Esmond Jones & Panda
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Photos of Poets 1

Photos of Poets 2


Some of my stuff

 

 

Bard in the Square

 

He drank himself bronze: thirteen bucketfuls

of old pennies, fused and plunked

onto a pedestal, silenced of his utterances.

 

Love or loathe, you can’t ignore this metal mute.

Cameras snap like dogs at him, winds whirl

and growl around him, gulls and pigeons splat him.

 

He’s as cold as the November he sits in;

you want to throw a coat across his shoulders;

come June he’ll beg for a cool lager.

 

Moon-eyed, he glints on crowds

in and out the mall; if you’re low neck-lined,

long-legged and short-skirted, look up,

 

see his moons beam.

As with his verse, he lures and stirs and foxes.

He’s the Uplands man, who shipped himself

 

to a plenteous land and watched from the aft

his orchard dwindle to a pip; he took with him

the flesh of its fruit and choked on it.

 

(c) Esmond Jones 2004

 

***

 

Making Slow Progress

 

The sodden sod squelches, sucks

at the gumboot, wraps the calf in rubber.

 

The flannel sock tightens round the skin

that itches like a healing scab.

 

Overhead, a flotilla of geese

scratch the sky; knee-jerking each step,

I’m mocked for my lack of mobility.

 

(c) Esmond Jones 2004

 

*** 

 

Hot at Lords

 

Slam the long swelter of afternoon

to the boundary of your mind;

hold this moment when the ball

is sliced off the edge of the bat,

upwards and backwards,

then falls toward unmanned space;

follow the fielder as he back-peddles

and fills the vacant portion of field,

reaches beyond his arm’s stretch,

picks the ball from its loop,

like a ripe peach from a swaying branch.

 

(c) Esmond Jones 2004

  

Some stuff published in Panda

 

Bandanna Bandit Heads to Senorita Land

 

Highway sorrow sucks bloody heart
blowing body parts into
Mexico,
between
midnight thighs of Acunua.

Asphalt belly strokes past pavement
to places left behind. Time forgets all
longings, insanity, grinning nights.

Can't be anyone's lover/child.
Eyes crash on top billboard, loops around ramp,
breathes fire, a commune with flighty owls.

This is somehow what dreams dived for:
road slave running on lam from gravity,
outdistancing loss. Walking wanted.

Back turned against southerly winds
pulling suitcase; checker covered cardboard,
right thumb up and out, bent and pointed.

 

  

(c) Sarah Piclesimer Wilson

 

 

***

 

How Like a Cup

 

How like a cup of beaten gold, so full

Of sensuous sorcery, consecrate.

Great Suliman spread out his sultanate

Before you. While Great Constantinople

He proffered as a jewel. He swore to cull

For you The Temple of the Sun, incorporate

The stars, like jewels, in beaten silver plate,

As well a ruby-eyed and silver skull.

 

So fashioned like a goddess, and your smile

Like incandescent spells beyond the stars.

Your legs, ten thousand miles of loveliness,

Made great Suliman whimper. You beguile

All the bright orbs of heaven, bring distress

To all men here at home or distant Mars.

 

 

(c) Michael Fantina

 

13901

 

Esmond Jones ~ editor Panda Poetry


 



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