poetry, fiction, nature, culture, compassion, love
The ghosts of our lost tribes still roam our woods, especially
in a warm fog, preferring the silence of soft grey
over the noise of our cars
and the impurity of our arguments.
And in their spirits, they still chase
the deer, hunting
for peace,
carrying their wounds
unseen.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2017, ancient skies
A hawk shifts slightly on one of the highest branches, as he listens
to a mouse below burrowing, through last year’s leaves.
A chipmunk jumps here and there, bolder today
due to the density of the fog,
laughing at the hawk, because
all of the creatures know
there will be no hunting
in the forest, today.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2017, ancient skies
When our body is worn, our bones deeply imbedded with fog,
our spirits can be lifted, with encouraging words.
I have really been under the weather lately, feeling miserable (physically). When my wife tells me I need to take a break, I know it’s for real. So even though I have words stirring within, I will be visiting you less, just for a couple of days. And yes, My Love did fix me some wonderful chicken noodle soup! I’m a blessed man and I know it.
See you soon. Peace.
Writing, Poetry, and Image © Copyright 2017, ancient skies
In every winter fog, the ghosts stand steady, with a mystery a shroud
covering us, but now – more of a living symbol speaking,
with our branches broken, and that we are lost,
in the forest, wandering the earth longing
to wave – our flags again.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2017, ancient skies
Seagulls don’t glide through here in the deepest of fogs, preferring
to float on top of the water, barely visible. But we must remember My Love
that there is a beauty in the hidden, and so much glory in the less
revealing. Take my hand Love, I know
we can make it through.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2017, ancient skies
