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Best Famous Richard Jones Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Richard Jones poems. This is a select list of the best famous Richard Jones poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Richard Jones poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Richard Jones poems.

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by Richard Jones | |

The Road

 I, too, would ease my old car to a stop
on the side of some country road
and count the stars or admire a sunset
or sit quietly through an afternoon.
.
.
.
I'd open the door and go walking like James Wright across a meadow, where I might touch a pony's ear and break into blossom; or, like Hayden Carruth, sustained by the sight of cows grazing in pastures at night, I'd stand speechless in the great darkness; I'd even search on some well-traveled road like Phil Levine in this week's New Yorker, the poet driving his car to an orchard outside the city where, for five dollars, he fills a basket with goddamned apples.


by Richard Jones | |

Tree

 When the sun goes down
I have my first drink
standing in the yard,
talking to my neighbor
about the alder tree
rising between our houses,
a lowly tree that prospered
from our steady inattention
and shot up quick as a weed
to tower over our rooftops,
where it now brandishes
a rich, luxuriant crown.
Should we cut it down? Neither of us wants to -- we agree that we like the flourishing branches, shade like thick woods.
We don't say it, studying our tree in silence, but we know that if the roots get into the foundations we've got real trouble.
John goes back inside.
Nothing to be done in summer -- not to those heavy branches.
I balance my empty glass on top of a fence post.
In the quiet early dark, those peaceful minutes before dinner, I bend down to the flower beds I love and pull a few weeds -- something I've meant to do all day.


by Richard Jones | |

How Did You Meet Your Wife?

 Swimming the English Channel,
struggling to make it to Calais,
I swam into Laura halfway across.
My body oiled for warmth, black rubber cap on my head, eyes hidden behind goggles, I was exhausted, ready to drown, when I saw her coming toward me, bobbing up and down between waves, effortlessly doing a breaststroke, heading for Dover.
Treading water I asked in French if she spoke English, and she said, "Yes, I'm an American.
" I said, "Hey, me too," then asked her out for coffee.


by Richard Jones | |

What Do You Do About Dry Periods In Your Writing?

 When the writing is going well,
I am a prince in a desert palace,
fountains flowing in the garden.
I lean an elbow on a velvet pillow and drink from a silver goblet, poems like a banquet spread before me on rugs with rosettes the damask of blood.
But exiled from the palace, I wander -- crawling on burning sand, thirsting on barren dunes, believing a heartless mirage no less true than palms and pools of the cool oasis.