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Poetry & Such

Your host: poet & editor: Esmond Jones

Welcome to my web site!

I'm editor of Panda... a quarterly poetry magazine...
I also pen my own poetry... when I find time
and inspiration taps me on the shoulder.

It might seem like

I'm extending a helping hand

but really, Im reaching

for my life.







He saw the human race

as a lethargic angst,

(it crushed him)

a furtive arrangement

of elementary particles,

a transitional shape

on the way to chaos:

cold, empty heavens,

streaked by dying stars.


He was dried fruit,

had never married.

Where had he left his car?

He could say it was stolen,

theyd believe him,

the police, his friends,

there were as many

car thefts as stars.





Hot Day


What little breeze there is, is lukewarm,

plumb hems of curtains hardly waver,

even though windows are flung wide open

      like a grandfathers arms

           at the ready to scoop up

               the sprightly approaching grandchild.

Dogs are not so brisk, loll in shades,

     their pink tongues hang, drip.




No More Hugs


Last remnants of feminism disrobed,

discarded bras used as slingshots

by pop-shot teens, who rather slay than lay.

Men snip gold rings from their lobes,

flex muscles to stay leaders.

Its all too much for granny,

who has no outlet for her love.






Old Remedies


In as much pain as this I am an easy touch,

easily swayed, ready to pay any sum

for some remission, and you come up with

the perfect fix, a balanced mix:

tobacco, cannabis.


This is great, man! 60s revisited:

golden years of that cool Millennium,

flowers in the hair, beads,

two digit signs, miles of smiles

and softer tongues.












Mixing with Aliens


Temulent winebibbers jiffle

among shoppers along the High Street.

Going nowhere, they U-turn

before the throng filters to a dribble,

not wanting to be kenspeckle

to street-cleaning cops.


The sots are deadpan,

behind which, one cant help but think,

theres an autobiography

that cries for elaqueate.

A would-be bestseller, a mixture

of rhathymia and woebegoness,

but we only get to see the wrap.


Back home, huddled under arches

alongside the canal, they gongoozle;

talk little of their day out:

smell of fresh clothes, buzz of aliens.










I'm not sure whether it was right or left,

the odd trainer in my holdall,

but I do recall the song

that played while I packed.

But you don't even need to know that.

The subwoofer's tremors

along the laminated flooring

would have to be felt to set your mood.

This is where we should start:

the unpacking room,

the clatter

of locker doors,

the sizing up.

Has anyone got a spare pair of eights?

No positive answers,

just jibes.

I would save my tears for beyond the tape,

tears, in which I'd bathe my woes.

Maybe you should know, it was

Elton John, I'm Still Standing.







You can e-mail me at:

Esmond Jones
46 First Avenue
West Glamorgan