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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

 

Unholy Love





It was born innocent.

Its first steps were of
passion,
as if passion were all
there is:

God was passion, the earth was
passion; I ate and drank the
blessed insanity,
the inspired madness.

Where are you now,
killer angel?
You fed me in the shadows,
now you starve me in
the light of day.

See my hunger crawling
on this petal-soft moment,
watch the trees sink into
darkness I carved from a
glacier,

just more darkness I added to
the world.

Love, as we define it, is
somewhere, shape-shifted,
playing games,
probably crossed
over into the spirit lands
by now.

I thought I saw it tangled up
in sobbing leaves and choking
light as I stumble
over the last
of heaven on my way
to a lovers' hell.

Water dreaming of fossilized sky . . .
the soul watches
from behind the pain.
It quarrels with
the fire within,
arguing its case for beauty.

Even beauty babbles
since I crashed
into your world
and you,
into mine.

Listen if you can, soul
falling fast:

night is a dragon after dark
but it sheds its scales
the moment the
spirit's eyes
open and the mind
can't tell
the difference between
dreams and
a shower of stars.

Still the scaly love clings
to me, a serpent,
sweet dementia,
a jester, a martyr
blessing a death that is
not death,
crowning himself with a
quasar of holiness.

I embrace the destruction,
and love again.

Patricia Joan Jones















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