I try not to write from my scars. They’re there of course like everyone else, but I make every attempt not to give them too much credit.
So I write from the light or try to. Pieces of encouragement, maybe some profound peace, shaping words into a gentle rain of spring. Rivers instead.
Even if there is a storm, it doesn’t hold onto me anymore.
Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed
Raindrops tumble through layers of new leaves,
as birdsong from hidden branches,
makes it’s way ascending,
as if the heavens needed a few more hymns
to celebrate
the new life of spring.
Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed
What surprised him the most was the strength of the bow, the Living Bow. Would she accept him? How many times had he trained with his uncle? Yet he was able to notch the arrow as the bow yielded.
He began pulling it back, and his arms quickly began straining. The bow yielded more and began to sing. He pulled her back further as she began a heavenly chorus, with the sound of many voices. And further he pulled, now pointing the arrow straight up at grey clouds.
He heard his Mother’s voice…..his Mother who wasn’t there, yet was everywhere at once, saying, “Always use your gifts for good, never for evil…” He let the arrow fly, and the Living Bow stopped her singing….At first there was nothing yet gradually he felt a drop here, then there.
And eventually it did rain….over the scorched and dry land.
So it was true after all he thought.
He did have the gift of rain.
Writing and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed
I’m dusting off my leather bound journal, finding my favorite pen, and I’ve put together a small stack of poetry books,
on the kitchen table, including one called, Hope in the Morning……and later a walk into the rain, down by the lake,
if it’s not too cold. I love how rain drops fall, on the water singing their own special music.
Right now though it’s time for some cheesy eggs and toast, dipping in my tea bag into a steaming cup
making English Breakfast tea. I love these rainy mornings……
I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but been taking one day a week to recharge. I work alot
so I find it essential, and maybe we were made this way, but I didn’t pick a particular day, it just kind of happened.
So on late Friday afternoons until sometime on Saturday I’ll disappear, but only a little. I have preplanned a couple of posts.
Thank you so much for reading!
Peace.
Poetry, and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies.
On a quiet morning, with daffodils tossed in the wind,
and cherry blossoms beginning to fade,
I smell the rain coming, and search the clouds
dreaming of yesterday’s sun,
and some calming
meditation.
Poetry, and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies
Note: From our house we can usually see the rain coming our way, over the mountains, and we often smell it in the air.
Today as I walked I carried my umbrella shielding myself from the sky, a light rain,
and puddle splashing, in my old tennis shoes, that I really should throw away,
and I realized, I needed to maintain my peace, a sense of purpose and strength.
It really is difficult to watch the brutality and insanity of the far right…..
but I needed to let the grief and anger go……in spite of the numbers increasing, in spite of them denying science,
I can choose to be descended from the sky and birthed by the ocean….and besides,
those that live in darkness and leather are nothing more really…..
than spoiled children craving power and attention.
May we win our battle with the endless peace witnessed by the earth, and sky and oceans, flowing strong within us…..
against the rage of insanity.
Amen.
Writing and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies
As the winter fades, sacred are the winds
that carry new life to our ruins,
a pervasive warmth
a softer, gentler rain
washing away
our devastation.
We are hopeful now,
spring
is finding us.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2020, ancient skies
Whispers in the mist, surrendering to the rain,
as the wind gently plays with the leaves
I suddenly remember
a younger thunder
when you and I listened
to those sounds, that story
only told by summer.
So young we were back then,
yet we do
still hold hands.
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
Torrential rains in a downpour
as the wind roars, ripping
through trees,
while dark clouds
cover the mountains,
making them invisible.
And I wonder – does God make storms so we can rest and do some writing?
Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies
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
