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Behind Walls of Data

In the Last Green Hours

Crucible of Light

Dogs (A micropoem)

The Angels of Hawksbill Mountain

Beyond the Gates of Orion

Sanctuary Within

The Sacred Opulence of Abundant Joy

Sitting With Stars

Light of the Tempest

Nucleus

Follow the Birdsong

Celestial Rite

One More Moon Beside Me

Legacy of Ash

Born in a Field of Light

Resurrection in Albemarle County

Dialogue With Silence

Moving Past the Dream

Deadly and Merciful Blue

Sky Full of Legends

On the Border of Earth and Being

Who You Really Are

Council of Stars

Scattered As One

Unfinished Bridge To the Infinite

Scenes from Within

Moon of Secrets

Memories of the Kingdom

In the Church of Ordinary Miracles

Finding Religion in Sperryville

Theater of Shadow and Light

Sapphire Birth

Web of Infinity

Voices from a Choir of Stars

Traveler in the Unseen

Into the Silence

A Soft Ascent

Through a Sacred Forest

Innocent Questions

On the Bridge After a Storm

The Sound of Creation

Your Song in the Ivy

Universe Within

New Empire

Another Afterlife

Where the Wind Lives

Another Kind of Prayer

Indigo Fire

Last Inch of Flame

Blue Home

Sacred Crone

What the Deer Understands

Some Water Lilies I Used to Know

Gates of Orion

Requiem for Yesterday

In a Moment of Understanding

April Snow

Symphony in Sable

Justice Denied

Gossip

Graduation Day

Fire from a Distant Life

Frozen Retreat

Welcome Jack

Remembering Spring

A River's Chant

Shadows of December

Please Live

Unholy Love

A Silent Knowing

Morning Candle

A Multitude of One

Love is Now

Follow the Birdsong 2

Archibald

Night of the Broken Glass, Revisited

Someone Else's Paradise

Canvas of Gold (A Tribute to Poetry Sites)

On the Edge of a Dead World

A Very Late Apology

It Is You

When Two Hearts beat as One

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

 

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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