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impressions, times, atmospheres; angel of earth, angel of sky by Brian Michael Barbeito



impressions, times, atmospheres

do you ever remember the spring or summer sun, the rains that make the wildflowers to blossom and the wooden and metal bridges that lead across the marsh water and creeks? do you recall the hawk and his friends high in the skies near the lakes, or the northern bald eagle way out there agile and like a dream? oh the countenance of the lands- loams and trees old their bark and branches wild shapes that sometimes look like spirits and tell all kinds of stories and make you think of poems and songs. the summit and valley, and oriole and blue jay, a coy deer and a running fox, porcupine in a tree, buzzing working bee, little spider and ant, the moth has its own beauty and the butterflies definitely so don’t you know? think of the grace of the wild orchids that live down the way off the trail, and the hundreds of yellow buttercups that receive the afternoon sun. path journey and scenery. do you remember such sights as those? maybe they can keep our spirit warm somehow, against reason and logic, in the winter air, the solemn dusk, the long night lonesome and witching hour gloomy. oh April-May the promissory notes for a better day. ah sand or June under blue sky, and July’s dawn river washed stones. yes August petals and the world in bright colour. calm let us be. waiting. waiting on light and warmth. waiting for a new dream dreamed by the universe. waiting for love.


angel of earth, and angel of sky


sometimes the fog and mist were present and the marshlands became impossibly quiet. the lonesome coyote on the way back from somewhere paused and looked up, then continued along the hardly perceptible trail. the clouds blocked the moon and the clouds would block the sun. some souls in the outside world took the path of just that, the world. most in fact. but there were others, in each metropolis outskirt and rural place, who differed on their soul path. artisans, sculptors, sometimes poets. rarely, a genuine mystic. and most rare, someone enlightened. the red winged blackbirds had gone away to somewhere and the monarch butterflies too. the sea was remembered. warm rain on metal railings. moments in time. the old man said, like a modern Heraclitus, but one who despised books, ‘Everything changes, doncha know that?’ the branches barren for autumn’s tide and then winter borne, waited stoically or sadly in the cold rains. what could they do? nobody paid attention to them one way or the other, as they say. how far a soul’s journey to itself? again. in light. not any worldly light but the truer and truest light, the light of truth. I AM. what did the air contain? spirits? sometimes the sunlight of robust summer atmosphere. sometimes the early autumnal colours splashing and dashing and dancing. spring hope too? and the fog and mist. rueful. crestfallen. melancholic. solitary. lonesome. lost. oh angel of earth and angel of sky both. do you ever sigh or sing or good presence bring?

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