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John Jones Poem
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!
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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John Jones Poem
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.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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John Jones Poem
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.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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John Jones Poem
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.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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John Jones Poem
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.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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John Jones Poem
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.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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John Jones Poem
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.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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John Jones Poem
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.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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John Jones Poem
Oh, to ride on your shoulders again,
a giant, a hero, a prince amongst men.
I'd be safe in the warmth of your crooked smile,
whilst, all the while, hugging you tight
about your head, as home we jog spirits high,
ready for bed and I wondering why we can't
stay up 'til dawns light breaks and now my heart aches
thinking back, when you were here. Oh how I wish
I'd held you near and didn't let go because now I know
the loss of you, the years we two will never have.
Those formative years that a young man fears,
no longer a lad, he turns to his dad, but you're not there,
life's just not fair. A first pint at the pub, darts down the Club,
my rights of passage ransomed to cruel fate leaving me
in a state of limbo. The breadwinner now, the man of the house,
had to grow up quick, learn not to grouse. Industrious as a mouse,
I put my shoulder to the task. Now all I ask in this little rhyme
is, for just one day to turn back time.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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John Jones Poem
I thought of you today, and that funny way
you had of sipping your drink which made
me think of Girona in September. And, I seem
to remember, we made a promise then that
we would meet there again, no matter what
the circumstance and if, purely by chance,
we were still unattached, we'd share a kiss
and reminisce about the years in between.
Our separate lives, your husbands, my wives,
and we'd laugh and wonder why the years had
been so kind to us. And, in that little bistro caff
we'd drink our coffee and laugh at the wrinkles
and lines and our designs for each other now
we were freed from the vows we gave to others.
Free, at last to become one with each other and
spend the rest of our days together, you and I,
at last, forever. But the text changed all that,
the one I received whilst I was sat in the coffee
shop in Pimlico, where I know you used to go with
a friend who was now sending me this tweet,
saying the illness was short and she had to be very
discrete. Only family attended, least said, soonest
mended. And in an instant, like the coffee, Girona
was gone. Our ill fated tryst, vanished like the mist
that was pooling the pavement and, with it, it seems,
the hopes and dreams of two star crossed lovers.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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