Writer’s Wings

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Even when I’m folding my wings I’m very aware

of the wordflow waiting…

phrases seeking

another river,

another poem

from within my heart.

      

I’m grieving like many of you over the deadly racism in the United States.

Do we have a right to criticize other nations? It’s a sin really from our very beginning.

And I also grieve for how the far-right is ripping us apart. Caring more for their assault rifles than they do for people.

Closer to home my wife needs further treatments for cancer. The last round was not enough.

There will be more aggressive, more invasive treatments and that means more horrible side effects.

And we had a cousin die recently…..from cancer. This was the cousin that had the big family gatherings every year…

for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We’ve eaten at their home many times. He was in his forties, married with children.

I’ve shared these things because I’ve had the wind knocked out of me like I wrote in yesterday’s poem.

No, I don’t feel a need to stop blogging. I still have plenty of wordflow…….somewhere, but I’m grieving.

I just need some restoration, with my wings folded.

     

Poetry, Writing and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies

The Sacred Feather

100_1051It wasn’t until he was near the top of the ridge that he distinctly heard a set of wings, it was unmistakable…

so he looked up into the brightness of the sun. He saw nothing…but felt the presence of wings.

Was it an eagle’s spirit, or an angel? He couldn’t tell. And then one single white feather, tinged with grey came floating down,

landing on his shoulder, and for some reason he felt….well protected. Then he remembered,

that feathers could be held as sacred…..he carried that feather in his hand to the top of the mountain,

then he closed his eyes, whispering a prayer. He didn’t know it then, but a very large shadow of wings covered him……

so completely.

      

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