeed the finest hour.

For its here that our youth's dream are realized,
shared with those we are now responsible to,
its here that our children change our names
as we treasure their dreams above our own.  


© Joey Jones