And I felt those words as I turned the pages,
the same as when I stood on the mountain
gazing,
what flows in my spirit
like the wind messing up my hair?
I do think if I was Native American
or First Nations my name would be,
Standing on the Mountain,
and I would be there often
shaping words
into poems and prayers.
Poetry, and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies.
As the wind moves through the mountains
my boots crunch the light dusting of snow.
I am the intruder here
and yet at home in the wholeness of the moment
fully embracing the peace,
mindful of a few clouds,
yet still seeking the sun
to warm my face,
and renew
the spirit within me.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
On the edge of autumn, where winter borders the mountains
a clouded sky,
muted light
bring a softness to the silence
and I can see my breath,
as I gently shape
another prayer
to the sky.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
A solitary golden feather is lifted as the wind moves over the hawk’s shoulder.
Chipmunks are breathless as the mountains bask in the sunlight.
Yet the hawk spins his head towards a murmuring sound close by. A lone figure, praying in the shadows of the mountain.
Peace is seldom easy, so the hawk kept silent, honoring his descendants.
Weren’t humans descended from birds of prey?
Note: Influenced by Native American creation stories.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies
And once our healing begins we will see each other
in a whole new light
as if we had made it to the top
of the mountain
infused with the strength
of all that was made.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies
A quiet storm, as snow clouds roll down from the mountains
drifting over the valley carrying a few small flakes
meandering, swirling here
and there, and as I look beyond
the grey and white, I can see the shape
of hawk wings, his wings cutting the air,
his strength bringing
larger flakes, I quietly wish him,
“Good hunting my brother……”
as I zip up my jacket further,
and continue walking, now covered
in a deluge
of white.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2017, ancient skies
In this place where eagles dwell, and prayers take wings
where the pine and oak trees thrive, holding onto solid ground
and here, where poetry is carried in the sun,
and moonbeams cascading, I know
I really know,
I am never alone.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2017, ancient skies
When poets climb another mountain in order to set themselves free,
to be moved, to be filled with the words again,
there is always the danger we will not see
the meaning of the streams, the beauty,
the wonder of what was made.
May we seek to be refreshed
with a strong spirit of peace
before we start giving
the words away.
The words are only a gift, from the treasures
we’ve been given.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2016, ancient skies
May the strength of our autumn flowers, and the beauty of the mountains
lift us beyond the words of hate and insanity. The creation tells us
of the greater plan, a stronger peace, that will carry
our spirits beyond the sins of the political.
Creation will heal us when
we simply
breathe it in.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2016, Ancient Skies
As the waterfalls freeze in the mountains there is no sorrow,
no lamenting over what we once had, only the waiting
for a new sun, as our attention turns indoors,
to apple pies with ice cream, and
the holidays with family,
slowly rising
on the horizon.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2016, Ancient Skies
