Details |
Mike Jones Poem
Through the forests of Sumatra
Through the dark and sweaty jungle
Proud and fearless pads the tiger
Pads through bamboo, palm, liana
Powerfully swims across the water
Webbed feet pounding ‘gainst the current,
Unaware of near extinction
Forest dwindling, disappearing
Shrinking by illegal logging
Teak for tables, chairs and profit.
Will our tiger last the decade ?
To our children, ancient history ?
Ancient history, myth and mystery
With the sun-bear and the hornbill ?
Spring to action like the tiger
Planting trees and education
Guardians all of unique creatures
We can save the Sumatran tiger.
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2014
|
Details |
Mike Jones Poem
To tennis
What a cracking sport
To play, to lose all worldly cares.
Returning
To the tennis court –
That small rectangle, out of time;
Win or lose
It doesn’t matter,
I’ll keep my focus on the game,
Satisfy
My ruthless nature
With tuneful thwack of gut on rubber.
One set all,
It’s forty-thirty:
A sizzling ace secures the game.
Up above
In beech tree grandstand,
A crowd of rooks croak their applause.
With topspin,
Drop-shot, forehand smash,
Exhausting rally,……. gasp for breath,
All too soon,
Game, set and match, then
It’s back to work, my lunchtime spent.
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2014
|
Details |
Mike Jones Poem
And now the weeping willow turns to green.
So brilliant red, the robin’s breast,
Just like the sun, now sinking in the West,
And down the lane more signs of spring are seen :
The spiky blackthorn blossom’s shining white –
It looks as if the hedgerow’s decked with snow.
Beneath, the peeping primrose seems to glow
With luminous and creamy lunar light.
Come hear the soaring skylark’s tuneful song
And listen to the jackdaw’s chimney chat.
See squabbling sparrows startled by the cat
As through the undergrowth he slinks along.
We mark these signs of Spring so early in the year,
But damage from late frosts may dash our hopes I fear.
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2014
|
Details |
Mike Jones Poem
Feb-ru-ary –
Snow-white blossom,
Winter hedgerow shining.
Now September –
Hedgerow harvest:
Sloe-black, slow, black,
Black fruit with purple bloom.
Sloe gin, slow, gin,
Let the alchemy begin.
Blackthorn, black fruit,
Steeped in finest London gin.
Locked in Kilner
In dark cupboard.
Wait till dark December ......
Ruby colour,
Rich aroma.
Delicious sip,
Post-prandial
Christmas dinner nip.
Mike Jones
25 August 2014
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2014
|
Details |
Mike Jones Poem
[A poem to celebrate the 350th anniversary of Newton's discovery of gravity]
Sir Isaac Newton is my name;
I have a certain reputation,
Philosopher of great acclaim
Amongst the proud men of this nation.
With many problems I would grapple,
Not least of which concerned an apple.
I’d often laze beneath the trees
On long and balmy summer days,
And there with friends I’d shoot the breeze,
Expound ideas in many ways.
But then in lone activity
I framed the laws of gravity.
Studying mechanics, optics,
The bible and astronomy;
Also mathematics, physics,
The natural world and alchemy,
My jealous peers, they criticised
And often I was ostracized.
But I was knighted by the Queen
And my inventions gave men hope.
Stars and planets could be seen
With my reflecting telescope –
No rainbow colours to detract.
I’ve made my mark and that’s a fact !
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Mike Jones Poem
I
watch
transfixed
standing still
in fascination
beside the banks of the great grey-
green, greasy waters of the Isis River, flowing
in
quick
motion,
silently
perpetually;
eddies, ripples shapes distorting.
Cool
clear.
Forty
shades of green;
leaves of many hues
blended by fast flowing waters
into a peaceful impressionist living canvas.
There's
lime,
olive,
emerald
and avocado.
grass, moss, fern, sea and many more.
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Mike Jones Poem
I marvel
At the rich colours
In Springtime as I walk the lanes,
Explore the woods and cliffs of Pembrokeshire.
‘Cliff clover’,
The ‘sea pink’ or Thrift.
Clumps of pink, colonising coasts.
Sapphire blue
Spring Squill studs the turf,
Hugs the cliff tops of Pembrokeshire.
Navelwort
Clings to crevices
In the collapsing dry-stone wall.
Deepest blue,
The sweet bluebell lake
Lies quietly beneath the trees.
Wild Garlic,
Smells waft in the breeze,
Each white flower, a cluster of stars.
Glassy green
Leaves and green flowers,
Strong pungent celery like smell –
Alexanders – the parsley of Alexandria.
‘Moon penny’
Or Oxeye Daisy –
Proud white heads pepper the hedgerow.
Carmine pink,
Proud heads of Foxglove -
A guard of honour lines the lane.
What better
Time and place to be,
In stunning natural Pembrokeshire.
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2014
|
Details |
Mike Jones Poem
It's conventional thinking unravelled,
Waiting on the horns of a dilemma
With brand new ideas : the road less travelled,
Takes me back to sixty-five – the summer.
Exams completed, leaving school behind,
I took a different route from friends and peers.
Engineering was what I had in mind
Instead of academic based careers.
An ad. in local paper caught my eye :
“Electrical Apprenticeship. 5-year
Sandwich Course, Electricity Supply”,
Leading to electrical engineer.
Yes. I took a less frequented pathway
And followed it to where I am today.
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Mike Jones Poem
He
travelled
far and wide,
studied Arabic :
A famous orientalist :
An Oxford scholar and doctor of Divinity.
Here
was
a man,
the Rector
of Childrey parish,
the Reverend Edward Pococke.
He
planted
in the year
sixteen forty two,
a cedar of Lebanon seed.
Now
the
oldest
cedar tree
in this pleasant land
still grows in the Old Rectory
in the delightful village of Childrey, Oxfordshire.
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2014
|
Details |
Mike Jones Poem
The Old Straight Track climbs up towards the ridge,
A tangent to this ancient burial ground
Where Bronze Age bodies slumber under mounds;
In number, nine, each barrow with a ditch.
Who were these folk that lie beneath this field –
Hunter-gatherer, warrior, father, son ?
Side by side in death – was it a violent one ?
And those events by which their fate was sealed,
Are they recorded here in artefact ?
The warrior’s sword or chieftain’s sash;
The Leyman’s poles for sighting work, exact,
Along the ley via beacon, stone and flash.
These rolling Lambourne downs are drenched in history,
Come, take the track with me and share the mystery.
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2014
|