Echoes
 

This is a place of great peace, 
A monument to the spiritual, 
How sweet the fragrances 
Of Mother Earth. 
They spread throughout 
The mountain's shelter, 
Clinging to its ridges, 
And bouncing on the breeze, 
A celebration of life, 
Of all that is good. 

From here I can see above, 
The cave where my chief and I 
Became as one 
     for the first time. 
In our youngness 
We could climb to such heights. 
In age I can but remember 
    and smile. 
I am filled with memories 
Of such joyful times. 

I dabble my feet 
In the clear water of the stream, 
As it drifts in and out 
Of the water-smoothed rock. 
My heart leaps 
As my recollections 
Allow me to hear 
The laughter of our youth 
That is still reflected 
From the canyon walls, 
A cherished echo from the past. 

My time for tears 
    has ended, 
I know he who holds my heart 
Has gone before 
     into the unknown realm, 
To settle my place 
On the Higher Plain. 
For the Creator of All Things 
Has promised us Eternity. 

I have crept with reverence 
into the Church of the white man. 
Listened to the preacher, 
And learned the words 
of prayers and hymns. 
But I am naive in such ways, 
Do not understand why 
The white man has their Church, 
Imprisoned within walls 
Of their own making. 
    believe every moment 
I am within the presence 
Of the Great Spirit, 
His Sanctuary surrounds me. 
I am at one with all things 
For we are all the creation 
Of this Noble Chief and Father. 

Sadness cannot live within 
The heart of this thankful soul. 
With raised arms 
I shout silently 
From the bowels 
Of this beloved canyon, 
And I listen to my echo 
As it is carried back to me 
On a friendly wind. 

It is all reflection
    echoes. 




The Messenger


Loudly he thundered cross the sprawling plain, 
A figure in black on Midnight ~ his horse. 
He was on an errand...a soul to claim, 
To make his time he must ride hard his course. 

Always so ethereal, he was ne'er seen 
Though his spirit was felt by those around. 
Where was he going or where had he been? 
They trailed phantom hoof marks in the dirt ground. 

They led to the town of Immensely Poor, 
Where loudly they heard a newborn babe's cry. 
The tracks ended at the young blacksmith's door 
So they knew in that home someone would die. 

He tethered his horse to a hitching post, 
And walked through the wall and into the room. 
The old mid-wife sensed him, knew of this ghost 
Around her head settled foreboding gloom. 

He was here for someone...who could it be? 
The boy child, though small, seemed to be just fine, 
So what was so wrong, what couldn't she see? 
The mother was not in any decline. 

Suddenly from the bed...a moan was heard, 
'Something's not right' the young mother cried out. 
The mid-wife was quick, by fear she was spurred, 
'More clean rags', to the young man she did shout. 

'Oh Lord! I see now why You sent him here,' 
She placed her hands into the woman's womb 
'Please don't let me show these dear folks my fear,' 
Thus she pulled a babe from its earthly tomb. 

I fear that this young one... she is born dead, 
The blacksmith and his wife just stared and cried, 
Whilst with gentle finger she crossed its head. 
The Messenger watched ~ his form dignified. 

'Come little one,' as he swooped up the soul, 
As always he had arrived, just in time. 
'We'll quickly go back to where you'll be whole'
Then left the room...on his horse he did climb. 

He quickly left once a body had died, 
They heard him leave, visioned tracks in the ground, 
'Leave Messenger of Death,' they shrilly cried, 
His presence did always them just astound. 

In the morrow he would be but mere dream, 
Death was not what they thought, their words did smart. 
Midnight dashed the plains and leapt o'er the stream, 
Death tightly held preciousness to his heart., 

The stars lit a pathway for him to see, 
Midnight leapt onto it to climb the sky. 
Here the wee soul would be happy and free, 
And would be welcomed by the fold on high. 

The Messenger of Death should not be our foe, 
He will visit us all…for we all have to go.

Page One
Pub Poetry
Wordflair
All materials on these pages are copyrighted 
to the author.  All rights reserved.
Dinah Serritelli   © 2010
Life Is A Footbridge


Life is naught but a footbridge
strung between here and there,
on ropes of next to nothing
across the River of Time.
It is fraught with danger,
lost boards and no safety net,
traveled for generations
by those who have gone before.

This is your existence,
   no boarding a train
for a quick trip cocooned
within the steel  walls of safety.
This is the reality…
of one at a time, watch your step
and make only the right moves,
else your life could land up
    in the drink…

Native American Art used with permission
 from http://www.firstpeople.us/.