[a poem by ~burning woman~ ]
The wind howled in the night,
The long shadowed night.
It was the Chinook wind,
I had smelled it earlier
As clouds greyed and darkened,
Disappearing sun and moon.
An owl barked, hooted, laughed
Down in the gully’s copses
And I thought, I hear the owl
And it’s calling my name –
Only it wasn’t me he was calling,
It was a mate and I had no wings.
These two things I mention,
They happened a long time ago.
I wasn’t thinking of death then,
Not by a long shot. I was young,
Barely old enough to feel
That troubling sense in my heart
Which I learned was the call to love.
It is said around here (or was said)
That when the owl calls your name
Your number’s up-death is riding.
Well, I heard the owl again
Last night in the woods
Bordering the little Hope river.
My guess is, as it was long ago
That this short eared owl,
For that was the nature of his call
Was once again calling a mate,
Then I heard her laugh
Deeper in the foggy woods:
“Come and find me, Come!”
Like that they were gone.
The wind died down then
And the ever rain came again
And that is as it should be
Or so the Shaman told me:
When none of it matters to you,
Life or death or some in-between,
Then will choice wisdom find you
For all of it will then be yours,
Even the parts you do not want,
That is the life of the Avatar,
It is the gift of your owl soul.
You must understand now
It is you, it always was you,
The mate he was calling, seeking
And you always had the wings
Though you dared not believe.
He will call you again soon
Together you will depart
And neither will be heard again
For a long, long time.
Spread your wings, invite the wind
To fill those feathers, get ready,
Your long night of the soul
Is coming to its end. Soon
You will look down upon the trees
And you will see the forest.
Come find me! Come find me…
Come!
Well done Sha’Tara. A poem with a clear and understandable message is my favorite style. It speaks to me about many truths I’ve come to know over time. Best of all, I like the passage of the owl returning to call for his mate again in time.
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Thanks Daniel I appreciate your comment. I too prefer poems that do not indulge too heavily in poetic license.
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Oh night time in the forest.
As I read this I can hear the woods move and the owl call.
Beautifully chilling.
Have to reblog this.
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The Chinook winds, whether in northern Alberta where I was raised, or down here in the Lower Mainland of BC, tend to create a temporary surreal condition to the “normal” flow of the season’s weather and temperature. Often the owls respond to the changes also and the calls of the coyotes will not be heard. Presumably they are too busy reaping a windfall of mice uncovered by the sudden snow melt in the fields.
Chinook winds, or simply Chinooks, are föhn winds in the interior West of North America, where the Canadian Prairies and Great Plains meet various mountain ranges, although the original usage is in reference to wet, warm coastal winds in the Pacific Northwest.(Wikipedia)
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Oh my. Beautiful description
(When it happens a bit tough on the mice though, but that’s Nature)
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Ah yes,nature… but I’m letting that one go today, Roger. Other thoughts vibrating the too taut strings on my “spiritual” baliset.
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When those vibrate they can sing all day and night (I’ve paraphrased and plagiarised out of Michael Herr’s ‘Despatches’…..never has a book influenced me so much)
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☮♎♾!!!!
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Reblogged this on Writing Despite Computers and Programmes and commented:
Here is a wonderfully atmospheric and haunting poem from Sha’ Tara.
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A most engaging poem that awakens thoughts and emotions as well, and I can relate to what you express via your verses. Thank you for sharing, Sha’Tara.
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Thanks for your comment, Régis.
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Hauntingly beautiful.
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Thank you for the comment, Jill, and may I add, it means a lot to me coming from you…😊
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You and I may disagree on many things, Sha’Tara, but I’ve never stopped respecting you. And this poem truly was beautiful. I typically don’t read poetry, for I rarely understand the ‘hidden meanings’, but I understood this and it resonated. Thank you.
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Thank you once again, Jill.
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This deserves a double like button. Thank you.
The current is strong and the boulders that line this endless stream of bodies in the way, are slippery, wet, and hard to grip. Grasping the bank eventually gives way, and gradually defeats us back into the current we think is life. We will no longer swim against it—we cannot, nor will we ever again try—for we simply fly
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Thank you, Jim. A beautiful comment!
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Carica di pathos l’immagine del Gufo che chiama e riporta alla memoria.
Shera
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C’è davvero, Shera. Grazie per avermelo ricordato anche a me.
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Bonne journee Sha ‘Tara
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