Dr. Emory D. Jones is a retired English teacher who has taught in high schools and various community colleges. He has four hundred and seventy-five credits including publication in such journals as Writer’s Digest, Pegasus, Free Xpressions Magazine, The Storyteller, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Gravel, Pasques Petals, The Pink Chameleon, and Encore: Journal of the NFSPS. He is retired and lives in Iuka, Mississippi.
WHAT COLOR IS THE WIND?
It is green in the Spring When the breeze rustles trees And the leaves dance a quadrille In the warmth of sun. It is yellow when the pollen blows Bringing the stuffy nose And sneezes-- But laying A golden patina over all of nature. It is brown with the twirl of maple flyers Fluttering through the air Like tiny helicopters. It is clear as water Kissing your cheek When you lean over a brook To drink.
While standing in my living room I watch a regiment of rain. It sweeps Across the hills like infantry, Attacking the dusty crests and tumbling down Valleys to pause and climb the other sides.
Nearer it approaches with its steady drum, Marching in ranks and files-- It batters across the asphalt road, Each drop a shattered diamond in the wind.
My flowers flutter and dance a wild fandango As it now stalks across my yard And smashes against my picture window, A blurry meld of liquid rainbow It prances on my roof and then is gone.
I walk outside and smell the breath Of grateful, moist earth-- Greens, yellows, reds, pinks and blues Are richer for the assault of rain.
(A Gloss based upon the following lines from “Yet Do I Marvel” by Countee Cullen I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind, And did He stoop to quibble could tell why The little buried mole continues blind, Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die….)
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind, And, led by His Holy Spirit, we will find Blessed happiness, a soul of peace, And in the middle of our strife release From struggle and a joyful, peaceful mind-- I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind.
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why The worm must come before the butterfly Or human hearts, when softening, must break And flood the eyes. But then how could he take Notice of all the little hurts we cry Unless He stoops to quibble and tell why?
The little buried mole continues blind With little cares of what he leaves behind Because within his world there are none who see Or strive to rise out of the earth. But we Still question Nature that would forever bind The little buried mole to continue blind.
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die, Invade the realm of mole, in earth to lie While all above us continues as before, Not knowing, until then, that death’s a door? But then we understand God’s reason why, Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die.
Yellow butterflies Flitting across green meadows Like dancing sunshine
The insect monarchs Skimming with orange and black wings Holding court in spring.
Butterflies resting In the shade of the oak trees Like forest jewels.
Spring sunshine warms The cocoon on the tree branch Butterfly will hatch.
(A gloss on the following lines from “The Eolian Harp” By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
(Methinks it should have been impossible Not to love all things in a world so filled; Where the breeze warbles and the mute still air Is Music slumbering on her instrument.)
Methinks it should have been impossible Not to feel the rhythm of the spheres, The joyous music of the Lord’s which still In undertones so permeates our ears-- Methinks it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world so filled With symphonies of His created score With chords so firm and melody that’s trilled By every living thing that we adore-- Not to love all things in a world so filled
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air Is but the pause before the music swells Again in great crescendo of our prayer Of praise to Him from everyone who dwells Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air
Is Music slumbering on her instrument In dreams of the eternal song to Him Who orchestrates the harmonies He meant To elevate our souls--our silent hymn Is Music slumbering on her instrument.