[Poetry Search] [Contact Us] [FREE Site] [Home] [Poets] [Chat] [Login]


Frozen Retreat

A Silent Knowing

Sacred Crone

Welcome Jack

Follow the Birdsong

Morning Candle

Please Live

A Multitude of One

Love is Now

Remembering Spring

Canvas of Gold (A Tribute to Poetry Sites)

Someone Else's Paradise

April Snow

Night of the Broken Glass, Revisited

Archibald

In a Moment of Understanding

Shadows of December

Requiem for Yesterday

Forbidden

Visions Released

Intense Imagery (A Haiku)

For our child

Dance Upon Shadows

A Rose

Night bus home

A Comfort Sent to You

Black Lung

Restless

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

January 14th 1995

Foolish hearts

Heart to Heart

Returning Hero

Old and New

Words

Shades

Clutch

Going back

The Warrior

Facing reality

In the wind

Loyal soldier

Lifespan

Sitting

Living machine

Revolution in Bloom

Unholy Love

I Am Not Spoiled Stinky Curdled Milk

Yes, Leonard...It's Math Again Tonight

Winds of time

The Power

What

Hungry for life

Autumn

All men

Man with no name

The face at the bar

Questions

Young girl

To the sea

Mountain Morning Lakeside Fishing

Dragged

I'm Strong Enough to Thank You

Every Step

 

Frozen Retreat


It all comes down
to a choice:
safety or freedom.

The forest expands
as I walk, still a
compact heaven,
a corral for inner
stallions,
but threatening
the safety
I sold myself for.

I don't know the god
of this grumbling
mausoleum,
but it seems just
fine with two colors
and a Benedictine sky.

Another January and something
needs to happen.

Someone's well-bred garden
is acting up:
honeysuckle vines
still shimmy
and they're grinding
out the blues . . .

even in silence, some freedom
and primitive jazz.

My old cat used to
follow me on these
clean-shaven winter
evenings.

I like to think,
in his new life, he
is a living myth
in a softer kingdom.

How I miss his ferocious joy.

Cats make the right choices
and I am just a
temporary lord of
limping rivers and
mystified squirrels,

some embalmed branches
and leftover surgical air . . .

a safe and furious
visitor on my
way to forever.


Patricia Joan Jones





2000 - 2002 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors


[ Control Panel ]
Last 100 Poems



Search over
30,000 poems!