(by Daniel R. Jones)
Behind deep, dark eyes,
It’s sad, but true:
tame the blues,
before the blues
tame you.
The starting line
is staggered;
you were
born behind.
So long
as you’re still
running,
you’re doing
fine.
E.T. Double Dactyl
(by Daniel R. Jones)
Higgledy Piggledy
extraterrestrial
sightings in cities are
largely unfound
when there are some sort of
pharmacological
measures prescribed or a
camera’s around.
Scenes from the Hoosier Countryside (Poem)
(by Daniel R. Jones)
In yellow fields
fellows yield
maize and wheat,
whey and meat.
John Deere sweaters,
“Dear John” letters.
Big pumpkins and
pigs and bumpkins.
Prattle without a care.
Cattle without a prayer.
The Sheen in Dirty Things
(by Daniel R. Jones)
From a kitchen window, I saw it,
my sudsy hands soaking
in a sink:
Pearl white, a silky sheen of a thing,
the taut, intricate patterns glistened in the sun.
And just like the first recorded question of God,
it struck me.
Who told you spiderwebs were dirty?
The Salesman Passover
(by Daniel R. Jones)
Behind drawn lace curtains
they wait with bated-breath
blood-red “NO SOLICITING”
signs hung across the door.
They watch me pass
like I’m the Angel of Death.
Muscles relax.
They can breathe once more.
Odin and I Race for the Runes
(by Daniel R. Jones)
Odin, they say,
hung himself on a tree,
and he gave up one eye
just to learn how to read.
Well that Nordic god
was late to arrive,
because I’ve got both eyes
and could read by age five.
