Paul Steffan Jones 1st


 

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Cabin Fever


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2021-01-17

Steam escapes from tears

the dream of the sleep punk

those guitar solos based on choruses

lull me to lullaby absence

my participation on the edge 

of the plantation of easy guilt

trying to keep safe in the attacking air

dry in the angered rainfall

as water percolates from the eaves

roads that meander through the forest

and around its scraped-out mines

its quarried foreheaded depressions

also leak and leach generously 

they’ve left a few trees standing 

in the meadow to remind us of trees

the mirage of a cared-for landscape

the deception of orderly lifestyles 

the ludicrousness of plans at times like these

Posted in: Poetry | 2 comments

A Wedding


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2020-12-13

Near-deserted lanes mid way up low hills 

the sodden escarpments of unfashionable zones

unvisited by most who know of their existence

in this interlude when a shadow cajoles our attention

the damp hushed houses of this year’s departed

dust on shelves weeds between paving slabs

awaiting tidying up and reinvigoration

and the lengthy sigh of a decision reached

(starling darlings lingering watch unwatched)

among the personal effects in those corners 

not accessed in a period compromised 

by the seizing up of bones 

and the disorder of failing and forgetfulness

an antique from the top of a wedding cake but whose?

two figures a bride and her groom

he minus his head his sacrifice 

making them equal in height

(can mementos metamorphosize into voodoo dolls?)

how had he come to lose his head? 

how was he relevant to the widower 

in whose former home it was found?

who and when did they represent?

what I am to do now that this imperfected tribute

this broken inheritance is in my possession 

the only one that has raised its head to me?

Posted in: Poetry | 2 comments

Decline to Monoglottism


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2020-11-20

I listen to and learn from the eulogy

for a poet from my village recognised in his death

this awaits me or vice versa

or verses versus verses 

a book is not its cover

but a chimera to ward off stereotypification

a taxi ride among a cavalcade of red tail lights

to where the bokeh is okay

I met Billy and his grandson Ryan in the x-ray waiting room

his eyes had red circles around them

as if he'd spent a lifetime crying

he joked he'd been hiding behind a tent 

at the siege of Rorke's Drift

and that I'd limped with a different leg on leaving

not much chance to use the old language here

where Iolo Morganwg tells me to buck up

in a minaret multi storey car park 

named after our patron saint

our capital city its smart centre

the ordinary radiating roads

(who are they named after?)

the tarmaced-together suburbs

their Chinese supermarkets and eateries

the heirs of the enquiring minds 

that dreamed up gunpowder navigation and printing

I sniff around the outskirts of the spirit skirt

and the gaps in people 

some good gaps some not so

but do the flatlands feel the imprint

of the inundations of their moulding?

Posted in: Poetry | 0 comments

New Halloween


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2020-10-31

Waterloo

Peterloo

portaloo

no can do

in Manchester

Liverpool

Newcastle

Nottingham too

no can do

dead man's shoes

dead man's hand

do the right thing

you and all

hands face space

waste of space

new rules for scrubbed old hands

I'll try to remember

but feels like I'm back 

in work or school

Eat Out to Help Out

aka Eat Out to Help The Virus

I was there too

I took the money

I dined at that trough

like everything else

masks constantly evolve 

from the Lone Ranger

to the werewolf

from PPE

to mandatory wear

whilst enjoying the retail experience

to the jaundiced faces

of our corrupt politicians

first they wanted to save the NHS

now the mission is to save Christmas

but let’s get through this Halloween first

as the country closes its doors again

the leaves mulch and the light weakens

and the ghosts come back

to interrupted conversations

those things we wish we’d said

Posted in: Poetry | 0 comments

Top of The Flops


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2020-10-22

Flop

flip flop

from one bad decision

one delay to the next

no fillip fulfilled

but flopped enough

flimsy filleted conscience

flame grilled ideation

sears the nation

flannel fans

the sidelined fans

the tarts and flans

the dollops lollop

unable to gallop

the plumped up

propped up plops

that rule rather than govern

glib guff

guilt gripped

gulped

ending griped

top hat toffs

lop off that lot

lorded and loafed

yet levelled little

you're having a laugh

Posted in: Poetry | 2 comments

Part Two


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2020-10-17

One two three tier lockdowns

in a two tier country

the second wave

a two tier cake

for the Great British Bake Off

the Great British Shut Down

tier suggesting structure

when none is present

Covidspeak

curve and peak

hands face space

test and trace

fear and inequality

cases and capacity

untruths and nepotism

loss and pessimism

please don't speak Covid to me

I'm just waiting for a vaccine

waiting for another year

better than this one

for the next TV presentation

by the scientists

with all the gravitas

of a wartime broadcast

of grown-ups telling us

the worst of news

the maps and graphs

different colours

different shades

sliding slideshows

the climbing lines

out of our minds with unease

the creep of a disease

over land and through the air

Posted in: Poetry | 0 comments

Dance On


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2020-10-03

A masked ball

coverings of many colours

patterns and materials

those beautiful surgical gowns

social distance dancing

move those hips

waltz away regrets

trance into herd immunity

as the local lowdowns creep closer

more local

be vocal about your future

your survival

dance on my lovely

what will be will be

hold my hand and promise

to keep your balance

try not to slip up

in the ballroom of spores

Posted in: Poetry | 2 comments

Boats in The Bay


By Paul Steffan Jones AKA, 2020-10-03

Edge of an armada

liminal keels

keening over the bay

on a fateful day

limping blooded

wasped by frigates

and hawk-faced wreckers

trying to get away

invasion doesn't always reward

though this is not our fight

this is our day

and for this you will pay

your cannons fall silent

spiked by salt water

to the depths you dive

to the mystery of our bay

Posted in: Poetry | 0 comments
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