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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

 

Blue Home



Every night the sea is something new.
Sometimes it is lavishly empty,
finding its own light within
and other nights
the moon cracks open on a sheet of indigo
—water and sky are one—
ebony and raging snow,
love and loneliness

and that plastic bottle

and an ocean more somewhere
choking what is left of our indigo dreams.

Every day the forest is born
and when I am here I have everything I need:
its lungs breathe for me,
its beauty blazes inside me like
the end of days,
but joy is not quite here yet, just
peering through the black eyes of
the tangled path.

All these thoughts of endings.

Around the world
these living meditations,
these wooden poems,
these temples
are condemned like medieval heretics,
consumed in greater agony than the
red hunger of a swollen eastern sky
without an audience.

I don't know when I began to miss
the luxury of not knowing
and always feeling that I
was home,
I only know that we killed
our mother while she was still
teaching us about the strange galaxies
inside each handful of soil and the
sorcery of acorns and mornings dripping pine
and mossy happiness that kiss us into
awareness when nothing else could make
us want another day.

She lived a fierce and beautiful life:
tyranny and majesty,
an old soul and an infant,

and broke off every piece of herself
to the looting wolves inside us

and here we are wondering why the
sky is screaming
while she bleeds ice and fire
and we realize we may never leave
this shiny new carnival-world
where we may never again fly without wings
upon the scent of glassy mornings
or float away on oceans that dream
uninterrupted by fragments of our
plastic lives

or see the stars as they truly are

or drink or breathe
without questioning

or simply feel that we have everything we need.

Now who will feed us the wild, leafy air?
Who will sing us to life
when the doe-eyed forest
fails to speak?

Patricia Joan Jones





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