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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


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


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


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


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


Some Water Lilies I Used to Know

I came to the pond
to love the unseenó
the cosmos
and all its citizens
under the dozing water
and I remember the first time
I found their gifts
to the air-breathing world:
some paper angels
impeccably folded

and unfolded
that in silence
sang as if it were
the Resurrection,

and they drew the breath
from everything
around me
with their impossible
and even the turtles
in their personal caves
and the copperhead
that understood the rules and
stayed on its side of the reeds
could not take my eyes off
the baby doll pink
tucked inside
unearthly white fabricó

new landscapes
on the story-book islands
where amazing things
must happen,
where fairy-sized pools
shivered from sprinkles of
my powdery afternoon

when I learned how easy it
is to get happiness right
and how fears look so small
next to porcelain pink and
slow-breathing white
and the antics of

Life was one sprawling
present moment
until I went away to join
the mortal world,

and after a long journey
through its furnace of
and the temporary insanity
of wanting more,

I decided to walk again
toward the fairy lands
where dragonflies
were certainly
loafing in midair
and perhaps a gnome was planting
tiny turnips next to
a rhinestone pond,

but most important:
the candy-colored festivals
on their pleasure islands
were in the flower of their
succulent youth.

I couldn't miss a thing! And I
hurried to the event. Then stopped.
And stared. And stared.
A sign glowered like a sentry
with guns and sticks and surly eyes:
"No Trespassing"

Someone had bought
my companions
and their frothy metaphors,
their soft-spoken counsel,
their biblical parables
and letters from the other side

and yes, I was allowed
to stand by the creek
and listen to its rocky muttering,

but my origami stars, my birds in
full bloom, my sages . . .

snatched up in a land grab
and hidden in someone's
well-mannered yard while the
shifty-eyed copperheads,
the dragonflies,
the crotchety turtles
were doing what they do
without me.

And desire slithered
like the wet branches

and I swore if I could
return to that fragment
of a moment when I
first met the still doves,
I would chisel it into
my memory
and speak to them like
a crazy wild woman
at one with the black soup
of frogs
and secret cities,

and I would become
opal linen
and sun.

Patricia Joan Jones

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