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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

Young girl

To the sea

 

Someone Else's Paradise


8 AM and they show up on time:
Good soldiers of industry.
They glance at his sign and his whole
world stuffed into a backpack and walk faster
like rats caught in his shadow

and their shirts are so sterile you
could use them to wrap wounds the
way they did during the war.

Last night he thought he saw a
crowd of stars like they see in
the suburbs, but it was only
headlights clashing with ice.

And here they are again:

white shirts black ties
white shirts black ties

And last night he dreamed
Saint Micheal delivered a sword
and a pizza, and today the pictures
in restaurant windows come alive.

Real food today, perhaps.

And here they are again,
racing against his eyes
till the muddled white light
pours into a puddle of night,
more like a day,
perverse and humming and
sinking in cold.

So far down . . .

And they are back again,
Capitalism's finest,
and the suits and ties
finally stop for him today.

Something strange about their landmark:
hands blue like suburban skies
and eyes that wandered far away.

Patricia Joan Jones





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