The Holler

A fire on the hearth, an angel in the wind, snow on the ground and a blizzard settin’ in. Music in the air, daddy on the strings, brother has his bow, mama starts to sing.

Sister at the keys, playin’ soft and low.  The coal mine is callin’ but I can’t go.  I lost it in the holler and slid off the road. My family stayed home, so they don’t know.

I’m listenin’ to the music, layin’ in the snow. The coal mine is callin’ but I can’t go.  I hear the song playin’ like an angel in the wind.  As the snow stops fallin’ the music starts to end.

Mama sing the song. Sing it soft and low. The coal mine is callin’ and I can’t go. Sister play the keys. Play ’em soft and slow. The coal mine is callin’.

Brother… Daddy… I’m feeling awful thin, and I can hear ’em callin’ like an angel in the wind.

-H. Louis Jones Jr


My dad died 6 years ago.  December 15, 2011 at 1:55 in the morning.   I can hardly believe so much time has passed since I saw him last.  Grief is a tolerable but persistent presence, always there to remind me of what I don’t have and what I never had and what I’ll never have again.  But, what I do have I cling to still.  My dad liked to listen to bluegrass from time to time.  So, this one is for him.  A banjo and a fiddle could make this poem breathe.  I love you dad.  Here’s to the angel in the wind.



The Black Eye

The black eyed weatherman does the best he can. He doesn’t mean to lie. But when the snow hit the ground with his girlfriend around, he’d said ‘twould be cold and dry. His wife saw her track, leaving out back, that’s why he has the black eye.

The Sorcerer’s Gift

There is another world
Unseen by the eyes
Possessing our bodies
Controlling our minds
Monsters are crawling
And flying through space
The whole human race

Disastrous devils
They kill and destroy
They prey on the weak
And seek to employ
Nefarious plots
Designed to disable
Whomever they’re able

Ensnared by this evil
Your body they take
But there is a sorcerer
With potions to make
He mixes concoctions
That set people free
At the pharmacy

This modern magician
Can heal for a price
Can excise the demons
And save your life
He has a gift for deliverance
It doesn’t come cheap
Or debit
Or go home and weep.

-H. Louis Jones Jr

The Memory Bank

I have a poor memory, and I don’t know why.  I know it’s not from lack of deposits. The bank should be full, but the retrieval process can be unbearably slow.  So much so, I wonder sometimes if someone has hacked into my account and stolen my most significant wealth.  Nothing is more valuable than your memories.  I hope when I get farther along I don’t find I have been investing in a Ponzi scheme. Wouldn’t it be terrible to spend your life investing in so many priceless memories, only to find in the end, like so many hard luck stories before you, there is nothing in the bank.


They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but they never say fonder of what.

Unending talk,
a cacophony of noise,
the steady stream
of  monotonous
syllables ceased
the moment you said
And I
have fallen in love
with the sound
of silence.