Chris Jones Poems

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Moth Collectors

 When our moggy brings in moths, she squeaks
through the kitchen, tips between her teeth,

and scoots upstairs to scuff under the bed.
If we find these blow-ins they’re usually dead

though a number dust the floor with tatty wings
or unfurl from sheets like pencil shavings,

furry woodcuts, a lime-green surprise –
still tremulous, and slight enough to fly.

We hold our fluttery palms to the...Read more of this...

Name

 His name has been ghosted over the fence,
leaving an alias, burn, prison clothes. 
I'm half the man, he says, not my sentence,
waiting on time that other people chose.

From their windows men sing out numbers, names,
hands to the grille light for the come-back call,
but words get lost, change allegiance, and blame's
out of their mouths, love's over the wall.

Later when I...Read more of this...

The Emergency Drill

 We sat in the belly of the aeroplane
and held out for sirens to swerve across the grass;
men with cutting gear and masks. No-one came.
On a back seat, Mr. Phillips bandied jokes to pass
the time; the dark air cooling our arms
and scents like burrs stitched in hair, clothes.
In the distance we swore we heard alarms
before HQ radioed the fire-drill’s close,
and...Read more of this...

Work

 I caught rumours of some internal hearing
then you appeared with tears squeezing your eyes,
hands scrunched up like a child's, rice paper skin.
That work mates complained was a big surprise
as you were office sunshine, shafted no-one,
and turned your quick mind to the broadest cause.
But there you were, a whisper finished…gone,
scooping reams of data from cabinet drawers,
your kiddie snaps stacked face-down...Read more of this...