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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

 

Canvas of Gold (A Tribute to Poetry Sites)


When the waves of the everyday
crash down like Neptune's fiercest revenge,
I escape to your safe corner
where freedom is the surprise:

freedom to embellish my airy
ramblings with art
(the sister of poetry)
on a stage where we
drip honey
and agony
and preform coronations.

And choirs sing and crowns glitter
in that freedom,

so private in the heyday of my other life

out there,

that absurd farce of security
we were born into
and trudge through
because we were told to.

But here,
alive and whirling with ideas
shouted out like Gabriel's trumpet,
pulsing like midnight avenues
and splashed with the colors of
who we are at any and every moment
we finally meet ourselves,

I revel and carouse with words,
and it was always
all about words.

And whatever pigment we douse them with
in our dash to personal heavens,
in the abandon of who we choose to be,
our words are, in the end,
in this cherished refuge,
painted gold.

Patricia Joan Jones





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