The Healing

March 30, 2010 at 4:03 pm | Posted in Photography, Poetry | 1 Comment

The Healing

Through the fog

I swim toward the light.

From the dark

I struggle toward the dawn.

It’s easier now

As winter stretches into spring

And the warmth renews my broken body.

Wild flowers paint the hillsides,

Glowing like fairy lights as the dawn bursts forth

In all its glory.

And though their life be short in this desert clime,

they heal and help restore my battered being

bringing me out of the fog

and into the bright light of day.


©Mar 28, 2010


How Many of Us

October 23, 2009 at 5:19 pm | Posted in Poetry | 11 Comments

How many of us
When we reach the end
Have regrets,
Dreams lost in the shuffle,
Words never spoken,
Hugs never shared
With someone in pain?

How many of us
When we reach the end
Will never have pondered
The light of the moon,
The song of the wind,
Or the stories found
In a grain of sand?

How many of us
When we reach the end
Will die lonely and lost
Without friends to return
The hugs we never gave,
The smiles we never shared,
The love we never knew?

Are you one
Of the many
To whom life was a drag,
A gift thrown away,
Where nothing of beauty
Entered your heart…
Or your soul?

Are you one of the many?

Vi Jones
©Oct 20, 2009

The Pond

July 26, 2009 at 4:24 pm | Posted in Poetry | 1 Comment

The Pond

Like Ghosts in the water

they come and they go,

to and fro,

in light and in shade.

They’re there for the looking,

but take your finger and

ripple the surface,

watch them scatter and dive

into the murky depths

to hide where they think

it is safe.

Never knowing in their tiny brains

there are denizens waiting,


to swallow in one gulp,

lunch, dinner, and supper.

Then those that were there

truly are

ghosts in the water.

Would that we humans

had such tiny brains

that we too,

could live

in the moment

 not concerning ourselves

with an uncertain future.

But the thought of that too,

is scary.

Vi Jones

©Feb 1, 2010

Ten Miles before Tea

May 25, 2009 at 9:13 pm | Posted in Poetry | 8 Comments

Ten Miles before Tea

I hiked,
And strolled.

I saw,
And studied.

I spoke
To the clouds,
The trees,
And the grasses.

I sang
To the four leggeds,
The winged,
The Finned,
And the slitherers,

My plan was to hike ten miles before tea
And here it is evening, and I’ve gone about three.

Vi Jones
©May 25, 2009

A Sigh in the Wind

August 16, 2008 at 2:38 pm | Posted in Poetry | 7 Comments

A Sigh in the Wind

My voice is no more than a sigh in the wind,
A falling leaf,
One among many,
A raindrop that doesn’t touch the ground,
A tiny bird lost in a storm.

So what does it mean if I am not heard,
Not noticed,
Not recognized?

It means simply
That I walk a different path,
That I shun the mob,
The crowd,
The social scene.

And does it really matter
If I find not the fame I seek
So long as I keep seeking?
For when there is nothing more to seek,
There will be nothing
Except the deep, dark void of inner space.

Vi Jones
©Jan 7,2013

The Back Seat

May 26, 2008 at 4:01 pm | Posted in Poetry | 8 Comments

The Back Seat

She was the child
who played in the woods,
who thought the world
was hers for the taking,
the child whose dreams as big as the sky,
whose playmates were wild,
fleet of foot, winged, and finned.

She was the child that had needs,
that had visions
of what she wanted to be,
but the child who was told
over and over
that she would amount to nothing at all,
that she was nothing but useless,
a dreamer,
a wastrel.

She was the child who was told
over and over
to be seen and not heard,
to silently listen to what others may say,
but not to butt in,
for her thoughts and her words
were worth nothing at all.

She was that child,
tho’ now an old woman
whose dreams lost their way,
who knew that, no matter what,
she could never succeed.
She’d been told so, you see,
over and over.

She was that child,
tho’ now an old woman
who wonders
where went the child
that rode life like a merry-go-round,
the child that wrapped her arms around Pegasus’ neck?

She was that child,
now frail and in limbo,
in the clear view of hindsight—

Her friends were their friends,
never her own,
so she sits here alone
tied into her chair
silently listening,
withdrawn into self
and searching—
for what?

She was the woman
who, through all the years,
sat in the back.
That was her burden, you see,
to live through the lives
of those who sat in the front,
for she was no more than a shadow
on the back stage of life,
for a shadow, you see,
is seen and not heard.

She is the old woman who mourns
for the years that have passed,
with hope too late to be hopeful.
For the road back is too far,
the journey too difficult,
the path—
over-grown and weedy.

She is the old woman,
tied into her chair,
trying to escape disillusion
while life rots around her
in the half dead and the dying,
while shadows pass by
ignoring the child that once was.

She is the child, now an old woman
tied into her chair,
who knows
that by taking the back seat,
she lost her most precious possession—

her life,

and what could have been.

Vi Jones
©May 26, 2008

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