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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

 

Requiem for Yesterday


A thousand songs are
hidden in the pilgrim
trees:

rivals for the best idea,

while sleep is the patron saint
of death: black yet bustling with
the platinum we are

and out of the speechless
ground and an erupting sky
there is a familiar home
in between:

a crimson hearth born and reborn
at the end of too many
brittle days.

It's what we thought was safe
that kills us in the end.

The morning is crowded with
plumes of hope-like mist;
immaculate comfort all around.

How I want the newness of you.
I long for every moment I never spent
with you.
I curse the memories that
were never born.

Outside my window
prongs of gray are shredding
my simple white
and stabbing the last
scraps of summer.

All that softness behind yesterday.

And some kind of ancient wings
are carrying you and the promise
of you and those thousand
songs into what was.

You fly through fields of blue
where no one walks and only
dreams dare to go.

Silent pulses are the last
notes before snow
and I repent of all I didn't
hear in the living hours.

The oaks believe me:
their branches are the
slowest beating wings
shaking off the shapes
of youth:
just lattice for the sky
to climb with passion

then forget.

In forgetting we are
true and we are free.
It's best to live in the
promise of our lord sleep,

or so I thought . . .

until there was you.

Patricia Joan Jones





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