It Rains Cold

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It Rains Cold

 

We take a long drive

to the shore

and collect details

of our life like seashells.

We find everything on

the same beach.

Cracked or whole,

we place them in the bucket,

knowing not to build a castle

out of sand and slime.

 

Shawn R. Jones, 2014

 

 website: www.shawnrjones.com

Author of the devotional book, Pictures in Glass Frames   http://t.co/BxiNwWRG

and the poetry chapbook, Womb Rain, 

http://www.amazon.com/Womb-Rain-New-Womens-Voices/dp/1599242699/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337717218&sr=8-1

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Ocean Drive

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Ocean Drive

By Shawn R. Jones

 

After hours of walking

by green hedge hidden mansions

 

and collecting seashells

with sun-burnt-brown hands,

 

we fell asleep

twisted in each other’s arms

 

with Hampton-clean sand

on our feet.

 

I woke up first,

admiring the four bedpost steeples

 

as I listened to sprinklers

rattle and spit

 

across an already

dew-damp lawn,

 

reminding me of things I love,

but do not need to live,

 

like our cedar shingle brown home

destroyed by Sandy.

Faithful

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Faithful

By Shawn R. Jones

 

Yellow shines

between the blinds

lighting her brown skin

beneath her pale orange gown.

Dark hills stand

to greet the morning man

she spent the night warming

till the blue jay cried outside

the windowpane.

During the day, she

respectfully

sundresses her treasures,

saves his pleasures,

and honors

their name.

Writing on the Deck

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Writing on the Deck at 55 Mountain Fern Drive

 By Shawn R. Jones

 

The small orange sliding board

has been sitting there

fifteen years.

I still see my daughter

walk up its blue ladder

in her purple coat and

pink, and lavender hat.

She is about four.

 

I look over at the

rusted snowmobile.

My son lifts its gray cover

and reaches his small hand inside.

A swarm of wasps whiz

from under its shiny red hood.

My son yells and joins them in flight.

Black framed glasses fly.

His sister cries for him.

 

I stare at the four-wheeler,

wrapped in worn tarp.

Debris from each season

lines its blue wrinkles.

My son walks up the red stoned driveway,

helmet in hand and head down.

He ran the quad into a tree,

showing off for a couple boys his age.

He is ashamed.

 

My eyes avert to the rock pit.

Yellow and blue flames

move like Hula dancers at dusk

as marshmallows crust over

bent twigs, like singed

pussy willows.

Charred goo sticks to our lips.

Brown faces glow with delight.

Snakes slither

from the pit of warm rocks.

 

But we do not worry.

We are not afraid.

The night is too perfect.

 

I stop writing and

walk back in the house.

It is quiet.

Our children are grown.

My husband and I

come up alone now.

 

We browse antique shops and

examine zithers, Roseville pottery,

vintage watches, and signed photos

of living and deceased stars.

We dine at Piggy’s

and enjoy foods

our grown children tell us

we should not eat.

 

We walk by the lake

and take pictures.

Butterflies are shy and

fireflies pose in midair

as black bears

fumble through trashcans

on the side of a wooded road.

 

In winter, we play cards by the fire

and swap secrets like candy

as snow piles up outside for hours.

 

But we do not worry.

We do not regret.

The night is still perfect.

Flimflam Susie

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Flimflam Susie  

By Shawn R. Jones

 

Flimflam Susie has

red gooey lips,

an effervescent smile,

jambalaya hips,

long brown braids

weaved with gold,

trinkets on her wrist,

a diamond in her nose,

deep dark skin like

blackened catfish,

low mysterious eyes of

a voodoo hypnotist,

a gumbo strut

where she keeps her stash

of baby back ribs

and rhythmic jazz

a real…humdinger

you shouldn’t take home.

She flips over men

with her flapjack tongue.

With a razzle dazzle razzmatazz,

she flipped my church son

on his way to morning mass.

His tongue tripped on teeth,

fell through his grin,

hanging like salmon

from a bear’s wet chin.

The last time I saw him

he didn’t know his name.

Ms. “I Ain’t Choosey”

put my rearing to shame.

That two-cent floozie

taught my son how to creep

in and out of rooms

on Bourbon Street.

It really didn’t matter what

I preached at home.

Flimflam Susie had a

sermon of her own.

 

Shawn R. Jones

Author of the devotional book, Pictures in Glass Frames   http://t.co/BxiNwWRG

and the poetry chapbook, Womb Rain, http://www.amazon.com/Womb-Rain-New-Womens-Voices/dp/1599242699/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337717218&sr=8-1

Poem

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Poem

My friend James framed this for me. Thank you so much, James L Lanham Jr.  It is from the following haiku I wrote some years ago:

 

We spill happiness,

watch it like a waterfall,

and clog new worries.