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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


Resurrection in Albemarle County

They say dig two graves before you stalk
the ambrosial prize of revenge, and I did,
until my own grave appeared sweeter,

so I've come here to the mountain to hunt
the reclusive angels I suspect hoard serenity
for cases like me,
but so far I've only been baptized by waves of wind
and accepted into the order of everyday wonders,
even the wild ginger, the breathing field, the violets,
closer to any prayer I've ever attempted.

Yes, the world fractured us, and we can't unhear it
or unsee it and we certainly can't unfeel it and
there's no dismantling a tower so tightly
packed with rage.

A weathered flag hangs with defiance
from a dozing gray barn below the skyline—
the wheeling hawks aren't impressed, and the
colors of freedom look unconvincing
next to the evening sky: a commotion of
phosphorescence and peace. A grander finale
could not be of this world, but still
no angels, no rest.

So what's it like to to step out of the snickering
riddle of day and into the perfection
of nothing?

No wings, no answers needed there, just an
unremarkable and wandering now—
a motionless flight in all directions.

But still I'd rather thirst
than drink the courage . . .
So close.

Over there is a gift, a life actually,
tethered to unabashed joy and also its shadow;
after all, it's one current, one universe,
one thought.

The only catch:
Forgiveness is the only bridge out of here.

And all of Heaven holds its breath. So do the finches
and wrens in a cathedral of sound; so do the
mountains with their countless shades of happiness,
still unmoved in godly indifference; so do the
wasps fizzing in and out of shadow worlds; also
the territories of soul we have to believe in
or nothing makes sense.

No, I won't do it for my enemies, but I will for
the satin sleep I deserve, for the merciful death of
blistering blame, for a heart that doesn't twist and claw
itself to death a thousand times a day.

I take a step.

So this is what it means to see.

Patricia Joan Jones

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