The Survivors

Grey Sky

For some reason he could not open his eyes. It was the tug on his chest that woke him though. Someone or something was pulling on his left bicep.

“Hold still!” A woman’s voice pushed him back down again when he tried to sit up. He forced one eye open, but his head hurt so badly he passed out again. She must have pulled him away from the wolves, and she was stitching him up.

When he did awake he was inside the earth……wait no……he was in an earthen lodge. The wind outside told him they were in the middle of a tenacious storm. She offered him a bowl of something warm. All she said was, “Drink.” He did, and it was smooth warmth going down. He tasted honey among other things.

She looked at him with a knife in her hands. “I know you’re immune from the last disease unleashed, otherwise you wouldn’t be here….my name is Brie, and I think we should help each other…..but if you ever hurt me……you will be a dead man.” She meant it and he knew it. He tried to say he would never do such a thing…….

He noticed a youngster, maybe 3 years old playing behind her. She said, “His name is Jared, named after his father – long since passed away…..” So that was it, she was alone in the wilderness. And she was pregnant again. He did ask, and she was due in a couple of days. He shook his head that he understood.

“The drink will help you sleep……I’ll need your help in a few days, delivering.” He fell into a deep sleep……thinking that she was attractive, but he was worried about the knife……. at least he did know how a child is born……

from the Apocalyptic Journal

  

Writing and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies

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The Fortress

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It was snowing that night the wall was completed, not many noticed, tired of the fight.

Yet some conservatives rejoiced in their victory, believing the Enemy was defeated and that they could rest in their holiness once again.

However, the angels in Texas, bowed their heads with tears in their eyes,

began praying for all those stuck inside the Fortress, for those believing that somehow,

in some way, they were righteous, and so having turned their backs

on the poor.

     

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies

New Dreams

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I remember weeping when you told me your dream of having hair again,

looking at old photographs telling the story

but now it’s Christmas, My Love

and the beauty of the season

is still healing us.

As the grief dissipates

we can dream new dreams

as as we embrace the future

nose to nose,

smiling, walking within the lights

as we hold each others hand.

    

Note: I share this as a matter of personal experience, of how love sees us through the difficult times, not out of any sense of self pity.

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies 

Remembering an American Hero

john mccain from todayYou probably know that he was a prisoner of war in Vietnam. But did you know that he was in that prison for more than 5 years, and that he could have left sooner but he didn’t?

You see, his family secured his release after 2 years but he said no, he would not leave until the rest of the prisoners were also set free with him.

He was beaten and tortured so badly his arms were permanently damaged. For the rest of his life he could not raise them above his head. Yet it was here that he became a strong person of faith, often singing with other prisoners, quoting Bible verses they could remember, especially around Christmas time.

Eventually though, he not only survived but became a U.S. Senator for more than 30 years. He fought hard here too. He was tough, but he epitomized a leader that would work with the other side. He respected the opinions of others, and leaders that had different views.

He always put country first rather than party politics, even if it made him unpopular. And that’s what made him so different.

Perhaps we mourn for more than the hero

for what our country could be

for what it once was

before madness

made us lose our way.

A warrior, a fighter to the end. A true American hero. Rest in peace John McCain.

      

Poetry and Commentary © Copyright 2018, ancient skies, photo from today

The Darker Rain

When our trauma turns our view, slanting

the sky, releasing the grey within

cracked vessels, we often listen

to the darker rain, as if

there is a deliverance

in the mist.

And yet

having survived the false prophecy,

the breakage of our story

the empty dictators

of self speak,

we discover the desire

for a simple light

and for a sky

that speaks to us,

of a new story

not quite so broken.

     

Poetry © Copyright 2018, ancient skies