The Dawn of Crisp Mornings

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The refreshing kiss of cooler air,

the dawn of crisp mornings

waiting for the sun,

beginning the season of surrender 

where leaves let go of their green,

to receive the infusion

of a greater glory.

It won’t be long now.

      

Poem, and Image, Copyright © 2020 ancient skies

Cloud Dreaming

20170628_132524As clouds drift in the endless blue, I lay my head down,

in the softness of the tall grass, dreaming.

I see visions of a peaceful world

of gentle moments in villages

meandering, along the river

a peace of green,

lovers undisturbed

where sky and earth embrace,

their people.

Such a long time ago.

     

Poetry, and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies

How I Feel About My Wings

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Well I do believe that I am lifted, and encouraged by having wings and yet in these times of smoke and ruins,

they’re actually essential for our very survival….not the dark wings of course, formed in fire,

and the storms of our scars, but the wings shaped from the earth, and sky and oceans, blended…

so beautifully with our heartsongs.

Some say rivers are more powerful, but I’m not sure that’s true. Both can run through us and within us

bringing us hope in supernatural ways……

Ain’t that amazing??

     

Poetry, and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies

Seeking that Place

20160418_122232Bluejays sang their most sacred songs in the highest branches of the tallest trees,

while the blue sky shifted and white clouds followed that rugged trail,

he ascended, heart full of burdens seeking that place, that place where God lived, or least

it seemed that way, to the top… on the largest of rocks, where everything could be seen, 

that special place of a calmness where violence was always rejected, and light….could be tangibly felt.

     

Poetry, and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies

Whispers of Lakota Song

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Perhaps it was the Lakota Song drifting over him, whispering in the middle of the night, when he was a child, a sound of singing,

blessing his dreams, from the tall grass…..that soul filling call, to touch the clouds, whispering in his ear, in his heart, the core of who he was.

He could always write the river, so maybe that’s why he was born loving the colors of our earth, with prayer feathers,

and wild horses running strong. It was poetry, after all.

Poetry, and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies

Note: I was born in the desert, not far from the Rocky Mountains.

We were too far south though, to hear the Lakota Song.