A Sheltered Life – an original poem

A Sheltered Life
by T. K. Jones

“She needs friends,” the mother says.
“But I don’t think she wants friends.”
She takes another long drag from her Virginia Slims
Not realizing it was largely her own fault
that her daughter had no friends.
No, not a single one
Always caged up in the apartment
A sheltered childhood
Preteen years of dwindling invitations
To the beach or to the mall
Not that anyone ever had any money to spend
“I can’t.”
“I’m not allowed to.”
She’d sigh, half whimpering, into the phone.
“She won’t let me go.”

The girl becomes strange.
Stranger than before.
A stranger now
A stranger stranger.
Some days not responding, or even acknowledging
Anyone or anything
A catatonic state.
Other days speaking in riddles and rhymes
In a low, ethereal voice much like a weeping cello

“She doesn’t have any friends,” her mother would tell everyone
as a matter-of-factly at family gatherings,
Leaving out the part about when her daughter was just a child
and asked if she would ever get married
The mother’s reply was, “No.
I’m the only friend you’ve got in this world.”
Destined for spinsterhood
An Emily Dickinson life.
An Emily Dickinson death.

Copyright © 2015 T. K. Jones

Why Two Chairs? — an original poem

I wrote a paradelle poem. I think by looking at the poem you can figure out the form. I learned about this form from Poetic Asides in the current issue of WD.

“Why Two Chairs?”
by T. K. Jones

Waited all week for a thunderstorm.
Waited all week for a thunderstorm.
I love gardening in the rain.
I love gardening in the rain.
Gardening, I waited for love in the rain.
A thunderstorm all week.

Some people wait all their lives for love.
Some people wait all their lives for love.
There just can not be someone for everyone.
There just can not be someone for everyone.
Some people can just wait for someone all their lives.
There be not love for everyone.

Would it not be sad to live and die alone?
Would it not be sad to live and die alone?
Wondering why you bought two chairs for the table.
Wondering why you bought two chairs for the table.
Live to die alone. Two sad chairs and wondering why.
Would it not be for the table you bought?

Some people love their lives, for love. For everyone can not wait
All week, all alone, I waited. There would be sad rain
In the thunderstorm, wondering why not. You bought a table for someone,
the two chairs just for it. To be, live and die gardening.

Copyright © 2015. T. K. Jones. All Rights Reserved.

Part 2: Fibonacci Poetry

Here are 4 more Fibonacci poems I’ve written:

“A Reason for Mermaids. A Season for Drowning.”

Sinking Ships
with beautiful songs
No one will save you from drowning.

“What is it That I Want?”

Something more
But how do I get
What I’m not even sure about?

“So This is Dying”

The abyss
with its gaping mouth
I see no ledge to hang on to.

“Easy to Forget”

name is
Terri Jones.
Just kidding. You’ll forget me soon.

Part 1: Fibonacci Poetry

What is a “Fibonacci poem?” It’s a poem that has 6 lines and follows this certain pattern:

Line 1: 1 syllable
Line 2: 1 syllable
Line 3: 2 syllables
Line 4: 3 syllables
Line 5: 5 syllables
Line 6: 8 syllables

Here are three Fibonacci poems I’ve written:

“With Age — Understanding”

I will
why things are this way
and why things didn’t turn out right.

“Lord Bacon: concealed poet”

a Fraud.
Sir Francis Bacon,
He is the poet and playwright.

“It’s One or the Other”

No Gray
In between
There is no middle
No maybe. No uncertainty.

Why don’t you give it a go? It’s pretty easy… and addicting. I’ve written a bunch of these and will be posing them in installments!

Plath and Thanatology

Plath and Thanatology

by T. K. Jones

Standing between the theatre and film building
with a girl from my creative writing class
The only one I made friends with
She always wore wooden clogs and fuzzy striped socks
She is. She is. She is.
I’m telling her about Sylvia Plath’s journals
And having read The Bell Jar in my high school Thanatology class
Thanatology? — Yes, the study of death and dying. — Wow, really?
Of course, it attracted all the goths and beatniks
The depressive types and outwardly aloof
I recalled a passage Plath wrote about picking her nose
And wiping her boogers under the furniture
The other girl laughs and I tell her it’s a must read! The novel and the journals.
“You’ll love them!”

© 2015, T. K. Jones

Night Falls Fast

Night Falls Fast

a poem

by T. K. Jones

Your life is a single day. Some days are long. Others are short.
When you wake up, you don’t get to choose the length of your day.
Depending on the season. Depending on the reason.
The night falls fast for some. But for others, night goes on and on. They get more time.
If night falls fast, you can become a star in the sky. You can learn to fly.
But it can be sad if anyone cares about you. If not, then it doesn’t matter, does it?
Let my night fall fast. For heaven’s sake, let night fall fast.

© June 2015, T. K. Jones