Guest Poet Dowan Jones

A Note From Machiavelli's World

Trees are troubled.   Birds look worried.  Something is wrong with the rain. 
I'm looking over my shoulder these days stepping lightly,  trying not to 
gather dust nor wake the sleeping from there journey.  Being anonymous.  
This land is like a quicksand absorbing the life from my soul,  so   
 I keep moving past the dead and the dying,   their eyes as dark and empty 
as coals at the bottom of deep dank wells,   their open graves are for starring 
at the sky,   what is happing here,  am I in hell,  suspended in the trilogy of time 
locked in the present,  waiting for the future ,  wading through the past grinding
shards beneath my feet?  Alive among the living?  Dying?  Guessing as to why? 
Supposing as to how to be?   All I know is here I am expecting eternities call 
someday.  Life here?  I don t know.  I m just waiting it out,   you see.

October, 1998

Dowan Jones's Questions:

How does it read?

Does it draw a strong image?

Suggest alternate presentation.

Correspond with Dowan Jones at
with your ideas about this poem.

The Albany Poetry Workshop