Where the Oak Leaves Whisper

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On the trail that day, in the wind, where the oak leaves whisper, shadows of wings covered him, from the sky…

yet he was never afraid, even with the distant sounds of singing, of chanting and drums, he noticed shadows shifting,

so he stopped with a poem nearing its creation. Sitting on a large rock with prayer beginning as a spring,

light flickered and when he opened his eyes he found…..

he was the river, after all.

     

Poem, and Image, Copyright © 2020 ancient skies

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.

Whirlwinds

Grey Sky

As we search for a poem, bringing shape to our whirlwinds,

our ghosting words,

refining spinning

in a furnace tested by fire

becoming word art, work of art

lines launched

beyond the rubble 

until we finally see the vision

and then,

we write it all down.

    

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2017, 2019, ancient skies

Note: Based on an earlier work.

The Prayer Stone

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In search of the prayer stone this morning, there were no ancient sages whispering mystical words from the dark corners of the forest.

And the sun was dull at times, as clouds ceased the calling of flowers, even their strength was diminished. Shadows prevailed.

I closed my eyes, waiting…..and then a glimpse of a word. So I decided to write a poem today…..after all.

    

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies

Poetry….Came to Live

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It was the ruins. It had always been the ruins, curving his light, causing the blur….the whirl in his spirit.

He knew he was more though. Perhaps he did have an existence after all.

For him woodland trails were more than a healer, he wandered through half praying, because the woods were his teacher.

Waterfalls spoke, and God sent angels that could sense his scar tissue, providing a balm. He was different somehow.

Sprinkles from heaven began the new, and he was able to see the word structure clearly.

Within the wind and the sun he discovered lines. And poetry….came to live. 

      

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies