Red Cloud
So.........sitting here this fine Sat. morning watching the sun come up. And while I can hear the drum of life swinging into action in this small town all about me, I cannot help but feel a bit alone.
Perhaps many could relate to this. Bet it is so. I'm just not feeling the zest for life at this moment I can usually muster. Mostly, folks don't want to hear the downs from others. There's usually enough of that going on in their own heads to fill a bucket. So when it comes to others ? well, they usually only want to hear what will bring them "up". Understandable *nods*. So I usually keep this all to m'self. Problem is that as of late it becomes more prevalent in my day to day thoughts. Can't really chalk it up to a cyclic depression thing. It's a bit different I think. I wouldn't mind though if there was someone I could talk with...... that could talk to about things that understood the same mind set. Just not feeling connected. I can hear myself talk...see myself interacting, yet it feels greatly as though it is all in vain. Just not making a dent and all..
I'll try to get in some drumming today, and perhaps that might help.. I like that quote Tom Hanks made in Castaway about always having hope... "You never know what the tide will bring in."
*Waits for the tide*
T.
Unmoving, he sits astride
His ragged coated pony.
Only telltale frozen breaths,
Separate them from
The still, winter black boles
Of ancient leafless trees.
The pony, blown and lame,
Stands with lowered head,
Ears flattened to the sound
Of a distant wolf pack.
The man on his back,
All weapons lost,
Ignores the trickling blood
From savage wounds,
Mingling his war paint.
Eyes burning fiercely
He strains to find
The sign he seeks:
Behind, the sound of enemy
Draws ever closer.
At last, faith rewarded,
He sees far below
In the deep valley,
Arriving at the edge
Of the fast flowing river,
The great she bear
With two gamboling cubs:
To fish the racing salmon,
Drawn relentlessly toward
Their age-old spawning ground.
Silently, the wounded brave
Offers his final prayer
To the eternal clan bear;
Totem and guardian
Of his battle slain tribe.
The enemy, exultant,
Are almost upon him,
Yet he looks not behind:
He sees only the Great Spirit,
Surrounding him kindly
In loving, firm embrace.
While the enemy closes in,
He straightens himself;
His voice rings loud and clear,
Echoing across the land
To the distant cloudless sky.
One last defiant war cry
As he spurs on his pony,
And leaps...
Into the world of his ancestors.
W.J. Bruce
His ragged coated pony.
Only telltale frozen breaths,
Separate them from
The still, winter black boles
Of ancient leafless trees.
The pony, blown and lame,
Stands with lowered head,
Ears flattened to the sound
Of a distant wolf pack.
The man on his back,
All weapons lost,
Ignores the trickling blood
From savage wounds,
Mingling his war paint.
Eyes burning fiercely
He strains to find
The sign he seeks:
Behind, the sound of enemy
Draws ever closer.
At last, faith rewarded,
He sees far below
In the deep valley,
Arriving at the edge
Of the fast flowing river,
The great she bear
With two gamboling cubs:
To fish the racing salmon,
Drawn relentlessly toward
Their age-old spawning ground.
Silently, the wounded brave
Offers his final prayer
To the eternal clan bear;
Totem and guardian
Of his battle slain tribe.
The enemy, exultant,
Are almost upon him,
Yet he looks not behind:
He sees only the Great Spirit,
Surrounding him kindly
In loving, firm embrace.
While the enemy closes in,
He straightens himself;
His voice rings loud and clear,
Echoing across the land
To the distant cloudless sky.
One last defiant war cry
As he spurs on his pony,
And leaps...
Into the world of his ancestors.
W.J. Bruce
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