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Joey Jones Poems
My Tears are Ink
My tears are ink for the lines I write about this friend I miss this night a soul to which my spirit rhymed couplets were we, perfectly timed.
Seasons Of Love
Our love was a love whispered in the winds of forever like the rising sun on an eastern horizon it marked the dawn of our tomorrows. Then the dogwood trees spread its flower
Seasons of My Soul
Seasons of My Soul The spring, such a perfect reminisce
This havoc is destroying my days as torrents of strife erode all hope from my soul.
Between life's rise and wane where naivety dawns to wisdom and adventure turns to vigilance we're oft caged in our responsibilities.
Maples Gentle Shade
Today as I sat in the maple's gentle shade my life found pause as I watched them play two tender souls enjoying summer's sun no cares no worries just being young.
As my tomorrows begin their slow steady wane I watch as my somedays are all fading away I find myself stuck here on melancholy lane Idle at the corner of tomorrow and yesterday
(A collaboration with Nick Tamborra) When you my son can stop thinking about only yourself and offer a hand out to another in need that cannot earn or even offer a helping hand without first being told and not expecting or looking for something in return
I'm lost on this endless beach just one desolate grain of sand all alone in the masses no more or no less
She was angel dressed in rags sent from heaven to live in hell her eyes looked but didn't see she could hear but didn't listen
Long Was My Day (Villanelle) Dylan Thom...
Long was my day, Now, Oh how I long for my night My youth now burned as I raved in my yesterday Rest, sweet rest, comes in embracing the fade of light
Elegy for My Best Friend
Oh how I lament the turning of our last page
Unlimited boundless indefinable descriptions.
The Pale Horse
I hear the sound of the pale white horse.
Comments about Joey Jones
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
My Tears are Ink
My tears are ink for the lines I write
about this friend I miss this night
a soul to which my spirit rhymed
couplets were we, perfectly timed.
Alone I am now, a single line of verse
penned deeply in melancholies curse
an endless caesura placed in the way
between my tomorrow and my yesterday
As these tears dry about the friend I adore
I know about him I can compose no more
with my life's own story I must move on
renewing myself with the breaking dawn
His memory I shall forever find here
within this poem written with my tears.