 Confinement by Claude Jones On my morning walk, I passed a horse I knew it was a horse by its long face, of course Its head hung over the barbed wire fence I saw it last year and almost every day since What did it feel, all fenced in and confined Some surveyor had driven a stake, with his transit he had aligned And boundaries were established, marked by iron pin The horse could never leave, always fenced in It is for the best, he is safe, they say There is plenty of water, and once a day, hay But what of his freedom, he was born to run Gallop and kick, buck and have fun Which choice would he make, if he could choose? His freedom or fence, lots to gain, lots to lose Security is nice, but is content really peace Or rather stagnation, where true life will cease The horse can’t decide, he’ll stand and he’ll stare But what about me, I can say when or where Could I be confined, because I dream and don’t act? What do I miss, is it truth, or fact? Are my bonds self-imposed, by fright or fear? Am I limited by seeing, or what I may hear? It is truth we should seek; it is truth we should know If we aren’t true to ourselves, we are our own worst foe We are fenced and confined, stagnant and stale Not even ourselves, but someone else’s tale Oh horse, I am glad I saw you this morn You have opened my eyes; I am feeling reborn |
 Crossties by Claude Jones Crossties lay on wet gravel and ground Looking up at trains, not knowing where they are bound Caring only, how heavy is their load Feeling each wheel as its weight does abode Preferring the peace that comes with no train No mash, no squash, no pain, no strain If only the train would stay off their track Crossties would be straight, no hump in their back Some rot some split some spit out their spikes And the rails get crooked, like tracks of a trike People ride the rails, they proudly declare No credit for crossties, only the wear and tear The bear the weight, keep straight the track Though rotted and old and even with a crack Cursed when old and laid out by the track Carried off to a flowerbed, never to be back Who have we passed in life without a thought? It is them we should thank; it is them we should have sought Like crossties half buried in gravel and dirt Like beggars in torn pants, and frayed, dirty shirt We seem so useless, helpless and dead How can we find hope and cheer instead? To often we see the big train roar by And think of its glory and don’t think of crosstie But without it no train, no horn to hear blow Without it no track, no train could go We may not see fame, our name in bright light But we hold the world’s train, both day and night We are poor, we are tired, we work every day We struggle and fight to live on low pay But we are proud and happy, that’s truth, no lie And when we feel low, we can think of the crosstie |
Claude Jones writes:
I write poetry for the pleasure of writing. Writing is my escape, often my very best friend. I read and love free verse poetry but for me to write I seemingly must write in meter and rhyme.
I was born, raised and lived all my life in Pontotoc, Mississippi. I was raised on a farm where we milked cows, raised cotton, corn, and had a peach orchard. I have worked for Pontototc Electric Power for 31 years. My wife Ann and I have two sons, both are pharmacists, and we have two grandchildren.
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Mama
Who Has The Edge?
Two Poems
Compose
Eyeglasses
Young Dreams and Old Realities
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