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I.
It looks like
fog
from my window

II.
The hum of my
air purifier
blots everything out
sound wise

III.
And outside
everything is covered in
the gray
haze.

IV.
When I leave my room
my lungs -
already weak and
malfunctioning, on the best of days -
choke,
cough,
and reject what I put in them.

V.
I hope
the fires
clear up.
I.
I don't think I
ever
spoke to you
at all.

II.
Gone and
killed yourself at
college.

III.
Funny the first words I'd ever say to you
would be a goodbye
you'd never
hear.
A man in the corner whistles a melody long forgotten, except by him

People walk by and continue their day without paying him any mind

Yet still he whistles

He whistles a tune that sounds so familiar that if I told you the name you would sigh relief

Ask him for the name next time you should meet

He'll be the one on the corner.

Whistling his solemn soliloquy
 Nov 2014 mybarefootdrive
Jack
To the poets on HP,

I wanted to use this space to say Happy Thanksgiving to everyone on HP. Whether you celebrate the holiday or not, we all have many things to be thankful for if we just take the time to look. I personally am thankful for each and every one of you who share your poetry with me and read and enjoy my work.  I am very thankful for all of the kindness I have been shown on this site. I appreciate it so very much.

I hope your day is filled with family, friends, happiness and many things to be thankful for.

Jack
 Nov 2014 mybarefootdrive
Harsh
She's
not just a girl.
No, one cannot simply
call her a girl.

She's
a storm,
a storm with skin, bound by
passion and dreams.

She's
a temptation,
her body a fire,
My senses a helpless moth.

She's
a maestro,
her laugh being
the sweetest symphony of all.

She's
a lioness,
the way she perseveres,
fights, and defends.

She's
a diamond,
brilliant and rare,
to be cherished and protected.

She's
a mile,
but only if
beauty was an inch.
Because it's her favorite.
Nos Calan Gaeaf, the night before winter
we sit cwtched over bowls of cawl
hot steaming broth
by tradition lamb with vegetables
whatever comes to hand
leeks, carrots, tatws, swedgon
cabbage or kale, shredded
deep green leaves though
not the pale stuff
that disolves in the stewing
before it gets to the bowl
a dash of herbs perhaps
and a touch of pepper
the cwtching and the steam
make this as much an experience
of inhalation as of taste

And when the last drop is gone
the liquid focus turns to cwrw
that's ale if you're Sais
and the singing begins
not all hymns and arias
anything counts, all is game
so long as voices are raised

Amid the singing, thoughts turn
to those who sat in years past
drinking cawl and cwrw
and raising their voices
but sit and eat and drink
and sing no more
though in the flickerng light
of candle and lamp and fire
seem once more present on this night

Cynthia Pauline Jones, October 30th 2014
A poem for halloween... written for a reading at a Halloween-themed evening organised by my local Writers Group on October 30th 2014. In Wales, the night of October 31st has traditionally been celebrated as Nos Calan Gaeaf which translates as The Night Before Winter. A short glossary may be helpful:
Cwtch – to huddle, hunch over, or cuddle
Cawl – a stew or broth, as described in the poem
Tatws – potatoes
Swedgon – swede, or rutabaga
Cwrw – beer
Sais – English
They say I'm pretty good with words
but the tunes they just don't come
you know if I could make the notes align
I'd write you a song to make you shine
and have Kylie come and sing it
in your living room

Cynthia Pauline Jones 7/10/2014
 Nov 2014 mybarefootdrive
r
you came in from the cold dressed bold
under a black flag like isis on the road
to baghdad in a red ferrari going all john
le carré defecting with the little drummer
girl laurie in a deadly affair expecting
the honourable school boy when i'm used
to being a most wanted man -

now i'm no naïve and sentimental lover, baby
i'm the perfect spy and this ain't a small town
in germany but ich bin ein berliner, fraulein -
you better make this your last call for the dead

- it was (y)our kind of game playing
tinkering tailoring soldiering spying -
doodling smiley's people on the side
acting like absolute friends with fred
the constant gardener at the russia house
and red the tailor of panama
like a ***** with a straw up your nose
in the looking glass war
but if you do it again -

let me tell you a secret, pilgrim
i'll drop you where you lie -
it'll be a ****** of quality, baby
and that's a delicate truth

- you were our kind of traitor
on the blue mesa.

r ~ 11/14/14

i like john le carré
:)
Babe called me Film Noir
Said my head was darker than onyx, ashes and ebony,
And I was soaking in a solace that was felt with my presence,
Like hot candle wax dripped down the spine.

Film Noir with more than fifty shades of grey,
And messages I liked to leave in his pants pocket
"God is Dead" to deepen his uncertainty of faith.
Merlot on my tongue like a mouthful of blood while I watch him unravel.

Babe called me Film Noir
Said I always felt like home,
Like home was hell and made you anxious and suicidal,
Like a door with nothing behind it.

Film Noir that was art and lovely and terrifying.
And appreciated for it's talent of deepening wounds that were thought to be already healed.
Then kissed them apologetically, stitching them closed,
But so insincere.

Maybe now he's my Film Noir,
So tragically ending our love.
Like broken china on the floor of the parlor,
So precious to look at, but unusable and a waste.
Till the day he took his life
Babe called me Film Noir.
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