Colin F. Jones



Do you know what loneliness is; do you?
It is worse than cancer or the flue.
It drains confidence and instils fear,
Rusts armour with a silent tear.
Few have really been there you know,
No, not even you so don’t think it so,
Tis an empty place where your own voice,
And its echo are your only choice.
That leads to self hate and hope,
That for a lifetime you can cope,
With all those who will not understand,
How could they; life is so grand,
Suffering shared difficulties and woe,
While about other things they don’t know.


We can stand firm beholden to none,
It is the lot of the downtrodden one,
Who clings to his silence and speaks,
Little of the things that he seeks.
The island of silence is loneliness,
Where marooned thought under duress,
Seeks a passing chance to say words,
That he knows will be heard as absurd’s.
Trust others with love or your soul,
You will die with your mind still not whole,
For they will turn on you at the end of the day;
And will have them carry you away
For they will not understand your pain,
As you ask them to deliver it again.


We must be as others would wish,
All baked in the same savoury dish,
That way we are supported by friends,
Who conform to the same acceptable trends.
Being different is not really a virtue,
Tis a phrase that is stated untrue,
By those who are normal like you
Doing the same old things that you do.
Being different means something went wrong,
You never learned the words to the song,
So wherever you go it will rain,
For your brolly just isn’t the same.
Now the moment I wrote this is gone,
Tis unread unabsorbed and done.


But it rains long after the storm has passed,
Ripples linger where the stone was cast,
Nothing tastes sweeter than wine,
But the hangover is less than divine,
Idle time is every mans foe,
But the poet is never idle you know,
For he cannot stop writing his rhyme,
Like a drunk with his bottle of wine,
Revealing his inner self to all,
Vulnerable; exposed to the squall,
Of the biased; the critics and mad,
Leaving him joyous or utterly sad.
At the end of the day in his complex resort,
He is alone with his indelible thought.


It is better to stay warm in your den,
Than to be exposed by your own willing pen
To strike out at tall poppies and nettles,
Or flowers with an array of false petals.
It is better to accept your defeat,
When you know you can never compete,
Though it gnaws at your soul and your heart,
You can’t say what you try to impart.
Only you are distressed by the knowledge,
For no others have attended your college,
Only you know the agony inside,
Only you must swallow your pride.
As you wish life would hurry and end,
For it is fruitless unless you pretend.


Among the educated successful and rich,
Is where I dwell much considered as kitsch,
Some would say in water too deep,
For I have only short legs and my feet,
Are quite small and take up less room,
Than the distance from entry to doom.
But I hang on though I know it is in vain,
Staking my trite uneducated claim,
For I am not supposed to be clever you know,
Tis not the row I have been given to hoe,
Mine is the silence; the absent dry pen,
It is time to crawl back into my den;
For I have exhausted the fire of my rage,
And have written my very last page.


Some who think you do not believe,
Are mostly vain and often naïve,
For they think if you don’t believe as them,
That your soul is vacancy to condemn,
But ah, they break their own fine rule,
And state their bias as a fool.
For belief depends on personal view,
And faith is something personal too,
That what a poet may sometimes write,
Is not necessarily what he believes is right.
But states it as a factual view,
To inspire the reader to think it through,
Yet not all his readers will understand,
Thus they will condemn him out of hand.


I do not exist for the pleasure of another,
Except perhaps for my father and mother,
It matters not what another might think,
Thoughts are designed only to establish a link,
Of communication from the passage of words,
Expressing views as countless as birds.
It seems normal that people are defensive
When you say something they already know,
They don’t acknowledge the words you express,
For they want to put their own knowledge on show.
If you say that a headache is painful,
They will say yes, headaches are painful I know.
Though they may never have experienced a headache,
Their defensive reaction is really aglow.


To be told what you already know can be painful,
If it reflects a personal problem you bare,
That for many years you have considered distasteful,
But realize you can only be you and not share.
You cannot change the colour you are born with,
You cannot change the place where you were born,
It is with yourself that you forever must live;
You must weather the perpetual storm.
In this world where perfection is expected,
When you have inherent defects right from the start,
You must constantly suffer from being rejected,
Though it always shatters the hope in your heart.
Thus you must struggle to overcome being dejected,
And stand firm though it does not get you far.


Misunderstanding leads to terrible adventure,
Mostly by not accepting the other mans view;
Opinions are always open to conjecture
Things said may be false words or true.
Yet if we just acknowledge the opinions of others,
Then such misunderstandings seldom occur
Even though often the ill content bothers,
We may be responding when we are unsure
Oh it only applies when remotely conversing,
For face to face we can make our points clear,
Where from our opinions we might be reversing,
A sad event into an adventure of cheer.
For few folk who are actually conversing,
Regard disagreement as something to fear.


My wife feels the pain more than I do,
When I suffer some kind of ill,
And I say “well it should not affect you”
But no matter it effects her still
Those around us might oft feel embarrassed,
When people they know disagree,
Often extending the misunderstanding,
To a more prominent and widespread degree.
Thus a Doppler effect is encouraged,
That the original argument is forgone,
That we plummet into the depths of sewerage,
All reason and forgiveness being gone.
Then we act out our play to the audience,
Who in disgust decide to move on.


Nothing has changed when the insults depart,
The people involved are the same as before,
For they are people and both have a heart,
And are wondering why they went to war.
Each must look to their own actions for answers,
Punish themselves for the defects they find,
Find in themselves why they lowered their lances,
And resorted to profanities unkind.
We must always be forgiving and venture,
Back onto the ground where the battle was fought,
Pledge for ourselves a better procedure,
To turn that battlefield into a resort.
We must never hold grudges for vengeance,
For love is the only necessary thought.


The words “be kind to one another” are quoted,
From words spoken in the Bible by Christ,
I’m aware that others have doted,
On these words that are ever so nice.
They are not quoted for me but for others,
For you whoever you are to decide,
I don’t write advice for myself to follow,
To do so costs an unacceptable price.
Nor do I write advice for another,
I simply write what I think is true,
Giving advice causes to much bother,
Particularly trying to advise someone like you.
So try not to mock you own saviour my brother,
For he may not like it very much if you do.


A heaven full of Christians; no thanks,
But most of them I doubt will be there,
With their soldiers their guns and their tanks,
Pretending they’ve lived a lifetime of care.
But I visualize animal lovers and others,
Who have never polluted a stream,
Who have sisters and brothers and Mothers,
All living the same God loving dream.
I envy their discipline objecting to doubt,
In their inherited need to believe,
Their lack of boasting and elevated shout,
Their contempt of those who deceive;
Above all their willingness to forgive,
Those who reject the way that they live.


Is this what I, this poet believes,
I who know not what is possibly true,
He who sees logic and fact and perceives
That we really do not have a clue.
But perhaps, just perhaps if we dream,
If we pray and we wish it to be,
Just perhaps though it may be extreme,
Heaven will be the place we are destined to see.
Where love is the truth and the way,
Of the heart and the soul and the brain,
Where we’ll all be quite happy to say,
That we praise the creators good name.
Meanwhile let us all try to be friends,
For on each other’s dreams our future depends.