Poems from the Broken Sky

The wordflow began that day as the sky broke open and the lightning descended. To be honest I was half expecting Lakota to be spoken on the wind, or maybe language from one of the other tribes.

Green leaves shimmered on tree branches waving in the storm, and I knew there would be no angels this time. Only fragments of sentences, an idea floating here or there, I knew I must write.

Wordflow storms are like that sometimes, elusive, yet beautiful, and terrible all at the same time.

And in our brokenness sometimes the beautiful,

is no longer hidden.

Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

Note: This is fiction….sort of.

Flags and Banners

As I watched on TV that day live, the storming of our Capitol building in Washington D.C., I was struck by how many different flags and banners there were.

Besides the Confederate flags and the Gun Rights flags……wait gun rights? Do we still have that in this country? Seriously? How many more people must die before we change this?

You want to protect your home? Ok. You want to go hunting? Sure. But you don’t need an assault rifle, and you never have.

Now, back to January 6th, The analysis of the flags revealed SIX different white supremacist groups were there that day……SIX groups of people. Did you know that?

One of the flags was Nazi. You remember the Nazis. We fought against them in World War II. Millions upon millions of people died around the world because of them.

There were no Antifa at the riot. That’s another right wing extremist lie, proven to be false by our own FBI. What is Antifa? A group of people, an organization that are ANTI-facist.

You remember the facists, we fought against them in World War II. Millions upon millions of people died around the world because of them.

I’m not extreme in any way, in fact I call myself a moderate now, but I would rather have a cup of coffee and a danish with an Antifa person, than a right wing extremist any day. Hands down, not even close.

My flag is the United States of America.

P.S. By the way if you want to confront Asian hate you need to stop the extremists on the right. It’s always been that way, and always will be.

Writing and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

Note: I’ve only now been able to write about this.

Poet’s Muse

Shape shifting into that wolf he used to be, or even the lion made of fire and stone, produced nothing more than comical lyrics and dreams of hunting with dull knives instead of that line, that phrase he had called forth, the one on the tip of his tongue, he could almost taste it….

he refused the temptation to allow despair to take him down, to allow the lancing of his pain, the calling out of anguish using poetry as way of defeating. No.

His muse must live…..but he refused to share her nakedness, her bare soul, the broken body from chemo and cancer, the legs he adored now whittled down, he would not go there, if he did he would not live there. Crushed.

God spoke and he listened. The warm embrace of nature began with a soft sun…..melting the ice. And rain, one of those beautiful life giving rains. His arm. A pen on paper.

And life began again, somehow. Spring.

Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

Note: This is fiction. My wife is taking chemo but we are ok.

The Late Winter Winds

The bluster and power of the late winter winds told him a different story now, unlike his younger days when meeting the winds head on, spoke of courage and the ability, to press forward meeting the challenge.

Now it just meant the brutal force of cold air, chilling his bones, so he zipped up his coat a little further, and held onto his hat, as another gust tried to knock him sideways.

Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

Call of the Woods

He was a boy when he first rejected confederate flags, shotguns, and red Ford pickup trucks, the way the men talked about black people at the barber shop. He knew he was different, having sensed the call of the woods.

Some force he couldn’t see, beckoning. By 18 he could read trail signs, and knew where the crows nested and their favorite corn field…where the rabbits hid when the hawk flew by.

He did follow rivers, knew the deer as friends, more importantly he felt God’s presence in the snow falling…..with a love for the unknown, that he could not see.

Heart Song from the woods.

Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

The Gift of Rain

What surprised him the most was the strength of the bow, the Living Bow. Would she accept him? How many times had he trained with his uncle? Yet he was able to notch the arrow as the bow yielded.

He began pulling it back, and his arms quickly began straining. The bow yielded more and began to sing. He pulled her back further as she began a heavenly chorus, with the sound of many voices. And further he pulled, now pointing the arrow straight up at grey clouds.

He heard his Mother’s voice…..his Mother who wasn’t there, yet was everywhere at once, saying, “Always use your gifts for good, never for evil…” He let the arrow fly, and the Living Bow stopped her singing….At first there was nothing yet gradually he felt a drop here, then there.

And eventually it did rain….over the scorched and dry land.

So it was true after all he thought.

He did have the gift of rain.

Writing and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

Writer’s Light

As I write this, light dances through the window over my shoulder with shadows from the shades and pine trees moving across the wall. I realize I write a lot about these pine trees, and the red maples, oaks and poplar trees, as if there is a strength hidden.

I hold the hawks close to my heart, or it could be, just that one that likes to fly close to me, at eye level. It can see it now in a larger sense that courage takes wing and sometimes leaves a feather as a souvenir of victory. Sharing more than light, and clearly defining my true self.

The sun is now moving a little closer to the horizon, as I squint…..closing the shade.

Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

One Wing and Then the Other

It was the same winter that courage from the sky was concealed, even sealed with a double layer of grey,

until blue finally broke through and I was convinced once again, of the power of my own breath, as evidence

so I raised one wing and then the other, until I was lifted

bowing my heart and my head to the One

who made everything, contained

under all the heavens.

Hawks breath always runs true.

Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed