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


The Sound of Creation

On the Edge of a Dead World

Shadows of December

Unholy Love

Fire from a Distant Life

Follow the Birdsong

Archibald

Frozen Retreat

A Silent Knowing

Sacred Crone

Welcome Jack

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

In a Moment of Understanding

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

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

 

Shadows of December


I heard there were answers
at the bottom of
a lifetime.

That's too long to wait and
too far to fall.

In another life there were no
questions;
yesterday there were poems
and a forbidden earth to adore,

to float beside, as slow as she
wished to go.

I toured reality,
just a spirit taking notes,
playing human,
casting dreams
and calling it a day.

In the unraveled smoke of
winter, shadows carouse.

Shadows are immortal in December,
gazing through the eyes of blind fear.

So far to fall
before the
flight of reason.

Fields have folded into a box,
trees into a cage.
Medusa's hair is at war
with mist.

Too many battles and things
to untangle in December.

Money is the romance of
December.
Money (ragged symbol of lost
or found hope) coexists with
Raphael angels.

Convenient, its nest
between gold.

Tin bells and smug saints
would have me
pretend that pain is sacred.

Let them fall prostrate at the hem
of frozen gods
for only a chance to win.

Their crumbs vanish in the
thirsty void,
impossible riddle,
a text written to confound.

Rigged game and howling titans . . .
that's all it is.

Every night I am resurrected;
the floor of heaven chips away
and sprinkles me like a
mass-produced fairy:
flickers of foolishness,
a beautiful lie.

And for a while I can take
the barbed wire of a massive
life and dream it into satin
spirits,
sometimes even myths and
light shows

that must be returned when
daybreak grinds them into
tomorrow.

But tonight, I toast this
prodigal joy,
plastic angels, plug-in candles
and all.

I salute you, oblivion.
I praise you in the shadows and
rehearse another death.

I am born in the
holy emptiness
of now.

ę Patricia Joan Jones
Photobucket





ę2000 - 2002 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors


[ Control Panel ]
Last 100 Poems



Search over
30,000 poems!