Gray

Fog in the Mountains

I don’t like the gray, and I never have.

Who does?

fog in our minds,

confused, frustrated,

hiding in the shadows, never being the people,

we were intended to be.

Hoping, praying,

for the sun to burn it away,

or the wind to knock it out.

When will this ever end?

Sometimes, all we need

is to take a step,

a small one,

just one,

towards the colors,

and living again.

The gray cannot hold us,

it will be broken,

if we let it happen,

beams of light.

Contrast.

 Light Breaking Through

Poetry © Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

Blue

Blue with Purple

The great expanse of the blue oversees everything,

even the highest mountains are subject to the blue,

as they stretch upward, in the morning haze.

The smallest ant forages,

hoarding for bad times, under the watchful eye,

of the blue.

The eagle soars, feeling the blue everywhere,

enjoying it,

lifted up, strengthened and encouraged,

only coming back down for food and rest.

And humans?

Mostly we ignore the blue,

unless we can capture it for ourselves.

I’d rather be an eagle,

but never the ant,

help me to live in the pastel.

from UltraLinx
from UltraLinx

 

Poetry © Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

Green

Green Foothills

I want to be green so I can live again,

no more wintry mix,

harshness, sleet,

cold drizzle,

thawing. Fake smile.

I need the summer rain,

to wash me, empower me,

infusing, arms out,

head back, twirling,

drinking it all in. Grateful.

The sun flooding my soul,

warmth,

bringing me back to life,

cemetery destroyed,

energy,

rainbows in my mind,

sparking creativity.

I want to grow, and be alive.

Colors.

Cat Tails

Poetry © Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

The Storm

Lightning

Microfiction

Lightening cracked open the sky, and thunder shook the earth again. The storm was on top of them. Most of the men and women were outside now, even though it was the middle of the night. The wind was getting stronger and was playing havoc with the flaps, so the people were busy closing them, tightening the lodge poles with more lashes, and gathering in what they could. Anything they could not grab was tossed into the air like leaves. Children were crying, mothers were screaming, and the men were busy giving commands which were never heard.

A few of the men tried tending to the horses, which were panic stricken. Herding them into a small space worked well in spite of the noise. Another crack, and more rumbling from below. It seemed as if the earth might break open, with the shaking. The men stayed with the horses as long as they could, until the rain started. It was a hard rain, and everyone went inside. In spite of the wind, the lodges stood throughout the storm.

No one could sleep. Young lovers took advantage of the time, parents held their children, and some worried about the damage to the village. Would the horses return? They would have to wait until morning to see.

There was one person that was not awake or asleep. He went to live in the spirit world that night, and left his body behind. Lone Horse had been an old man, and he was loved by the people. He had wisdom from the Creator, and usually after a council meeting people would say – Lone Horse thinks….or Lone Horse says…Now there would be an empty seat at the council meetings. It was a great loss for all the people.

His wife, Cricket in the Meadow, would not find him until morning. They had been married for more than fifty years, and the people would worry if she could survive the loss. Her health was frail, but fortunately there was still the sparkle of light in her eyes. They had had only one child, and he died at a young age from the fever. They carried this pain for the rest of their lives, but it gave them both a vulnerability, a sensitivity, that brought out love in all that they did. The people would wrap their arms around her, holding her tight, enveloping her with their love, for as long as she needed. They would get through this somehow, together. Still, it was a dark time.

 

  Night Storm

 Writing © Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

Guitars and Drums

Driskill Handmade Guitar
Driskill Handmade Guitar

When I was young I used to bang away at air guitars,

the drums were speaking,

and the air was filled with metal.

When I was older I condemned it all,

I shunned the culture, like the Amish do,

realizing now I was wrong,

pride was condemning.

So, no more negative monsters,

tearing me down, speaking death,

but loud guitars and drums,

speaking with power a positive message,

Not religion just positive,

songs like, Up from the Ashes, Not Gonna Die,

speaking life, not death,

building me up, not tearing down,

rock on.

The Letter Black - from Wikipedia
The Letter Black – from Wikipedia

Poetry © Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

Buffalo in the New Earth

Buffalo

 

Some say the buffalo will return,

when this world passes away,

and the new one is born.

I don’t know if electricity will ever die,

but if it does I will mourn,

the loss of art, music, chatting with friends,

and sharing poetry.

But you cannot mistreat this earth

the way we have,

you cannot have cruelty,

the way we have,

without repercussions.

Noah learned that,

and took some action.

If the buffalo do return,

I will be ready, with my recurve bow,

a stockpile of paper,

and some good writing pens.

Lara Croft Recurve Bow - Courtesy Etsy
Lara Croft Recurve Bow – Courtesy Etsy

Pottery Barn Saddle Leather Journal
Pottery Barn Saddle Leather Journal

Poetry © Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

Two Wolves – The Hunter Returns

Blackfoot Camp

Microfiction

He did not get the scolding he thought he would. As soon as the search party found him they noticed the huge amount of food, loaded on to his horse. Any anger they had before, about trying find him, vanished. His father and two other men had gone looking for him after the fog had lifted.

He told them all about the fog, the wolves so close he could hear them panting, and how they did not attack him. His father Whirlwind, Spotted Bull, and Bear Dancer, listened in silence to the young man’s adventure, as they rode back towards the village.

He explained about his horse running away, and then returning after the wolves left. He and his horse went hunting like they had intended. They started out following the wolf’s tracks, which led them to a herd of elk. The young man was convinced that the wolves had led him to the herd, and he told his father this. The men did not disagree. They all mumbled that the food would be good for the families of the people, and they did not know that there were elk in the area. He also told them he had a new name, “Two Wolves”. He did not say anything about Song Bird, and that he knew they would marry someday. That was only for him to know.

Yes, it was a very good day, for a 14 year old. When he got back to the village and unloaded, Song Bird wandered over to him. He once again blurted out about the wolves. Her eyes got big as she listened. He also told her about the elk, and how he found them. He got closer to her and lowered his voice. “My new name is – ‘Two Wolves’. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her hands went to her face. She was speechless, but he knew the tears, were tears of joy. All this, because his old name had been “Bear”. She ran away quickly, but he knew that more healing was taking place today.

Note: If you are new to the blog, Song Bird had previously been attacked by a bear, and was severely injured. She and Two Wolves are very good friends.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Writing © Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

Old Photographs

Carries the War Staff - Crow Nation - 1910
Carries the War Staff – Crow Nation – 1910
Sitting Bear - Unk Nation - 1908
Sitting Bear – Unk Nation – 1908

 

The good thing about old photographs,

is that they tell us people were alive then,

they become real to us,

even if for just a few minutes.

The people had names,

they lived,

        they struggled,

they had joy?

So much decimation, and pain, and yet

here they are.

I would never intentionally dishonor anyone,

in fact maybe presenting them,

could bring them honor,

in some small, small way they could live again.

Sadness,

rest in peace my brothers and sisters.

Holds His Enemy - Crow Nation - 1910Holds His Enemy – Crow Nation – 1910
 
Little Bird - Arapaho Nation - 1898
Little Bird – Arapaho Nation – 1898
Note: I have included info on each photograph, including the person’s name, tribe affiliation (Nation) and date of the photograph if there was one. Sometimes there was a name and no tribe, or there was a tribe listed and no name. Notice the pipe held by some of the men.

Pretty Nose - Northern Cheyenne Nation - 1880
Pretty Nose – Northern Cheyenne Nation – 1880

Nez Perce Nation 1900
Nez Perce Nation 1900

Unknown
Unknown

 

Hail Stone - Unknown Nation
Hail Stone – Unknown Nation

Poetry © Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

Lavender

Lavander Farm Provence France

Do you have lavender in your hair again?

pressing my nose against your cheek,

reminds me of the lavender farm,

we went to last summer.

You were from the Victorian age that day,

walking, enveloped by the aroma,

playing the queen in my play,

our hands telling the story,

you broke character by tickling my nose

with a sprig, then running!

Chasing you through the bouquet,

getting yelled at by the owner, laughing

like a couple of teenagers, it was worth it,

fragrance of the flowers released,

and I caught you! Yes I did.

My nose moving to your ear,

reminds me of our bedroom window open,

letting the warm breeze move the curtains,

a spray of lavender on your pillow,

inviting me,

sending me,,

white linen draped over your shoulder,

later the scent of potpourri

coming from your pajama drawer.

Yes you do have lavender in your hair,

that smile tells me the whole story now,

and no tickling my nose again!

Lavender

 

Poetry © Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

The Sunflower Farm

Sunflowers

They tied up the farmer, and pushed him aside,

using regulations for rope, and papers.

I thought I might find him,

in the Smithsonian,

where things used to be.

The conglomeration was waiting to eat up his land,

robots and injections to produce fake food.

But he was a fighter, never giving up,

hero with a tractor, and hard work,

he shut down his beef operation,

and came back to life, a resurrection,

and raised –

sunflowers!

seeds for food, and liquid gold,

for cooking,

brilliant!

and the conglomeration went away, hungry.

 Sunflower Farm

 

Note: This poem is fictitious but I believe it is not far from the truth.

Poetry © Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree