Three Poems by Tony Jones


To the Pain


en faveur de la guerre a l’outrance
Viet Minh in crazy hats, Hanoi is
bombed again, the Empire will
be lost. The giant across the
ocean stirs in Pachydermian slumber
and the dollars begin to flow like
million-dollar drops down a stalactite.

de Tassigny is dead.
Les Parachutistes, ils sont tous morts, lui.
The Viet Minh are still there.
My brother is all gone.

Tobacco stains on troubled
fingers, rice paddies heaped to
kingdom coming with the brutes
of dead and the curs of delinquency,
the urns mobiles and the gunpowder
slap of fightpowered Wehrmacht
veterans who died at Dien Bien Phu
eleven years after surviving
Stalingrad. But the Imperial machine
is still not dead.



Infield Aquinas

teas in the
dented kettle
reading Aquinas
with my blonde
time was
no thing to
you – screen door
pops and cracks
heat lightning
summer bug
clouds hover over
the pool, easier to
watch from the porch
than try to swim
as the dust swirls slowly
over the softball diamond.



Sea of Mirrored Sorrow

lightning arc of joys
that babble, become
fluid speech. You taste
the salt, brine crusts your
skin, you start to dry, you
start to heave, lie singing
gentle in the shallow water,
foam-memory tugs you,
mirrow of sorrow, angle
of dream;
cry melts to moan,



–Tony Jones



Tony Jones is a 36 year old poet who has been writing seriously for 21 years, and has been published in journals like Virginia Writing and Kronos. He lives in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, and took a succession of dead-end jobs that were nonetheless very productive of creative inspiration, though generally in a negative way, before deciding to finish his Masters in Religion, which occupies him presently. He lives with a cat, Sibyl, and far too many books on history, philosophy, theology, science fiction and, well, you get the picture…

Copyright © Tony Jones and Spinozablue, 2008. All Rights Reserved.


Three Poems by Tony Jones
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