PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

When injustice tangles the

lifeline of infant hopes,

I awaken to the ordinary

and suddenly leaves

are angelic feathers.

In the vaulted dreamworld

of the midnight sky

doubt is a stranger

I only knew in passing,

and in meadows of clouds

galloping across paradise

the mind and the rainwashed

air are one,

The wind, a living thing now,

I want to know personally;

It’s a door to the spirit land

I can almost pass through.

Almost.

I can’t quite touch the secrets

but I can sip unearthly nectar

while touring forests that

smell of feverish activity:

Life is the common thread throughout.



At the bottom of a naive

sky injustice shrinks to

a faintly buzzing pest,

Rage, to a waste of limited strength

in a limited life.

Stopping by the lake that spits

out light in torrents

I wonder if it’s wise to pray--

Should I just worship in a better way?

That way I learn from silence,

rather than my own words

which teach me little.

And if He wrote this epic

Of birth and death and mystery in between

then who am I to bark out noise

that muddles its wisdom

or wail about codes I cannot decipher

with cells built only for one life?

I’ll stay silent, yes,

and stare and please Him

with my wonder

till the earth



is small again--

a cluster of jewel tones

and souls

sharing the vastness,

so clear from this

point of view.





by Patricia Joan Jones