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Best Poems Written by John Jones

Below are the all-time best John Jones poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Maurice the Frogs Outing

Maurice the frog was q###r; of this he had no doubt and all the lady frogs just made him yawn.
He sat all day on his lily pad, flicking his tongue at passing flies, with never a thought of ever wanting to spawn.
At night the pond was redolent with the sound of humping frogs, the 'revitting' would turn a young frog mad.
But, alas, poor Maurice's only joy was a male frog's fashion catalogue, bequeathed to him by his late, lamented dad.

And so he spent his idle hours with nary a care or frown, plodding along his solitary road.
Until the day in early spring his life turned upside down, on discovering he was, in fact, a toad.
This news, to him was quite a shock from a passing dragonfly, which alighted on a nearby flower frond.
‘You want to cross the road’, it said, ‘there's loads of toads like you having toady fun in their own toady pond’.
And from under his wing he produced a book, ‘Toads Only’, it said on the cover, Maurice turned to its centre pages eyes agog.
And there in Technicolor for all the world to see was a lady toad, spread-eagled on a log.

He was well and truly smitten as on her picture he did gaze, her bulging eyes as black as Yorkshire coal.
He thought about eating the dragonfly but quickly went off this, who needs fly when you can have toad in the hole.
So Maurice set off straight away, though the going was quite tough, the first leg almost gave him a heart attack.
But on the crest of the rise he could see the road and the toady pond beyond and was greeted by a passing Natterjack.

The uphill struggle behind him now his back legs found new spring, the going was much easier on the flat.
He thought of all the lady toads and the tadpoles they would have, another hop, another leap then - SPLAT!
The moral of this sorry tale is simple, short and sweet; the fairer sex will only make you cry.
Be happy in your own back yard, forget the frog and toad and next time - eat the dragonfly!

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Before You Go

Before you go know this of me
lying here, beneath this tree,
that I once had your dreams too
but all too quickly my life here flew,
forced to dance to a different drum,
in a foreign field, where whistle and hum,
assailed my body and hurt my ears 
and haunted all my primal fears
and robbed my youth and tore my flesh,
whilst, back home, there were fields to thresh,
ale to drink and girls to woo,
flaxen haired, who looked like you,
to court and marry and make heavy with child,
but now I lie, beneath poppies, wild,
that others may have what I had to forego,
please, think of this, before you go.

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Man With Cigarette

He sat at the beer stained table,
a cigarette in his fingers.
Smoke pooling round his cloth capped head,
the look in his eyes still lingers.

From his rough wool shirt to his DIY tattoo
I could tell he was no stranger to labour.
From the scars on his face and his broken nose,
you wouldn't want him as a neighbour.

Yet he had about him a dignity,
a rough hewn, no nonsense stance.
And eyes that spoke volumes of his life
that sparked and mirrored and danced.

His hands bore the wear of a life of toil,
his shoulders a little stooped and weary.
And, whether it was the smoke or memory,
at times he seemed a little teary.

He sat and sipped his favourite drink,
a dark, nutty ale from the cask.
What tales had he? What stories to tell?
If I'd only the nerve to ask.

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A Selfish Request

Don't go before me, please stay awhile, 
I want to remember your quirky smile 
and your dancing eyes and the lilt of your voice 
and the way you laughed when I gave you the choice 
of marrying me or, something worse,
to wander the earth forever cursed, 
unable to love or care for another,
and now we've become like sister and brother. 
Grown old together, and set in our ways,
quarrelling, laughing and counting the days 
when we are apart, two halves of the whole,
my morning papers, my Sunday morning stroll, 
your Laurel to my Hardy, the quench for my thirst,
whatever will I do if you go first?
 
Don't go before me, have some regard,
life without you will be terribly hard.
How will I cope? It's impossible to tell. 
Pictures and memories are all very well
but they'll never replace the smell of your hair,
or being in a room and knowing you're there.
Or squeezing your hand whilst you are sleeping,
or watching soppy movies and knowing you're weeping.
If you're not there I'll be missing all this,
your involuntary laughter, your goodnight kiss.
The way you wear your specs on your nose.
The startled look when you wake from a doze.
The Gods in their heaven will forever be cursed
if my prayers are unanswered and you go first.
 
If you do go before me I'll never forgive
the way you relinquished your willingness to live
and left me bereft of feeling, and more,
a ship without rudder, a boat without oar.
For without you, I'm nothing - a meaningless thing,
a quest without purpose, a bell without ring.
A pale imitation of a man that used to be,
blinded by a growing rage that would not let me see
any further than tomorrow, if you should go before
and leave me here floundering on life's barren shore.
For what good will I be without you in my life?
My friend, my companion, my partner - my wife.
If you do go before me, can I ask you to be kind
and don't walk too quickly - for I'll not be far behind.

Details | John Jones Poem

Didnt I Used To Know You

Cigarettes and alcohol 
had washed her youth away.
The fresh faced girl, with the wayward curl, 
that I knew from 'yesterday'
had now been replaced, 
by something hard faced,
playing the oldest game in town.
Her painted on smile and streetwise guile
trying to hide the tears of a clown.
Our inner voices give us choices
of the pathways we should take.
It's a downward spiral, that soon goes viral,
if those voices are all fake.
And she had reached, and then had breached,
the nadir of her life.
She had once been a friend, staunch to the end,
a daughter, a mother, a wife.
And as we walked, so we talked,
about the might have been's.
The what went wrongs, remembered songs,
and prom night Kings and Queens.
We said goodbye and she said she would try,
but I knew her cause was lost.
And I'd scan the obits, for lost souls and misfits,
and she'd be there, as a thaw follows frost.

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The Little Things

Look for me where stars collide,
somewhere in the great divide
betwixt and between the here and now
and the wild blue yonder of what and how.

In the tracery of the orb web spider
or the bubbles in a pint of cider,
for in life I took pleasure in all these things,
a dragonflies flight on gossamer wings.

The softness of a blossoms fall,
this and more would hold me in thrall.
The tender crunch of fresh fallen snow,
a morning walk to the call of the crow.

Hoar frost fringed on a holly leaf,
the happiness felt when you've known only grief.
Look for me in all these things,
when the lark ascends or church bell rings.

For there I'll be in each simple pleasure,
the wonders that abound are life's own treasure.
And, in that still, small moment, when you close your eyes,
think only of this, true love never dies.

Details | John Jones Poem

Universal Soldier

Lay me to rest in marbled halls with angels at my head,
not lying here in the mud of Ypres with khaki turning red.
Let me die a noble death, one that's worth fighting for,
not to avenge a nobleman who I've never heard of before.

Let me die an old man's death, in my bed at the witching hour
and laid to rest in an old churchyard, 'neath a yew trees spreading bower.
Instead of a fox hole in Cairo, choking on blood and sand,
with the smell of cordite on the air and a letter from home in my hand.

Why am I here in North Korea defending a hill to the death?
When I should be with the kids at home and my darling sweetheart, Beth.
Instead of which I lie in this ditch watching my life seep away
and they'll bury me here in an unmarked grave, on this bloody hill far away.

What do I care if Saigon falls? North or South, nothing mattered,
what do I care for the Rouge Khmer when my body lies here, shattered.
My watery grave this killing field, fertiliser for next years crop.
Is this to be my legacy? Please God help to make it all stop!

Another year, yet other wars, in landscapes barren and hostile,
on a crusade in Iraq or Afghan, both situations are volatile.
My life cut short by an IED defending a wadi in Tikrit,
my sun bleached bones, washed by the desert, my ultimate Kismet.

And still the Hawks harry the Doves, favouring might over right,
no matter the religion, the creed or the colour, be they black or white.
The body bags mount, the widows wail and children are orphaned once more,
all in the name of the most profitable business on Earth which we call war.

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City Lights

Underneath the stars, 
in countless bars,
as cars traverse 
the mean streets of the city,
the broth of humanity congregate 
and,late into the night, 
cogitate on the state
of things fiscal 
and whether to risk all
on the throw of a dice 
or the turn of a card
for life can be hard 
when faced with the prospect
of losing it all 
on the run of a ball 
or the speed of a horse 
or, worse of course, 
when you are so far down 
that the world around 
has lost its charm
and prostitution or self harm 
appear to be a
better proposition, 
when there are no stars left to wish on, 
and the street is your home, 
the place where you roam 
from handout to trick, 
thinking quick on your feet 
getting more 'street' 
but losing your soul
and forgetting your goal 
of making it big in this city
and you drown in self pity 
and OD on horse as the course
of your life takes a turn for the worse 
and you curse 
and splutter 
as you lie in the gutter 
outside one of those bars
looking up at the stars.

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A Winters Tale

The bones of winter cracked the ice black, coal black night.
A hoary wind spits frost crystals that dazzle and blur the sight.
Boney fingers of bare deciduous wood, scratch against the eaves
as the stranger's tread crackles the bracken and long dead leaves.

The villagers sleep or keep a lonely vigil, fire bent, night spent wary
of strangers and the dangers they might bring, unknown and scary.
Check the windows, check the doors, firelight flickers on the stair.
Eyes strain through the pane, noises carry on wind blown, frosted air.

The strangers gait slows - then, wait, he's turning to my door.
Footfalls nearing, my mind fearing what the strangers coming for.
A loud rap, silence, then he beats another tattoo on the portal.
Is he human? Is he fiend? Spectral, otherworldly, or just mortal?

I light a taper from the fire and touch it to the tallow, sputtering, 
With wary tread I approach the door, mouth dry, eyes wide, muttering.
"Who's there? Declare yourself! What do you want so late this Yule?"
"Charity!" the stranger said, "meat and drink, to rest and refuel!"

Mindful of my wife and child asleep on the upper floor, 
with club in hand I stand full height and lightly unlatch the door.
A bedraggled man with snow white beard, bent against the cold,
stood in robes from better days, eyes, though bright, looked old.

And in those eyes a wisdom shone, like none I'd ever seen,
filling me with hope and calm and feelings so serene
that thoughts of danger, imagined or real, were banished from my head
and I bid the stranger enter and he followed where I led.

I gave him meat and bread and wine and sat him by the fire.
I said that when he was replete, there was fresh straw in the byre
where he might rest and get some sleep, safe until the morn.
He nodded his thanks and sank down in the chair and gave a yawn.

I left him there and went upstairs, my mind was strangely at ease,
but, on telling my wife what I had done, she wasn't very pleased.
"You've fed a stranger?"she hissed and glowered, "from our meagre store?
What do you propose we eat this Yule? It's gone! There is no more!"

With heavy heart I climb into bed, with my wife's admonishment ringing.
What have I done? Am I a fool? What stupidity! What was I thinking?"
I fell into a troubled sleep, tossing and turning all night.
Waking with a sudden start, blinking in dawns grey light.

My wife is standing, open mouthed, mute and gesturing me downstairs,
what horrors would I see down there? Had the stranger caught her unawares?
Or yet had harmed our little girl, in some random act of cruelty?
Leaping from bed I race down stairs, then stare in utter incredulity.

Our once bare table strains under the weight of provender thence unseen,
Turkey fowls, pheasant and hams, sweetmeats and apples of green.
Exotic fruits, good strong ales, cheese, bread and berries wild,
sausages, eggs, spirits and wines and even playthings for our child.

And, on the door, a sprig of holly to which is attached a note,
I sit by the fire as the Yule log burns and read what the stranger wrote.
'I thank you for your kindness sire, in a mad world you brought sanity,
I thank you for the greatest gift. I thank you for your humanity.'

Details | John Jones Poem

Mean Streets

Newspaper blows along rain-washed streets,
dying echoes of hash tags and tweets
promising hook-ups, flash mobs and meets,
long gone to their bed-sits and urban retreats.

Puddles painted with neon gaudy,
could be Mancunian, Scouse or Geordie,
late night streets, care-worn and tawdry,
home to the reveller, the lewd and the bawdy.

The siren's wail, the drunken fight,
the running feet of the loser's flight,
the screams of anguish hidden from sight,
sounds of the city, heightened at night.

Couples and couplings lurching and lairy,
high on the octane of Jack and Bloody Mary,
wandering zombie-like, staggering, starey,
on late night streets, decadent and scary.

With dawn's promise come different sounds,
the rubbish collectors doing their rounds,
policemen sorting the losts and the founds
night washed away like old coffee grounds.