Leo C. Jones
Writing poetry suddenly became my passion after being heavily exposed to literature upon stepping in college.
I think it's a very profound way of expression, the beauty of words and measurements that I can't quite explain, but still love doing. more »
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Leo C. Jones Poems
There you are, a stone's Throw away Seemingly inches, fleeting bits of space But miles and miles and more at the very least
An Conditional Love
I love you If you tell me Now you’ll give The moon to me
The Coffee Machine is Broken Inside
Four thirty, Barely morning, My day starts before the day starts. I bathe,
'Why is it we love? ' We often ask. 'Why do you love her? ' He is asked
I once said I would think of you always I'd get you
The Unfortunate Difference Between Frenc...
French is the language of love and it is love I wish to speak of
The Mamihlapinatapei They Shared
The usual setting: A public pub, Or someone’s party Or a park in the fall,
Re-rolls Exist Only in Board Games
You were the road not taken The turn I could have took My biggest 'what if.' The die was cast and they clattered on the board
A Rainy Morning in a Tropical Country
I wake up to a rainy morning. The pits and pats Pitter and patter on my windows
White-washed walls And white-washed curtains White-washed halls White, clear and certain.
One Way to Look at it
On a folded piece of crumpled paper, Torn from a notebook, Was a hasty mess.
Comments about Leo C. 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)
There you are, a stone's
Seemingly inches, fleeting bits of space
But miles and miles and more at the very least
And I see them: the others.
I think of them with envy,
They are lucky.
Why the unpaved dirt roads of theirs and
Yours of brilliant cobblestone find
themselves at a
Crossing, I don't know.
And here I slope.
But I long that
Fate grant me the privilege
That inevitability, that futility
That ensuring sign
Saying it was written somewhere important
Somewhere that decides what is
Meant to be, ...