Tag Archives: Patrina C. Jones


by Patrina C. Jones

The jewelry chokes

the skin, making it

look like something

just not what it really is,



Gold turns regal skin

from a healthy brown

into a yellowish brutish

dirty grime, masking,

hiding the sweet, sweet

scent of living flesh, the

kind of flesh that shines

in being blessed, the kind

of flesh belonging, a

peaceful confidence of

molecules amassed from

doing the right thing, from

striving for the best life

has to offer, an offer

no penny can match.


Sickly sounding chains

rope the neck for effect.

Slaves stream down Fifth

Avenue searching right,

moving left, envying

plastic faces for what

they show, obsessing

over clothes they own.


Who would guess that if

water circled, rising to our

chests, phones could

do nothing, could not do

for us what a kind heart

can do for those less off

than we are. How the

metals shine, silver and

gold, primed. Could we

do without it? May we get

along? Can rain showers

end in mid air, or does it

drop to the ground before

disappearing all the way

into the ground, until gone,

like us. I see bling,

blinding, choking off our

little souls, killing off our last.



by Patrina C. Jones

This time, your mind, what you think to


your voice, small birds deciding what


on what day, You, not your face, not


weight, certainly not your shade, is a


unlike for this age. Humble, kind, rain


shine. The spark in your eyes feels

right. Oh,

what beauty in your tone, oh in how you

speak, breathless, intoxicating. Like


revealing unknown wonders of life, or


traveling along shaky waters, thinking,

pausing, but never once giving in to


Your beauty, you are, ahhh, your kind


seduces me, quickly. Suddenly, I am


in love with your mind, your kind.


by Patrina C. Jones

Bringing heat packed with envy,

Summer reeks. Revenge always

starts in June. The full moon is a

sign that life is loving, bright. Yet

when the heat frets, the proof

lies in muted frowns, wilted hats,

melting collars, soaking backs,

anxious palms. Summer dawns,

ready, looking to romp with any

force that tells it to go: don’t belong.

The heat persists, relentless, like a

woman betrayed in flesh who then

decides death, regardless the cost

since she is lost, though not on

account of the sun. The season

commits the worst evils, the biggest

crimes. Summer flinches. Breathing,