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Monday, August 21, 2023

Of Poems and Feathers

 

The words came
soft as feathers
when I was fourteen.
My father had just died,
and out of nowhere,
the first poem was in my head.
I wrote it down.

I write because I must,
to feel I am honouring
the gift of words,
and to express my gratitude
for the wild world
around me;
the wild world
within me.

I smudge my house
with an eagle feather and sage
in an abalone shell.
I draw the sacred smoke to me:
over my head, my shoulders,
my self, to start the day
in a good way.

The first eagle feather
was gifted me.
One does not "get"
an eagle feather; 
one is gifted it when one is
deemed worthy,
my indigenous teachers have told me.
I was telling my friends this
as we walked the beach road,
when suddenly,
in my path, our eyes fell
on an eagle feather.

"I believe this is for me,"
I said, picking it up.
"I believe it is, too,"
one friend said, in awe.

One day I was distracted,
setting up my stereo.
Hearing crunching, I thought:
"How cute! Pup is eating
his pig ear!"
I turned around to find
he had eaten my eagle feather.

The universe gives;
the universe takes away.
And all, in the sacred world,
is beauty.


For Desperate Poets where the prompt is:  In the Footsteps of Our Feathers.

9 comments:

  1. for the wild world /around me;
    the wild world / within me... beautifully said... writing does come as a compulsive response to the things outside and within us... and what a fine job you do of it!!!

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  2. A beautiful write Shery and a reminder that as soon as we put 'me' centre stage we are seperated from the mystery. Learning how to get out of our own way is a long road but I suspect that you get it more than most.

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  3. Indeed, all in all in the sacred world is sacred, Sherry, and especially when an given eagle feather nibs the words. Teen angst over the impossible looming of adult life got me writing poetry at first too -- girls, God, my parents misery with each other -- nightingale song is a piercing, a beak in the heart which forces wide our mouths. Then comes the history of that mystery, what we make of words and how they make us. The feathers come and go, just as the great waters flow. Great contribution to the Desperate Poets challenge Sherry, thanks.

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  4. A beautiful and honouring poem, Sherry. We have a almost six month old black shepherd pup at the momemt and goodness do we know all about that crunch.....

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  5. "The words came soft as feathers" ...that is a beautiful way of saying it. Your poetry always echoes the place you live in!
    JIM

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  6. What Pup wants, Pup gets! What a rascal.

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  7. Indeed feathers are gifted and to receive one is an honor. I smiled at pups innocence of eating the feather, perhaps part of the eagle spirit was within him. -Truedessa

    Ps words can bring the poetry of life into focus

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  8. And usually the give and take is at the right time: "the gift of words,
    . . . the wild world
    around me;
    the wild world
    within me."

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  9. Yes, the universe gives and the universe takes away. I like the idea that one does not GET an eagle feather but is gifted with one. And I like Truedessa's idea that by Pup eating the eagle feather some of the eagle's spirit went within him!

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