Monday, November 17, 2014

Daniel Jones, Toronto’s Son

For some

The words of a poem

The words that are scratched out


The light blue lined pages of a notebook

Sitting in the booth of some all-night diner

Have to be written

Have to be told

For the poet

For the writer

It’s a drive that comes from the center of their soul

To explain the world that surrounds them

Some say, it’s a gift

I say

It’s a necessity as much as breathing

To reflect what’s before them

Like a mirror

Like a photo

Like the dark rippled water you gaze over

As it laps softly at your feet

Yes, this is the job of a poet

To say what is before them

Not good, not bad, just truth

Jones did this well

Without hesitation

His thoughts conveyed so honestly

Words so alive

They drip from his books and melt into your self-conscious

Bringing you into the pool halls

The smoke filled diners

The rehabs and the struggles to stay sober

The wards and the unwanted

The hangovers

The detox centers and withdrawals 

The getting by, to just get by

You taste all the awfulness in his words


See the real beauty in being, who you really are 

Your mind’s eye opens from his descriptions

You see the humming streetlights

Surrender to the first rays of morning

Creating sun stretched shadows sliding over Toronto

While the wind whispers Daniel’s words over her streets





Bathurst and Bloor

His words are still alive in this city

Alive on her bookshelves

Her coffee shops

Her libraries

In book bags carried across campuses

Being read at a bus stop on Brunswick Avenue

For the poet who speaks the truth

As painful, as sometimes it can be

Will not be forgotten 

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

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