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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

 

Please Live


The years
so massive behind us,
a slow-moving glacier of
tears and schemes
and chatter,
its shadow dragging across
this flickering
Now,

I stare at the brittle trees
and remember the day
on the beach,
when you spoke of growing
old with me

and youth was encased
in clear arrogance:
prism of heartsong,

it shifts only slightly
and the colors are gone.

How did I forget this?
I even forgot
what you said exactly.
I only recall
that the waves were a part
of your voice.
They were spiral souls,
battered and dizzy and
screaming to our world,
the blood of our ancestors,
its innocent ribbon tied
around our feet.

I didn't know then that
this would all mean so much,
and that life was a primal,
fleeting shout,

tiny shard of madness
in a shattered and loving void,

and we were infinite
and beautiful before the war,
before our tour of
magnificence and terror.

We are born in
a symphony of light,
but we leave through
a hall of forgetting.

Don't forget.
Please remember another day.

And if love is every god
then every god rebukes your pain.

Now where is the one,
strangely silent,
the one behind the brass door,
counting our heartbeats,
waiting to reclaim our essence,

waiting in a
gallery of ancient souls?

Drown its calling,
like waves that scramble
our babbling fears.
Is this too much to ask,
or do you need to go?

You were a hero just
for showing up.

Just one more thing:
I love you.

Patricia Joan Jones








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