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Best Poems Written by Ferris Jones

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

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Plantation House

The plantation house stood
Old and broken.
Flowers once lined the walk
Leading to the front steps.
To the left of the door
Sits a very small room.
The glass is broke and
The sun makes it past the dirt.
Light can be seen from
The very small children which
Walk past – both black and white.


Inside the room sits a black woman
Dressed and a slave.
Her chair rocks, blowing
The dust – breathing
To the motion of the
Many children laughing together.
The puffs of dust help the old
Woman see the smiling faces.
As the children have done
For many, many years.  They 
Joined hands and danced.
The woman smiled as she saw
The circles free of dust
Dotting the floor in every room.

Details | Ferris Jones Poem

Dearest

Ask me, candied bride, whose eyes so bright
They send me messages of love, each night,
Am I the dignity you wish to invite,
  The man, the sublime taste for you?

Ask me, thorny queen, whose divine sleep
Calls me to dream so wretchedly deep,
Am I the prickly sight one would keep,
  The man, the fairy tale you knew?

Details | Ferris Jones Poem

The Hitchhiker

It's dark and i'm tired
dazed with flickering lights.
I see a flowing robe
in the middle of the road,
with a thumb out for a ride.
I slow to see - a car pulls over,
my sister who has been gone
picks up the robe and
goes the other way.
With his hands he gives direction
she pays no attention, and
takes him far away.That is 
why the black cat which ran into
the street turned around with fear
when hit by the light.

Details | Ferris Jones Poem

Fruit For Tiny Eyes

it was a magnificent mile up from his tiny eyes. its fruit sprinkled on his makeshift diamond. he rested on the stone wall that settled between the races. the hispanic party was on the left. the silver side on the right. both homes chuckled at the meager one seeking to reach the choicest fruit. the reddish yellow one, not plump yet, is what he favored. the neighbor kids assembled to tidy the field.

he didn’t perceive how they developed. a home run was a fly ball into the pavement. he views the pastime now with a crocked smile. produce tables are where he chooses his refreshments. recalling the encounters of the meager boys and girls, and how nice the hispanic household next door was to him. he wishes they are fine.

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Grandpa's Secret

There he is, there's grandpa's big boy.
Come up here and sit with grandpa.
You see this? This is my secret,
It's all the poems I've written
In one book; since the country changed.
Do you know how your mommy says
Not to talk when those guys with guns
Are around? You know the ones.
In the army outfits, staring,
Listening to every word,
Questioning everything heard.
This secret is kind of like that.
We are not allowed to write things
Anymore that show we have dreams.
I share this book with special groups
And your daddy's going to follow.
My hope is that sometime soon
You will be able to read this and
Our country isn't always hollow.

Details | Ferris Jones Poem

The Lake Is Withering

the lake is withering. look at this earth. midnight is as the last day of a carnival. dressed in sad birth and sad death, children play with the pointed toad. falling from the flash flood of spiders. banks claim the brush each summer. high school ladders have no step upward. a tour of the reservation is thirty minutes.
 mystical practices of the shaman lay powerless when the post office is closed.

peace wades into the sludge. nobody purchases a ticket. no bus stages here. the volcano has relinquished hope and turns dormant. in the graveyard, class influences dirt or grass. peepholes are bars, hearsay is business. everybody looks. a voyage passes undiscovered. missing pieces from preceding years sit on the same stool. stacked in the same closet.

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Today 8

I met a new day, it had a new smile
It reached out a hand, warm and fertile
It was sculptured by pure genius,
Shinned passionate accents all the while.

Its devotion falls from a mountain height
Its swelled life spills, with such delight
I stole the melodies, it offered,
Thank you so much for the invite.

Details | Ferris Jones Poem

Daybreak

Well, my dear sunshine,
I will not infect you with tales
Of my walk through the vagrant abuse
That is the tyrant of the weak.
I will just welcome you early
To the dysfunction that is my art
And wish you well in your attempt
To guess the manner in which
The maiden I encountered
Fell from grace, to be slowly tortured.

Details | Ferris Jones Poem

Sweet Boy

don’t weep. we won’t surrender you on this dilapidated dance floor. we will reconstruct it into a sky that will not squirm. its guardian will be of your crop. we will be the spirits that will yield blood for your tranquility. our minds will accept this pandemic and sections will disappear. nobody will realize how great they should have remained. a parachute will break your loss. go on, little one, conceive those daydreams. the earth cluttered with our remains will attend over you. no mischief will appear to you.

we will draw up arms and overthrow the pagan vampire that is autocracy. its assault will be but fables, flying before the years develop. the hijacker will expire in shackles, millions will lament, rifles will blow, capitals will ignite. airbourne joy will torrent the invasion, the whirlwind that captures my life will recover yours.

i will stand my history in your palms, be delicate with the mass, golden stars will be on your screens. read the message, behold the ground, envelop the tombstones. the karats are the weight, controlled by the painting of your forthcoming. i will stare on to you and your triumph, sweet boy. we will not let you, nor will we dig the tunnels.

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A Changeling

gestures of west travels materialize his intentions. treasure escaped him. an evil baby. he reached to the highway. to receive beads, rings, weed and young woman as expressions. the casinos always sell beer to minors. fairies restored the worry with hope. life had intention. a renegade formed his mind. the burden of a childhood car wreck, the chains of childhood dreams. gone.
it now plays with a juvenile mind. cultivating within himself the visions. the best trip has been forever west. trees become a sage. the brush becomes lumber yards. snow. the wall produces fur and balls dance. window pane, 4 way, novels an artisan can embody. his extra trip is the finest. success in smoky skies.