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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

 

Legacy of Ash




Dear children of tomorrow,
beneficiaries of our place in the order of things:

It's true what they said, we didn't listen to the Earth,
though it could speak and sing, bleed and cry
just like you.

Even now cicadas are outrattling, outliving my
stream of thought. They sizzle like some kisses
I remember, and make the feral, hot-tar summer of 1978
dance again.

Yes, we swam in rivers that would never be that naive
again and surrendered in the soft combat of wild forests,
the kind you dream about in your vagabond sleep,

and you hate us for the the conspicuous gold fields and
foaming hillsides our eyes reaped without effort and wonder
why we were so sad when we had bees and air
not yet sick with chemical diseases and oceans like a
psychedelic broth, an immortal simmer of everything that
lived or will live, not your banquet of plastic
the last fish swallow and curse.

And at night we could watch, though we rarely did, the
vain Cassiopeia imprisoned in jewels and other actors in
a tin-lantern theater until too many fake stars bleached them
into a grainy sky.

Some kill the ones they love by inches
because they hate their lives and don't
feel enough.

We killed because we didn't
feel enough.

Beloved children, take our gift to you:
Inherit our poison, our ashes, the scraps from our
long, mad feast.

Piece together the shards of our empire
where we loved our manufactured joy more than
what was free.

Ponder the psychotic joke we told at your expense
and dream of another planet,
still a proverb without words,
still volumes of poems,
each one a lifeó

a world equally endless and small,
both mother and daughter,
sane and unsold,
safe in your arms.


Patricia Joan Jones






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