The Hawk Ascends

20170628_172226

A perfect union of earth and sky, drawing me in,

calling forth who I once was

before the ruins descended.

I take a knee,

remembering

letting go now of the prayer

I’ve been carrying

for so long, eyes closed

my back lurches and my wings extend,

unfolding

as my spirit reaches

into the clouds.

Note: Is he human or is he hawk? It’s hard to tell sometimes. 

    

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies

Advertisements

I Often Think of Hawks

20190507_133518.jpg

When I walk this trail, as so many generations did before,

through the shadows of the pines,

over the large rocks and small,

I often think of hawks,

and shadows of wings

covering the earth

and of a people

who roamed free.

     

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies

Earth Day 2019

20160514_175724

And the sins of the fathers are being visited on us their children,

while the Earth continues to be ripped and torn,

I can’t help but think of the people lost,

swept away by storms,

from the changes in our air,

as dark clouds still gather

while ignorant bullies hide

their head in the sand,

lacking even a speck

of empathy.

How many more people

will be lost?

     

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies

He Was Canyons of Rivers Raging

apache-dancer-harley-upton-jr-diego-james-robles-from-indiancountrytodaymedianetworkIn the dance for his people, feet pounding twirling, left shoulder down, feathers jerking, he was the heartbeat of the earth,

head tilted to the left then the right, leaning in, spinning with blurred vision

he became red rocks, he became canyons of rivers raging, with ancient memories,

with power in his feathers, he remembered when they protected

the women and children, from dog faced soldiers hiding spears,

until the sun broke through the great trouble.

He was more than the dance,

he had blended

with the spirit of his people.

     

Poetry © Copyright 2019, ancient skies, image  of Apache dancer from indiancountrytodaymedianetwork

Ghosts Will Reappear

100_5695

Within the deep fog of the final days, ghosts will reappear with the smell of buckskin

and burning wood in the air, showing us how to make lodges, and the sacred art

of bow making, giving us the wisdom of medicine, and the harmony

of all things will flow in our veins once again,

so that the deep fog will no longer

need to hide us, anymore.

                                                                                                       

Note: This is part of the Apocalyptic Journal.

   

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies

The Last Fish

20160628_203527

Note: This is about a Bird of Prey hunting and may disturb some people.

His wings burned as he turned, into the sky fire apocalypse

but it was the only way to make it, to the lake

he dove head down, down with wings enfolded

a bullet from the heavens

until crashing, breaking

the surface of the water, talons extended

he was all talons flailing

until he caught it

the last fish on planet Earth.

As he slowly flapped now

to his favorite rock,

he did pray for God

to do a miracle, to create

a new Earth once again,

as he devoured fish flesh

for the last time.

    

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies