Pages from My Journal

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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

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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

As the Wind Moves Over the Hawk’s Shoulder

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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

As Snow Clouds Roll Down from the Mountains

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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

When Poets Climb Another Mountain

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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

The Creation Will Heal Us

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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

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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