Writing of the Wind

Writing of rivers he knew so well, yet writing of the wind, who can say? Who can describe the clouds

above our ruins? His hawk knew the way, speaking of peace carried on wingtips

yet a stronger wing does not always lift the wordflow….

he simply prayed, and his pen

wrote the fire.

Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

Poems from the Broken Sky

The wordflow began that day as the sky broke open and the lightning descended. To be honest I was half expecting Lakota to be spoken on the wind, or maybe language from one of the other tribes.

Green leaves shimmered on tree branches waving in the storm, and I knew there would be no angels this time. Only fragments of sentences, an idea floating here or there, I knew I must write.

Wordflow storms are like that sometimes, elusive, yet beautiful, and terrible all at the same time.

And in our brokenness sometimes the beautiful,

is no longer hidden.

Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

Note: This is fiction….sort of.

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.