(by Daniel R. Jones)
This morning is filled with yellow light
and singing sparrows
and all that poetry-fodder.
But really, I’d rather take a walk,
so sorry, I can’t be bothered.
If the theory of the multiverse holds (poem)
(by Daniel R. Jones)
Elsewhere,
J. Alfred Prufrock asks
Do I dare
Disturb the multiverse?
The multiverse retorts:
You do.
And you do not.
You have.
And you have not.
The Perks of an Ordinary Mirror (poem)
(by Daniel R. Jones)
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the fairest of them all?
Devoid of magic looking glass
I see myself each time I ask.
Pin Oak Poet
When I go, I’ll go
like the pin-oak
in the front yard:
litter the Earth with
pieces of myself;
loose-leaf proofs
I existed.
Unanswered Prayers (poem)
(by Daniel R. Jones)
“Wherever you find yourself today,
no matter the place or time of day,
speak and He hears every word you say.”
At least, that’s how I was taught to pray.
Now they say the same about the NSA.
Ephemera (Aphorism)
I wish for a life of springtime and fall,
beginnings and endings
no middles at all
Cephas (Poem)
“With each morning’s cock-crow
I rise and feed His sheep.
I’d be lying if I said
that sound didn’t haunt me still.”
The Brash Editor (Poem)
[Note: This poem originally ran in the literary journal Parody Poetry on Oct. 31, 2016]
(by Daniel R. Jones)
With apologies to William Carlos Williams.
so much depends
upon
a brash, portly
editor
and whether he’s
eaten
before he reads my
poem.
33 RPM (Poem)
(by Daniel R. Jones)
[Note: this poem was originally printed in Bethel University’s literary journal, “Crossings,” in their Spring 2013 issue. It was the poem chosen for the “Excellence in Creative Writing-Poetry” award.]
The record spun, and the needle sung,
And tonight, he’s singing Sinatra.
And as the scraped LP
spinning 33,
was rung through the lungs
and the piano keys.
Candles are lit,
as we sit, just you and me.
The needle grinds in 4:4 time,
the song is sweet, and you are mine.
Dance to silence, kiss to songs;
we heard the words and sung along.
The song then over, crescendo passed,
the needle lifted up at last.
You stayed, and with your fingers traced
the laugh lines cast across my face.
And the touch and brush of your own hand
composed more poems than mine ever can.
Up from my heart arises a song,
that bids you come and sing along.
