Three Poems by James Eric Watkins

 

Within the Mountain Steam

 

my spirit begins

to rise yet remains

connected to the earth.

 

It rises like the first

breath rises in the morning,

off the mountains.

 

It sifts up from the ground,

around and through the decades

of leaves, the way water moves,

 

through the channels,

the valleys on the bark

of the ancient oak and pine trees,

 

travels through the synapse

of open air . . . and changes

form---until it’s gone.

 

But before that,

it sets the tone of intent

of those who listen to the language,

 

and become aware

of a better understanding

of who they are and of what they are a part of,

 

of the lessons

clearly being taught

in the rising of the mountain steam.

Truth Glides

 

It smilecries.

It gently but forcefully

moves through spacetime

flaps its wings through the mist

of the past, the present, and the future

simultaneously taps its tips against the water’s surface.

 

It faces you

even when it’s running

up behind you.

The thing

with hope

has feathers.

 

It soars so high

dips and dives

in through day

and out through night

flies toward my eyes.

Yet I turn away . . . just before impact.

 

And just before

its talons pierce my flesh

my wounds heal

and I watch it carry

my still-beating heart

away . . . dripping in the treetops. 

 

 

Captured

 

Winter blows in, shivers goosebumps 

to the surface of my perception, to

the surface of my skin. It blows in snow storms 

covering once-flourishing fields 

where few stalks stand here and there. 

 

But mostly death adorns the landscape and the frozen air.

 

The vultures, their feathers shine as black as wintertime. 

Their eyes are even blacker. They swoop down upon me. 

They swarm all around me.

 

Waving my arms, wildly,

I manage to smack one down. His 

body makes a thud

against the cold ground.

 

But this wasting of energy 

is futile I find, so I smile 

and squint into the blinding 

sunlight and watch, from the corner

of my eye, the birds return 

 

to the sky with bloody bits

of compassion and flesh

in between their beaks

and underneath their claws.

James Eric Watkins is an Opa, father, husband, and creator of many different forms of art. He exists on the far side of sanity, better known as Indiana. James is the editor/publisher of Flowers & Vortexes, Creative Magazine.