"nocturne" poems
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls
Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle
Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms
Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues
Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare
It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC
Stars sprinkle the inky night sky
Like crumbs of diamonds on a still, midnight ocean.
I am not afraid to be here, alone,
In the vastness of twilight.
For these few moments, time is as long
As the space between those stars,
And as empty, too.
The uncertainty that sunrise will follow.
As sure as the sun is destined to rise everyday,
When there's only darkness surrounding you,
Pierced slightly by the silvery glow of moonlight...
You're all alone and helpless.
You only have the vague hope that the sun will return.
And as I sit here now, star-gazer,
Faceless nomad on the damp grass;
I feel immortal, and I am afraid
That I will always be alone with the stars.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 8:17 AM UTC
In the wildest place,
my mouth stopped with stars,
I came to the end of words;
the parched mint, bitter
paper plank
where I lost my balance,
on one foot teetering
along that roadway where gold-
flashing fireflies stand effortlessly
on air
to send their fragile signal
out,
every night a nocturne
of one less
til I and the last firefly
danced alone
in the wildest place
sending our last ignition
out
to find our kind
or else fall quiet
and one
with the wild that
will neither be spelled
nor known.
©joyannjones June 2023
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 9:32 AM UTC
#(a travelogue)
He stared down through
the unbroken silence
lapping the shoreline
Water skippers dart around
the rocks and windfall driftwood
settled juxtaposed in cattail reeds
and emerging broadleaf sprouts
A petrified heartwood timber
lie fallow waiting bare barked,
hushed like a pining lover’s
timeworn love seat,
rubbed smooth as
the crystalline waters
of half-moon lake
Lingering for a while ―
like a hidden stalker,
a perched wildcat waiting
for the full moon’s
swooning spell to saturate
the thickening dusk quietude;
arousing the urgent
call of the wild —
exhaled from the held breath
of the wilderness nocturne
on half-moon lake
The stillness was scattered
with the soft downy hairs
of the sleeping cattails, and
the newly shed catkins
a spring gust bestrewed
from a tall resin birch tree
nigh the Sitka willows
He sat quietly ...
time out of mind ―
tossing his eyes up into the sky;
taking the time to read the stars ―
catching them each again
as they fell into his gentle hands,
to show him who he was
Seeing their sparkly tracers
trail-out above the cattails,
from a distance
they resembled falling stars
unable to perceive their own renaissance ―
plashing lightly upon the still-water
on half-moon lake
A lone shadow glides stealthily
near mid-tarn,.. swimming
enchantingly with the grace
of a blackswan
Appearing to glance shoreward
at the glowing low stars
rise and fall, as his eyes
twinkled skyward over
the moonlit lagoon ―
heavenward of its moonlit ballet;
the lone sleek dark shadow
slipping through
a faint circular ripple
stirring the smooth as glass waters ―
disappearing like a fleeting moment
waning deep aneath
a subtle silent wake.
When all the clear lines blurred,
he knew it had been so long ...
but hearken !
… an interceding
long drawn out wail
echoed a feral ache
across the stillness,
breaking the silence ―
as the shadow reappeared;
his tears surrendered
to the undulating call of the wild;
he felt the spirit of the sole Loon,
as black and white
as the moonlit night,
stir deeply in his wanting heart ―
lay bare the silence
in lengthy yodeled psalms
to the god of the moon
Diving down deep yet again,
keeping the light he’d been given,
vanishing into the lifespring
sanctuary of half-moon lake
harlon rivers ... May 2018
travelogue: 4 of some more
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
It doesn't matter how hard I try
I never seem to get away
Cause after all you did to me
I fear these feelings will always stay
*Your lies I believed were the truth beneath
The pain recedes but the heart bleeds
My instincts were right all along
I’m just a part of your love song*
You see, I live my life in fear
Fear I won't succeed
And every small critique I get
Makes me once again recede
*My Iloveyous to you were inevitable
Like the sun emitting his ardor
Despite the moon in slumber’s nocturne
He shines brightly with fervor*
I live my life, always afraid
That I am not on the right path
And if I take one small misstep
I'll have to face somebody's wrath
*Time consumes me while I waste it away
Like grains of sand as I clenched and ran
Only to lose it
Again and again*
I am eternally scared
That all my judgments are wrong
And if I ever meet someone
They'll only like me for so long
*But then I met you out of the blue
You were trying to forget someone too
We sparked like fireworks in the night sky
But the fire burnt out and our colors faded hue*
I live my life in constant fear
I fear that you were right
I simply am not good enough
And I will not be alright
*Thank you for proving me right
That we were not meant to be
How could you love another light
When I was the one your darkness pleased*
But even worse than all these things
Is my terror that someday
I will meet someone else like you
And not be able to get away.
*You complete me
&*
You destroyed me
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
"What is a man?!
A miserable Pile of Secrets!" he shoutes
then he sprung his attack
with the holy whip of my ancestors in my hand
I intended to make it his epitaph.
we battled for hours on end,
using holy water and dodging fireballs that would've meant my doom
when I had him beaten, he transformed into a grotesque demon
which also distorted the room
I didn't know which I was battling, my own head or Count Vlad Tepes Dracul
Anyway, after one final strike, The Undead terror had finally been slain
I hoped and prayed that no-one would ever speak his name
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
Now through night's caressing grip
Earth and all her oceans slip,
Capes of China slide away
From her fingers into day
And th'Americas incline
Coasts towards her shadow line.
Now the ragged vagrants creep
Into crooked holes to sleep:
Just and unjust, worst and best,
Change their places as they rest:
Awkward lovers like in fields
Where disdainful beauty yields:
While the splendid and the proud
Naked stand before the crowd
And the losing gambler gains
And the beggar entertains:
May sleep's healing power extend
Through these hours to our friend.
Unpursued by hostile force,
Traction engine, bull or horse
Or revolting succubus;
Calmly till the morning break
Let him lie, then gently wake.
5.2k
your body, the drain plug,
that climactic days of a day
murky sweet strawberry milk water
ebbs and sways
around, surrounds, and surmounts you
Your body the dumping ground
for pretty poppy seeds
seep, steep
seeded somewhere deep
as
synthetic stinging metaphor rain
pours on your mistreated singing skin
spotted, dotted, synaptic rule
akin to lemon poppy seed muffin tops
your head- a top
spins round
and mimics
never-ending bath drain whirlpool
ambulances and ambivalences soundtrack
this nocturne
night of a morning
mourning already
my poor lost sister
a little less than intact
lost in her head
I'm loosing her
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she nods
and grumbles,
fumbles for words that aren't there
four words that aren't there
forward isn't there
because what do you say
about matters
when your high
and breathing last breaths overlapping
in humble showers
in heart crumbling nakedness
your faithlessness trapping
murky sweet strawberry milk waters.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
The clock strikes, the hour shines
A warm rain brings fruit to the vine
An evening cool, a freshness divine
The sweetest grapes, the finest wine
In this hour, time churns
Life breaths, an ember burns
And ever still, the earth turns
As a glowing moon crosses the sky
Waves crash to shore, minutes grow dim
A cool wind directs a flowing hymn
A mornings warmth, a sparkling gem
The reddest rose, yet the greenest stem
But in this hour, time dissuades
Life chokes, the ember fades
And ever still, the earth waits
Until a garish sun crosses the sky
~D.B. Guy ( December 14, 2008 )
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:27 AM UTC
Past midnight...
apart from a nocturne playing
i hear a symphony of peaceful breathing
and snoring...rhythmical, this quiet evening,
it sends me soaring up my own universe,
with eyes closed, it grows more immense
creates some kind of a calm, in the silence
surrounding me, and my muse's presence.
stardust and moon provide me a crown
while i float...and probe around,
seeking something i don't know about,
in this journey,
i feel the absence of souls, slumbering deeply,
dreaming their simple, or strange fairy tales.
the firmament, wears a navy blue veil
stars are dots, they glow and scintillate,
like a warmth in the cold....emancipates
my invisible wings flap and fold,
a door knob...my hands take hold,
my destination...bright, resplendent,
"Cosmic Coffee Shop," a place, transcendent,
brewing a blend
-the dark, the positive
-the sweet, and the negative
a sign says, "write....there's pen and paper
in every corner..."
an invite, for people to create prose and poetry
where coffee is free, smells...tastes heavenly
a place to share...with brethren, in poetry.
::::::::
(an old poem)
1:01 AM
☕️ Sally ☕️
Copyright November 21, 2016
rrab
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
I was taught that being stubborn
is a virtue that every young boy should have,
that to decide how you govern
your life and your path.
I was taught that being stubborn
is simply a way to be,
that wanting and yearning
provided my journey's fee.
I was taught that being stubborn
was a sign of respect, of pride.
Unlearn all that'd been thought
and learn all from inside.
I was taught that being stubborn
would create a wall around me,
a nocturne of darkness
for which only i could see.
Now i am alone, all stubborn and virtuous
wishing for a chance.
but this disease is cure-less
Through no other circumstance.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 5:29 AM UTC
*Dancing With Chopin
By Jude Kyrie
Vienna 1896
Do you like Chopin she whispered.?
Yes Milady I love Chopin.
Then we shall dance sir.
The darkened ballroom was lit
only by the candelabra
of the moon and stars.
As they waltzed to his nocturne
The pianist delicately flowed
each beautiful note, like raindrops
falling softly in the nighttime.
She was so lovely in her gown
So much what he wanted
But in a station far beyond his.
He had promised her.
Even if they could not be as one
In this lifetime he would wait
for her in the next and they
would spend eternity together.
Vienna 2014
Each night they
met in the famous old ballroom
they would dance to Chopin
only Chopin, forever.
As the soft darkness of night
melted into
the approaching light
of dawn they faded
leaving only silence.
The old caretaker
approached the ballroom.
And said to himself
I am sure I heard Chopin again*
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 6:12 AM UTC
And amid the rhythmic song of the crickets, the trickle of a departing storm, and the quiet lull of Chopin’s Nocturne No. 1 in B flat, the screech of an unruly vehicle is heard, yet it is off in the distance and only slightly interrupts the dreamer’s dream. She sets her thoughts free so that they may swirl around her mixing with the wetness of the day. She is peaceful as is the chilled air that nibbles at her skin causing her hair to raise, but she likes it, for she grows weary of the thick, exhausting heat that has so frequently plagued her soul. Dreaming is, and forever will be her one true escape.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
Stuff of the moon
Runs on the lapping sand
Out to the longest shadows.
Under the curving willows,
And round the creep of the wave line,
Fluxions of yellow and dusk on the waters
Make a wide dreaming ***** of an old pond in the night.
3.4k
Dancing With Chopin
By Jude Kyrie
Vienna 1896
*Do you like Chopin she whispered.?
Yes Milady I love Chopin.
Then we shall dance sir.
The darkened ballroom was lit
only by the candelabra
of the moon and stars.
As they waltzed to his nocturne
The pianist delicately flowed
each beautiful note, like raindrops
falling softly in the nighttime.
She was so lovely in her gown
So much what he wanted
But in a station far beyond his.
He had promised her.
Even if they could not be as one
In this lifetime he would wait
for her in the next and they
would spend eternity together.
Vienna 2015
Each night they
met in the famous old ballroom
they would dance to Chopin
only Chopin, forever.
As the soft darkness of night
melted into
the approaching light
of dawn they faded
leaving only silence.
The old caretaker
approached the ballroom.
And said to himself
I am sure I heard Chopin again*
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
Spanish
Fuera, la noche en veste de tragedia solloza
Como una enorme viuda pegada a mis cristales.
Mi cuarto:…
Por un bello milagro de la luz y del fuego
Mi cuarto es una gruta de oro y gemas raras:
Tiene un musgo tan suave, tan hondo de tapices,
Y es tan vívida y cálida, tan dulce que me creo
Dentro de un corazón…
Mi lecho que está en blanco es blanco y vaporoso
Como flor de inocencia,
Como espuma de vicio!
Esta noche hace insomnio;
Hay noches negras, negras, que llevan en la frente
Una rosa de sol…
En estas noches negras y claras no se duerme.
Y yo te amo, Invierno!
Yo te imagino viejo,
Yo te imagino sabio,
Con un divino cuerpo de marmól palpitante
Que arrastra como un manto regio el peso del Tiempo…
Invierno, yo te amo y soy la primavera…
Yo sonroso, tú nievas:
Tú porque todo sabes,
Yo porque todo sueño…
…Amémonos por eso!…
Sobre mi lecho en blanco,
Tan blanco y vaporoso como flor de inocencia,
Como espuma de vicio,
Invierno, Invierno, Invierno,
Caigamos en un ramo de rosas y de lirios!
English
Outside the night, dressed in tragedy, sighs
Like an enormous widow fastened to my windowpane.
My room…
By a wondrous miracle of light and fire
My room is a grotto of gold and precious gems:
With a moss so smooth, so deep its tapestries,
And it is vivid and hot, so sweet I believe
I am inside a heart…
My bed there in white, is white and vaporous
Like a flower of innocence.
Like the froth of vice!
This night brings insomnia;
There are black nights, black, which bring forth
One rose of sun…
On these black and clear nights I do not sleep.
And I love you, Winter!
I imagine you are old,
I imagine you are wise,
With a divine body of beating marble
Which drags the weight of Time like a regal cloak…
Winter, I love you and I am the spring…
I blush, you snow:
Because you know it all,
Because I dream it all…
We love each other like this!…
On my bed all in white,
So white and vaporous like the flower of innocence,
Like the froth of vice,
Winter, Winter, Winter,
We fall in a cluster of roses and lilies!
3.5k
From the very far dark, deep and beating black,
there’s ghost breath, and blue light after,
where I un-broke myself,
next morning.
I’m under, curled to a pupil
of the bed’s eye,
so I blink the dream out.
Asleep, plants are respiring,
and the loam of their dream
is lifting, thinner.
Then the real interrupts,
erupting as a day,
and shimmering back again.
Like the shore that shares it’s time
between sand and ocean.
A fully open cup
fills up in the moment,
wherein that infinite shrinks,
and the universe grows backwards,
backwards Into,
cold coffee and dog ends.
Strange that.
It's not a nocturne,
It's an echoe of a day,
It's a memory of a memory,
It's a remora on reality.
Strange that.
why when last night,
my ashtray was full of stars.
The clock infinitely deepens
the memory of the dream.
But it’s there,
only just there.
That maybe, perhaps, dreaming of us,
somewhere in the brightest time of the night,
somewhere in sleep,
in the inbetween spaces,
somewhere there,
we left ourselves in mermaid’s purses.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
The Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to a Harmony in grey:
A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
The yellow fog came creeping down
The bridges, till the houses’ walls
Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s
Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.
Then suddenly arose the clang
Of waking life; the streets were stirred
With country waggons: and a bird
Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.
But one pale woman all alone,
The daylight kissing her wan hair,
Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,
With lips of flame and heart of stone.
3.2k
When I wake up.
In the early songs of birds
And the rest of the world.
I fight for the release of my body.
From the warmth and sanctity of my bed.
It would be so much easier.
To stay there.
Dealing with dreams and light.
But I move. And I step out of my post-nocturne cocoon.
Shedding my nightly shell,
To take the form of a sac of air and water, with a few bones holding me together.
Joints bending, stretching follows suit after refocused eyes.
I hold my breath, counting the seconds, the hours, the day.
Hobbling through each measurement on my brittle bones.
Hoping on the times when I can lay back down and rest.
Repeat.
This pain gnaws at my frail spirit.
Waiting for the final breath to escape.
But in one final effort, my mind takes shape.
Pushing against the confines of routine.
The measurements split.
My dreams unfurl.
And I step out of sleep.
Wings outstretched.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
I observe: “Our sentimental friend the moon!
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
It may be Prester John’s balloon
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
To light poor travellers to their distress.”
She then: “How you digress!”
And I then: “Someone frames upon the keys
That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
The night and moonshine; music which we seize
To body forth our own vacuity.”
She then: “Does this refer to me?”
“Oh no, it is I who am inane.”
“You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
The eternal enemy of the absolute,
Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
With your air indifferent and imperious
At a stroke our mad poetics to confute—”
And—”Are we then so serious?”
2.8k
Narcotized by her ****** nocturne
Electric my desires elevated
Her body a red velvet luxury
Crippled our bodies fell elated
Upon our skins moonlight peaked
Quite a golden ****** to devour
Profound dissolving within sin
Passion sensually shaping the hour
Time may be fickle,
Refrained the night remains young
Though I can taste the minutes
Descendant from the sweltering sun
In sync may our bodies move
To human nature's mystic groove
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC