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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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Details | John Jones Poem

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.

Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020



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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!

Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020

Details | John Jones Poem

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.

Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020

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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.

Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020

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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.

Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020



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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.

Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020

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Morning Glory

As dawn undressed the night,
putting the purples of sorrow to flight.
It started to paint an horizon new,
in burnished golds of every hue,
that streaked the heavens and edged each cloud
with fire that danced and billowed proud.
Heralding a bright new day 
that blew the sullen nights cobwebs away
and lasered light into Earths dark corners,
to gladden the hearts of cynics and mourners.
And Oxeye daisies raised their heads,
whilst sweet campion and larkspur stirred in their beds
and drank the dew the night had bestowed,
as field and meadow softly glowed
in that tranquil, thankful morning light,
that broke each day and banished the night.

Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020

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Simply The Best

You do it for me, better than tea,
better than Camembert, or a nice runny Brie.
Better than honey, or marmalade toast
or an unexpected letter that arrives in the post.
Better than hob nobs, or baby's smiles,
or the sensual feeling of polished tiles.
Better than Connolly's funniest joke,
or dipping toast soldiers in a nice runny yolk.
Better than finding a twenty pound note
in the inside pocket of an old favourite coat.
Better than bacon with a nice crispy rind,
or a cool gin and tonic to help me unwind.
Better than snow on Christmas Day morning,
or lying in bed, stretching and yawning.
Better than finding jeans that fit,
or a long train journey with places to sit.
Better than bubbles that pop on your nose,
or the feeling of warm, silver sand in your toes.
Better than the tingle of ice on your tongue,
or the warm glow of knowing that you belong.
Better than sunshine, better than rain,
better than the I.Q. of Einstein's brain.
Even better than picking a scabby knee,
you're better than all this and more to me.

Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020

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The human zoo

They pass my window every day
the young, the old, the tired, the grey,
the little woman going to church,
the teenage lover left in the lurch,
the silver haired lady, a faded ingénue,
the argumentative couple with children, two.
The retired school teacher with the nervous tic,
the lady in a headscarf walking very quick,
the Jehovah's witnesses who hover by and by,
looking and wondering is it worth another try?
The postman with a parcel, always for next door,
the reluctant school kid, wondering what education's for?
I sit and watch this panoply of ordinary everyday folk,
laughing, crying, interacting, sharing a current joke,
and wonder at the diversity of the people that I see,
and think how strange and wonderful and funny we can be.

Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020

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Light Years Away

G ravitation non-existent, thrusters gone along with hope,
A ll we are in this great cosmos is but a speck in a microscope.
P anic long since has subsided resigned now to our waiting fate
I n our capsule, now our coffin, chance of rescue now too late.
N ebula and cosmic gasses cloud and shroud us as we pass,
G liding through the astral meadows of this heavenly spacial mass.
V elvet night, sepulchral darkness, punctuated with diamond stars,
O xygen now seriously depleted, only showing a couple of bars.
I ridescent lights exploding, peace and serenity, a soporific dream,
D own into the black hole's void, in space no one can hear you scream.

Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020

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