A Christmas Wish: A Poem

A Christmas Wishcamel 3
by
© John Taylor Jones
December 16, 2016

Greetings to those we dearly love!
Thanks to God who rules above,
Who gives us life
On this blue globe
And hope from Him
His Holy Son.

Our love to you
Who have lost friends and kin,
life for them has just began
In God’s Great Kingdom
To never end.

As I grow old
As a gnarled oak tree
I see you in God
And God in Thee.
He has given thee truth
And set you free!

Our love to You All!
Merry Christmas and Feliz Navidad!
John and Pat Jones
tjbooks@yahoo.com

John and Pat Jones

John and Pat Jones

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A Poem: A Lump of Coal and a Stick of Wood

Santa

Santa

A Lump of Coal and a Stick of Wood

by

John Taylor Jones

12 /December 2016

Santa was real,
That was for sure.
We saw him in every
Department Store.

We had no money
For gifts or such,
But could sit on Santa’s lap
And ask for a truck.

It took great courage
To climb up on Santa.
But why so many Santas,
One in every store?
Some were only helpers.
That was for sure.

As we got older,
We decided some where fakes.
A jerk on the beard
Would that dilemma break.

But some Santas
Disliked that
And became extra angry.
We ran likidy split
To safety and laughter.

Santa came to our house
Not the true one for sure.
It could be the man up the street,
Or the big boy next store.

But we didn’t care,
We still shook in our boots.
We looked for that gift
He surely would bring.
We didn’t sleep that night,
The Night Before Christmas.
We listened for reindeer,
Their hooves on our roof.
A sure sign of Santa
For that was our proof.

We listened and watched,
We could not sleep.
Finally we lined up
At the parlor door.
Don, then me, then Lorna,
Followed by Pearl and Dot,
Then Aaron and Alice.

And all the time
We waited for that door to open,
Aaron said Our Reward for being bad
Was a lump of coal and a stick of wood.

We believed what he said,
But hoped for more,
When at last
Dad opened the door.

There were our gifts,
Stacked on the floor.
Not much for sure
But more that we had before.

I always knew what I would get,
Dad could never not tell me.
He got so excited,
He always spilled the beans.
So I always searched the house,
But Dad was good at hiding things,

When Dad had no money,
The Church members
Brought us Christmas.
But the best think we had
Was always, Mom’s turkey dinner.

The End

Merry Christmas from Pat and John Jones

John and Pat Jones

John and Pat Jones Links to mysweetheartgifts.com

tjbooks@yahoo.com
213 3rd Ave N
Buhl, ID 83316

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The Year My Cousin’s Died: Christmas Poem 2016

Introduction:

I usually write a Christmas poem. I wrote this one and decided it was too dark to sent out. Then I realized that there are not many left to send it to. But, here it is: John

The Year My Cousin’s Died

By

Taylor Jones

I’m running out of friends.
I’m running out of cousins.
It is hurts to remember them.
It’s sad to see them go.

Friends

I used to have a boodle of them,
But now I have a few.
Friends Bob and Dick and Larry
And “Dunk,” Joe and Jerry
Have gone their merry way.

Army buddies, I have two.

Cousins

I found Leticia late this year,
A moment of great joy.
I hadn’t seen her since the war,
About 75 years ago.
But it was as if we
Had never left each other,
Laughing at the same old chatter,
Remembering all as if it
Were the day before.
We planned to meet in Layton
but the Grim Reaper
Jerked her from my heart.

Esra T called me,
Said he was going to die.
Georgia’s son drove me to
Salt Lake the next day
And dear Mark met us
At his bedside.

Two weeks later,
Dear Patrick drove me down,
We told Es goodbye,
No more clowning around.

At the funeral,
Dorothy and I met Lamar,
My Aunt Edith’s son,
The last of her children.
There were no other cousins there
Because we are running out of cousins—
We have few to spare.

We have only memories left
To light the path
that we must take.

Hope to see some of you around next year!

John and Pat Jones

John and Pat Jones

John and Pat Jones

213 3rd Ave N
Buhl, ID 83316
Cell 208-308-7057

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One Crumbly Day: A Poem by Solomon Seasaw

One Crumbly Day

Robert Lewis Stevenson said that he never felt well enough to write one day in his life, but if he did not get out of bed, nothing would have been accomplished. Links to RLS at Amazon.com

Robert Lewis Stevenson said that he never felt well enough to write one day in his life, but if he did not get out of bed, nothing would have been accomplished. Links to RLS at Amazon.com


by
John Taylor Jones

I woke up
From my crumbly bed,
Stepped down and fell
Upon my head.

I scrubbed the teeth
In my crumbly mouth,
A tooth fell out—
That thankless louse.

A flame broke out
While I was frying bacon.
When my crumbly house burned down,
I became a vagrant.

The street cleaners came
To wash down the street.
I was soaked to my crumbly skin—
Which was not neat.

I was knocked into the gutter
By the water’s great power.
The police dragged me out with no little prudence.
I was tossed in the crumbly jail as a public nuisance.

The crumbly judge had no
Faith in me.
He sent me off
To the Penitentiary.

I spent twenty years
In that crumbly hole.
When I got out,
I became a mole.

That is what I am now,
A crumbly mole,
Afraid of his shadow
And no place to go.

The world is not kind
To this crumbly waif.
It’s because things didn’t go my way
On that one crumbly day.

The End

Denali: Painting by author.

Denali: Painting by author.

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Death: A Poem

Death

Painting by Author

Painting by Author

by
John Taylor Jones, Ph.D.
June 8, 2016

Death lies in wait
To unsuspecting prey.
Sometimes creeping, crawling,
Sometimes pouncing, brawling,
Tearing, slicing, eating away,
Life’s living will.

John

Korea 1951. I was a forward observer in the 17th Infantry at the time.

Korea 1951. I was a forward observer in the 17th Infantry at the time.

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Men’s Hearts Shall Fail Them: A Poem

Introduction:

The poem is kind of dreary so let’s watch a more cheerful video from the President of the Quorum of Apostles of the LDS Church. He is a prominent heart surgeon. Elder Russell M. Nelson shares a personal story to give encouragement for when we feel “weak in the heart.”

Men’s Hearts Shall Fail Them

Ring-necked Duck painting by author.

Ring-necked Duck painting by author.

by
John Taylor Jones
May 25, 2016

Desperation comes in many ways,
Death lies in wait all our days.

Why, it was only the other day
When death came our way—
The winds whirling, swirling out of the West,
Twisting, lifting, ripping, tearing,
Rending, splintering, shattering, ear splitting—
Sending brick and timbers into the air—
Sending men and beast a flying—
Separating the living from the dead.

Sometimes a lion—

My Painting of a Mute Swan

My Painting of a Mute Swan

Sometimes a snake—
But always near
Death lies in wait—
It strikes!
It pounces!
It bites deep and crushes.
It send you back from whence you came;
Down into the deep Earth—
It laughs while loved ones mourn—
It sneers at the cost of your death—
Death has a treacherous heart.

Korea 1951. I was a forward observer in the 17th Infantry at the time.

Korea 1951. I was a forward observer in the 17th Infantry at the time.

In Korea in 1951,
I walked across the vacant fields—
Stubble was the only sign of life.
I walked into the vacant home
Where once an extended Korean family
Cooked and ate and played with their kids.
In the inner court yard,
I could hear the children laughing—
I could see the young man hugging his bride.
I could see the old man with his black top hat,
Looking like Abraham Lincoln,
Smoking his pipe and laughing
At the antics of his grandchildren.
I knew what happened to such families—
The men were killed
Or captured and sent off to the north.
Some were able to flee to the South.
The family was together no more.
I could feel the cold breath of death.

Thousands had died in that valley,
Americans, Turks, British, French,
Algerians, Chinese.
Some of their remains were there.
Some of their equipment was there.
They were not there—
Some were shredded by machine-gun fire
As they tried to flee—
Chinese trying to escape death
From the air
As they tried to flee to the North.
And a brave machine gun sergeant
From our company
Had paid dearly on the hill to the west
Of which I care not to think.
War is always with us
Somewhere on this planet—
And we still have the audacity
To think about moving through space
To other worlds.
We would not be welcome,
Killers from Planet Earth.

There is more coming!
This planet will shed its outer skin
In the heat of an expanding sun.
That will be nothing new to us—
The earth has been through six (6) extinctions.

The One who said that in the last days
That men’s hearts would fail them,
Said, “These things I have spoken unto you,
that in me ye might have peace.
In the world ye shall have tribulation:
but be of good cheer;
I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

That is our hope and prayer!

John

John T. Jones, Ph.D.

John T. Jones, Ph.D.

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Bacon: A Poem

Baconbacon
by
John T Jones, PhD
May 18, 2015

Bacon is everywhere
You go,
If you’re a hog,
Don’t be slow!

Bacon createsGrunt
Heart problem fears.
We have bacon coming
out of our ears.

I talked to a hog,hog
Just the other day.
He said, if I had wings,
I would fly away.

Yes, he would rather fly
Than fry.
I can certainly see
The reason why.

The End

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The Not Mad Nomad

camel 3The Not Mad Nomad
by
John Taylor Jones

A nomad rode out
On the desert one day,
Across the scorching sand.
With no compass,
Map or GPS,
He already knew the land.

No one knew
Why he rode out that day
In the stifling desert heat.
But if he had
A spat with his wife:
What would simply be a repeat.

Her words could easily
Tear the hair
Off a camel’s back.
They could easily
Send him on his way
Across the desert tract.

Then the desert winds
Whispered to me,
“Her words are
Like a whipping lash.
Talk about a women’s ire,
She is very full of sass.”

The man said to his camel,
“She’s not all
That bad, you know.”
Camel, Melwah, said back to him,
“Afzal, The Better One,
She’s worse than a hammer throw!”

Afzal said to Melway,
“I’m not angry with Abal,
She is my desert rose.”
Melway said to Afzal,
“Abal has thorns and spikes
That she jabs you with
Day and night!
She has hatred in her toes.”

“I’m not mad,”
Said the nomad.
No, I’m not mad at all.”
“It’s a bad storm coming,”
Said Melway.
“Let’s take cover, Afzal!”

The winds were strong
And endless.
Sand blew here and there.
They buried Melway and Afzal.
Nobody knew quite where.

Abal sent out her family
To find her lost Afzal.
They searched for several days,
But they found nothing at all.

She cried for days
Saying that she was wrong.
Her awful words
Had sent him out,
And now Afzal was gone.

The desert winds
Again whispered to me,
“Afzal has no anger still.
However the camel,
Melway thinks Abal
Will always be a Shrill.”

Then the wind came back
Another day to say,
“Abal has changed her ways.
She is humbled
Into Quietness,
She never speaks a word.
She said that she
Will not speak again
Lest out comes evil words.”

The winds blew on and
Uncovered Afzal’s grave.
His body was taken to Abal
Where he rests this day.

She planted roses
To remember him
As one who had no guile.
Her man that she had
Sent away because
She had such bile.

Now her tears
Water her roses.
Ad she dreads the day
That anger conquered
Pleasantness
And sent her man away.

The End

camel not mad 2

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Death Is Highly Overrated

36x camera july 2013 108Death Is Highly Overrated

tjb logoby
John Taylor Jones

Death is highly overrated.
I’ll tell you that right now.
Especially now in the wintertime
With ice and snow and all.

I know this is not poetic stuff.
I know it’s much too blunt.
No true poet would do it,
Perform such a silly stunt.

When I pass the cemetery
Down the road from here,
I put my ear against the frozen earth
And rattling bones I hear.

I heard a voice just yesterday,
“What happened to the sun?
Buried in this frozen earth
Is certainly is not much fun.”

Another voice said something else,
Something I didn’t want to hear.
“Freezing my arse is one bad thing,
But the skin worm died in my ears.”

I had enough of those voices,
Squealing from the grave.
Rattling, rattling those freezing bones,
Why can’t the dead behave?

When old Bill Jinks called up to me,
“John, send down a kerosene heater!
But if you have a whiskey flask
That would be even neater.”

So I poured whiskey on his grave,
That cold spot in the earth.
I listen carefully for a while.
I’m sure I heard him burp.

I climbed back into my old truck,truck
My heart was filled with fear.
I turned the key, stepped on the gas.
“I’m getting out of here!”

The End

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On a Freezing Winter Morning

Robert Lewis Stevenson

Robert Lewis Stevenson

On a Freezing Winter Morning
by
John Taylor Jones
December 31, 2014

This freezing winter morning
I wanted not to get out of bed.
There was no reason to do any work this day,
That was only in my head.

After all, I have not worked at all
For over 20 years.
Not true work, not needed work
To chase away my my fears
Of Demon Debt snatching me
And putting me in arrears.

No, there was no needed work
To be done.
I could surely wait
For a friendlier Mr. Sun.

Then I thought,
What kind of example would that be
If I simply stayed in my stead?
Wouldn’t that break
Ben Franklin rule
To wake up and get out of bed?

Robert Louis Stevenson said,
Not a day went by
That he felt well enough to work,
But he chose to work every day
And not be a shirking jerk.

I keep his picture on the wall
To remind me of his will.
He wrote away on stories great
That thrill our children still.

Where would Jim Hawkins be
Without a treasure to find?
No, “Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest-
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!”
No dangerous pirates
To worry about,
No Billy Bones,
No Ben Gunn.

Was I really going to lay in bed
And waste away my day?
Was I not going to write
One single word,
No poem, story or play?

I said, Why should I work
On such a terrible day?
Then I got a swift kick
In the rear.
My wife sent me swiftly
On my way.

The End

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