Where Poetry is Born

20160514_120002
In our spirits, the very core of our beings,

lives a special place, a sacred space,

moving us beyond

our tears, our fears,

into the quiet side

of our hearts

where poetry is born.

    

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2017, revised 2018, ancient skies, originally posted July 2017

Our Most Sacred Spaces

20170929_145532

“Keep close to nature’s heart….and break clear away, once in a while, and climb a mountain

or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.”

John Muir

Our most sacred spaces were never meant to be broken

as if glass could shatter,

becoming even smaller

versions of ourselves,

barely remembering

the wholeness of the forest

and who it was,

that made the Earth.

 

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies

It is the Light

100_1726

Memories of our most sacred moments will often find their way,

drifting,

into our hearts

with our void seeking,

as if sunlight sparkles

on the surface of the ocean,

filtering

through the deep.

I wonder

if we are more than waves

rolling towards the shore,

curling

into a magnificent spirit,

crashing

then washing the Earth.

It is the light isn’t it?

That moves us beyond

the pain,

into the new hope shifting

taking shape

within us.

    

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies

The Quiet Moments of Winter III

100_5679

In the moonlight through our window, we hold each other closer

breathing in her hair, I can see the outline of trees covered

again. She whispers in the night, “I’ve always wanted

to be held by you…..” I drift off dreaming

of the wind carrying us away.

Is love softer in the winter snow?

     

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies

The Quiet Moments of Winter

100_5681

I sense My Love stirring, as she reaches, pulling back the curtains

of a blue dawn, where the tree branches gently hold

the overnight snow.

She watches the doves, as I notice her face

her lips move, whispering

her prayers

I drift off, pushing away the fire

for now

but later I awaken

to the smell of turkey bacon

and her kiss

on my lips.

     

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2018, ancient skies