Mrs. Jones

In the darkest hour before dawn, she basked in a cliche

Centripetal circulation of blood as if moaning, ancient plumbing through her vacant hallways

Where no more palpitated joy nor laughter

Grey layers of time smother the shine of her eyes, dusty with dry want

Outside those fickle panes, a soulful satiation of autumn rain

She remains raspy with desiccation, no seasonal torrents, tides of salty sorrow

Whet her whispered, muttered pleas for reprieve

So quietly couched in unspoken poetry

Too meager of spirit to face the storm with naked gaze

As a shameless hippie in a roadside squall

Clothing herself instead with disposable expressions, cheaply made platitudes

Fooling only other fools with her clumsy sleight-of-hand

Just like a chattering monkey who stands on a higher branch

And thinks himself taller than the rest

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2 thoughts on “Mrs. Jones

  1. I wrote a similar poem about my mum once. I think one of the lines were “with her permanent pressed emotions she kept a safe distance from regurgitating babies and her children’s bleeding hearts.”
    I like your poetry keep it up.

    Like

  2. gspottedpen

    The imagery is very complex, one of abstractness and beautifully laced with the reality of tropes. The writing is so elegant and lyrical, reaching the depths of the sublime. Anand Bose from Kerala

    Liked by 1 person

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