Author Archives: Dick Jones

About Dick Jones

I'm a post-retirement Drama teacher, currently working part-time. I have a grown-up son and daughter, three grandchildren and three young children from my second marriage. I write - principally poetry but prose too, both fitfully published. My poetry collection Ancient Lights is published by Phoenicia Publishing ( and my translation of Blaise Cendrars' 'Trans-Siberian Prosody and Little Jeanne from France' (illustrated by my friend, the artist, writer and long-time blogger Natalie d'Arbeloff) is published by Old Stile Press ( I play bass guitar & bouzouki in the song-based acoustic/electric trio Moorby Jones, playing entirely original material. spotify:artist:07MDD5MK9MnRGSEZwbsas9 I have a dormant blog with posts going back to 2004 at Dick Jones' Patteran Pages - - and I'm a radio ham. My callsign is G0EUV


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Dog Latitude §6

From dawn to dusk,the pewter silver-greyof clouds that haven’taspired to the sky.We walk inside them,drawing onto our facesthe unrained drops.We’re comfortably dislocatedfrom horizons; paths aheadare vanishing points lostin feathers; red kiteswhistle the fields’ edges.I walk, you run the curvatureof this … Continue reading

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more like treading water here in the slack pool of night or a long walk to nowhere movement happening but no behind or before like didi and gogo my trudge is all on the one black spot there’s a sadness … Continue reading

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Dog Latitudes §22Some see Godin the suddennessof the sunout of a cloud.Surprised byan event so muchbigger thanthe monotony ofthought (the tellingof the sameold story ofdoubt and fear),they glory inthis brief giftof external light.For mewhen caughtunawaresI understandin the momentthat the lightthat … Continue reading

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Our band MoorbyJones just laid down the basic tracks for a song called Light is a Story. It’s to be the next single so a good deal of construction needs to be done over the next few weeks before a … Continue reading

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MY DANCE PARTNERMy shadow could be any age,sharpened to a T bya stare-me-down sun.My sideways self glidingacross the straw and chafftells me as we walk ofhow things were, or howthings might have been.Like skidding down a slopeon scree, laughing, breathless,like … Continue reading

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The Barley

When I climb the slopeof Bottom Field, I runmy open palm throughthe stalks of barley.The little cobs are greenand the stems area ghostly blue andthose grouped antennaeare just junior whiskers.This multitude, though young,has buried the hilland is its own horizon.I … Continue reading

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