Pages from My Journal

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And I felt those words as I turned the pages,

the same as when I stood on the mountain

gazing,

what flows in my spirit

like the wind messing up my hair?

I do think if I was Native American

or First Nations my name would be,

Standing on the Mountain,

and I would be there often

shaping words

into poems and prayers.

      

Poetry, and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies.

Daffodils Tossed in the Wind

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On a quiet morning, with daffodils tossed in the wind,

and cherry blossoms beginning to fade,

I smell the rain coming, and search the clouds

dreaming of yesterday’s sun,

and some calming

meditation.

      

Poetry, and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies

Note: From our house we can usually see the rain coming our way, over the mountains, and we often smell it in the air.

We Hold On Anyway

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Even within our worst isolation, we rage

against the lonely grey

reaching, searching,

clawing at the edges

somehow finding the strength

to pray, or at least to look over our shoulder

sensing a speck of light,

the kind we used to know,

so that we hold on anyway,

building another layer

of hope.

      

Poetry, and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies