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A River's Chant

THE WOLD LIKE THIS!

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

His Love will Sustain Us

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

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

 

Sacred Crone


The past,
a tattered hymnal,
crumbling praises here
there and flitting
past another night,

perfect with invisible
beauty just beyond,
a temporary afterlife
breathing beside me,

I join the emptiness,
the merciful emptiness
of One.

But I do envy those who
feast upon decedent sorrow.

Such luxury to need no appointment
for pain,

to wear it like shrapnel
deep within,
even give yourself a medal
for all your eloquent
weeping.

The moon is a host in
the hands of an
Olympian priest.

She's always something
and new every night.

Now an orthodox ghost,
half-eaten,
ordained in glass,

bloated with souls too
beautiful for our world,

but still a life force
blessing all the world's pain,

the pain I cannot afford . . .

She's that decomposing
teacher who saved you
in grade school.

Sacred.

And now lost in a swamp of clouds.

Oh, the luxury of being lost.
No need to be seen,
no need for a soul.

Stars, swallowed and spit out
like quantum particles,
here and not here
and always believed in,

scrambled like the dream
the young call love.

Close your curtain,
whimpering zodiac,

let emptiness well up,
drown it all

and be something.

And in something elsewhere
and forgiving
I'll be strong.

Patricia Joan Jones





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