Monday, January 18, 2016

Three Poems by Ken L. Jones

Listen to it on Repeat

Winter is a wrecking ball as tumbleweeds undulating over these simian mesas
Cause me to recall oh how she swirled with her temptations
My long ago love who was as startling to me as Poe's The Raven
And who in the few skeletal memories that the passing of time
And the medications of old age do allow me in my body's cage
Are sniffed at now like table scraps as
Oh I wish she was once again mussing up my hair most playfully
As I drifted off to nap upon her bare legs and slender lap
All lost to me now save anything but an image
Of some wrinkled and careworn woman turned into a stranger
By the passing of all these days and one I haven't seen in years
Except as I peeped at her computer page
And that day I once again became her clown
But one now toothless and with a proclivity for thinking of all that used to be out loud.


Once her hair was a dungeon from which I sought no escape
Back when she was the queen of all of my Pez dispensers
And now all of that gnaws at me daily like her lost caress
And now her tongue and lips which once were so like lace
Scream at me in her contorted face
Gone now the maiden I once craved
Banished by me into other arms
That she knew did wait
To take from me all that I never really had
And though the very thought of all that drives me mad
I am plagued by my lack of her
And charred by all this waiting
A trash heap all now ice
Now that our memories have become two different animals
that linger blue and rusted like a creakish swing set
On whose seats childhood apparitions now do ride

Burnt Edges

Once our togetherness was blinding and beautiful
Before the poison of you've heard it all set in
Back then the very avenues themselves opened up
As all of their brick houses shifted to bewitched
But now you sleep like a stop light
And must be the bride of Morpheus
Because you certainly aren't mine
And now when the daylight gets frozen in a carbonite chamber
And I have to find my own happy places
So old and weathered and mystified
That my staircase to it begins speaking like a pirate ship
Now that the scars of your seducing have become
Curdled dreams that take me back to bygone tearful places
Like some sumptuous violin piece whose abracadabra spills out into memories
That were never meant to be solved anymore than you can count every drop of rain

For the past thirty-five years Ken L. Jones has been a professionally published author who has done everything from writing Donald Duck Comic books to creating things for Freddy Krueger to say in some of his movies.  In the last six years he has concentrated on his lifelong ambition of becoming a published poet and he has published widely in all genres of that discipline in books, online, in chapbooks and in several solo collections of poetry.  

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