Under the black cherry tree

She came to me from the eastern hill
golden feather in her hair
to meet under the black cherry tree
branches reaching to the night sky.

She stayed with me through the night
near the fire we built
glowing ash floating to mix with stars
night shadows just beyond the firelight.

Then she smiled
that tilted smile
and I knew - oh, I knew
the ancient ones had given me a chance
maybe one last chance at the redemptive power
from the forgiving heart.

As daylight broke over the hill
she turned to greet the sun
and smiled again as colors gained
in the fields of red clover.

As she gave a last smile and goodbye
she stepped back to the mists
the golden feather fell to the ground
underneath the black cherry tree.

Found under a black cherry tree

A dream after finding the feather while pruning the walnut trees this summer. I have dozens of black cherry trees growing among the walnuts and perhaps more in the near future.

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Writers' Pantry #31: Here comes August!

I saw the wind

I saw the wind
not the golden wheat swaying in waves
across northern fields of summer
though the corn bends to its will
in curved rows between the fence lines

I saw the wind
the wind that caused the trees to sway
that gave rise to the vulture's soar
the wind itself, I gazed upon and understood

Creator gave the sight that day
to see the wind that flowed as music
the tempo
the tones
flowing down the valley near
across the sky
to deliver me that sight
of unknown beauty
or boundless rage unleashed
on that breath on blessed earth.

I saw
the swirls of colors in my outstretched arms
to lift my spirit from within
to glide as that lone eagle
and kiss the moon in day's reflective light

As now I open my eyes
to my feet planted in stone
I ask of my Creator
to see the wind again.

Another dream that came to me a while ago. There was no "enhancements" to create this imagery, just an imagination of sorts.

As the eagle kissed the moon...(Picture taken at the Stranded Tree Farm)

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United:Weekly Scribblings #28: Seeing Things

Last Dream

Sleet began to fall
still mixed with rain
dark barely eased by the streetlights above.
Her threadbare coat
nearly soaked through
the chill reaching in to her bones.

The bench near the pines
out of the wind
the only shelter from the coming storm.
They sat together
husband and wife
this bench their rest for the night.

The shelters were full
the underpass
not a welcoming place for them tonight.
Their home long ago
taken for owed
taxes and sold to the highest bidder.

They sat on that bench
in those shadows
the cold and wet chilling to the bone.
He gave up his coat
to her, his love
then a tarp to keep under from the rain.

The temperature dropped
and darkness grew
she fell into a dream-full sleep.
They walked together
her hand in his
on the warm beach thirty years ago.

In each others arms
she in her peace
as he drifted into his new beginning.
Forever parted now
could she go on
as she dreams for the morning grace?

A dream that was relayed to me from My One and I must say she has some interesting ones. I diverged from my path of posting positive words in order to pass this along.

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Writers’ Pantry #26: “You can make anything by writing”

Stone cold

On that day of cold November sky
I looked down to a half-covered stone
somewhat blue-gray under mud
it fit in the palm of my hand
and weighed near a pound and a half.

A cold stone the size of a cold heart
a heavy weight on that old soul
chipped over time where it rested
unnoticed and ignored it was buried
without the light of a warming day.

In restless sleep I dreamt that night
that I sat by the warm oak-wood fire
in silence I listened to the stone's story
its grinding corn by weathered hands
of a grandmother so long ago.

As the stars of Orion crossed overhead
the stone grew in weight in my hands
the wind died and the fireflies fled
as the shout from the stone itself:
"I am not a metaphor!" resonated in my ears.

I woke to write these words down
before they were chased to the wind
trying to make sense from the scene
of stones not willingly metaphors
but really, what do they know?

I found what I think is an old grinding stone on the hill on a cold November day. I usually find bits of concrete or gravel but this was a nice find. It is flattened from apparent wear with a heart-like shape and a few chips from a disc or plow. Of the many possible uses, the grinding stone is most likely.

Or it could be just a rock.

Either way, I like this stone and I sometimes sit to listen to its stories as Orion crosses the sky.

Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Weekly Scribblings #25: Well, That Was Unexpected

Between Fire and Moon

"May I weep, now?" she asked
as she stood before the fire
among the maple trees.
The pools of wetness spilled from her eyes
down her cheeks
evaporating in the night heat.

She looked at me
I wondered why she still stood there.
The shadows of forgotten dreams
lined her face.
Her eyes still young
with her stare back to the fire
the flames danced in her deep
brown reflections of her eyes.

I could not speak
my tongue silenced
it wouldn't matter anyway
her mind was made up.
No words of goodbye
as she pulled the hood over her head
reaching down for her scythe.

As she stepped toward the flame
she paused to look to her hands.
Smoke replaced her form
to drift in the breeze
and dance in the moon-glow
until a whisper flit then gone.

A dream that I need to work through. Sometimes these words arrive in the dream mists between slumber and awareness.

Addendum: The woman is not anyone I know or have known. The impression I have is there is a deep regret that I don't understand (yet).

Or... I could be all wrong.

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United: Writers' Pantry #19: Birthing Hope