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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

Young girl

 

On the Edge of a Dead World


I am lost in sweet oblivion,
then the chainsaws begin
lashing through a stubborn dream
and I wonder,
what is dying now?

And such an exquisite day
on the edge of destruction
where another tree lies
shipwrecked, still majestic
and unsung.

Old summers still gripping
the toppled pillars that
once held in place
a scattered universe,

a blur of yesterdays take
me down and I strain to see
it all just once again.

Here comic raccoons lived in
hidden splendor so far above me,
so superior because
they were so free,

and blue jays held court here
like cartoon nobles in a kingdom

floating between God and what
is almost-real:
so much lavish simplicity
above my miniature life.

And I remember all the emerald
drunk on yellow, gorged with August,
sailing across the corners of
this sad space,
tossed from end to end:
A shrinking sky. A sea of jewels.

Now the rat-like possums with
extraterrestrial eyes search
for their branches
under a strange, foaming sky
too large for this world
and leering, drooping
where only green should be.

And if there are tree ghosts
they reach for their phantom
sculptures above these stumps
and swear
they can still feel nests
and lunatic squirrels and wind
against those precious lines of age.

I want to sink back into my
dream where gentle giants still
serve up shade under
boulders of sky,

but the chainsaws chew and laugh
with a guttural battle cry
and our past and our future dies

one tree at a time.

Patricia Joan Jones





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