My LaDy AnGeLFaCe's blog: "POETRY"

Aloft the wind
I ride the night sky
I see the world through a much different eye

Power, beauty
Strength and grace
I feel the spirits of ancestral space

Pride of herd
Sisters and brothers
I live ever watchful standing by others

A kaleidoscope of colors
No two ever the same
The short, the tall, the long of mane

I know the chance
I know the fear
I live on the edge for death crouches near

On my back I carry a load
Through storm and calm
Ever vigilant and bold

I have died in battle
Killed by man
Hunted by predator as I roamed the land

No more room
Not enough grazing
Captured, shot, sold by pound on bills of lading

Yet I survive
Sometimes an insurmountable course
I am feral, I am Mustang, I am Wild Horse

From the time I was born
I guess you would know
Ten perfect fingers
Ten little toes
When you first put your finger in my tiny hand that's when I first knew
You were my papa no one else would do
As I grow older
and reach for the sky
My Papa is still there
to keep that twinkle in my eye
When I need someone to hold me
you never say I'm too big
You pick me up and squeeze me
and whisper you're my little kid
Most other people don't understand me
or maybe just not as well
That's why you're the one I run to
when I have something to tell
I love you Papa
as you can see
I'm so glad
that you're a part of me

~Marge Tindal~ ©2000 She walked across the land, though her leaving made us cry. Her spirit crossed the great divide to that longhouse in the sky. No more will she walk across my night or my day ... except on the wind that touches my face or the laughter from a child of grace. Perhaps in the song a meadow lark sings and surely in the pleasure of my dreams. She will forever be with me. ~Spirit Walking~ has entered the land of green pastures of peace. Cora Madeline Anger ... ~Spirit Walking~ Welcome home. *Dedicated to the memory of the Mum of My ~Warrior~, Don Anger. She is home among the spirits with God December 6, 1999

~Marge Tindal~ © 1999 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I call your name out in the night. The moon is howling too. I scream at things that cause you fright... And I come to protect you. I am the spirit of the Cherokee... Sent to light your way. I am wolf. I protect you on this day. Into the evening shadows I make my way with stealth.. I am Wolf... I am yourself.

by Robert Pinsky Imagine a child from Virginia or New Hampshire Alone on the prairie eighty years ago Or more, one afternoon—the shaggy pelt Of grasses, for the first time in that child’s life, Flowing for miles. Imagine the moving shadow Of a cloud far off across that shadeless ocean, The obliterating strangeness like a tide That pulls or empties the bubble of the child’s Imaginary heart. No hills, no trees. The child’s heart lightens, tending like a bubble Towards the currents of the grass and sky, The pure potential of the clear blank spaces. Or, imagine the child in a draw that holds a garden Cupped from the limitless motion of the prairie, Head resting against a pumpkin, in evening sun. Ground-cherry bushes grow along the furrows, The fruit red under its papery, moth-shaped sheath. Grasshoppers tumble among the vines, as large As dragons in the crumbs of pale dry earth. The ground is warm to the child’s cheek, and the wind Is a humming sound in the grass above the draw, Rippling the shadows of the red-green blades. The bubble of the child’s heart melts a little, Because the quiet of that air and earth Is like the shadow of a peaceful death— Limitless and potential; a kind of space Where one dissolves to become a part of something Entire ... whether of sun and air, or goodness And knowledge, it does not matter to the child. Dissolved among the particles of the garden Or into the motion of the grass and air, Imagine the child happy to be a thing. Imagine, then, that on that same wide prairie Some people are threshing in the terrible heat With horses and machines, cutting bands And shoveling amid the clatter of the threshers, The chaff in prickly clouds and the naked sun Burning as if it could set the chaff on fire. Imagine that the people are Swedes or Germans, Some of them resting pressed against the strawstacks, Trying to get the meager shade. A man, A tramp, comes laboring across the stubble Like a mirage against that blank horizon, Laboring in his torn shoes toward the tall Mirage-like images of the tilted threshers Clattering in the heat. Because the Swedes Or Germans have no beer, or else because They cannot speak his language properly, Or for some reason one cannot imagine, The man climbs up on a thresher and cuts bands A minute or two, then waves to one of the people, A young girl or a child, and jumps head-first Into the sucking mouth of the machine, Where he is wedged and beat and cut to pieces— While the people shout and run in the clouds of chaff, Like lost mirages on the pelt of prairie. The obliterating strangeness and the spaces Are as hard to imagine as the love of death ... Which is the love of an entire strangeness, The contagious blankness of a quiet plain. Imagine that a man, who had seen a prairie, Should write a poem about a Dark or Shadow That seemed to be both his, and the prairie’s—as if The shadow proved that he was not a man, But something that lived in quiet, like the grass. Imagine that the man who writes that poem, Stunned by the loneliness of that wide pelt, Should prove to himself that he was like a shadow Or like an animal living in the dark. In the dark proof he finds in his poem, the man Might come to think of himself as the very prairie, The sod itself, not lonely, and immune to death. None of this happens precisely as I try To imagine that it does, in the empty plains, And yet it happens in the imagination Of part of the country: not in any place More than another, on the map, but rather Like a place, where you and I have never been And need to try to imagine—place like a prairie Where immigrants, in the obliterating strangeness, Thirst for the wide contagion of the shadow Or prairie—where you and I, with our other ways, More like the cities or the hills or trees, Less like the clear blank spaces with their potential, Are like strangers in a place we must imagine.

by Marjorie Pickthall When the first dark had fallen around them And the leaves were weary of praise, In the clear silence Beauty found them And shewed them all her ways. In the high noon of the heavenly garden Where the angels sunned with the birds, Beauty, before their hearts could harden, Had taught them heavenly words. When they fled in the burning weather And nothing dawned but a dream, Beauty fasted their hands together And cooled them at her stream. And when day wearied and night grew stronger, And they slept as the beautiful must, Then she bided a little longer, And blossomed from their dust.

Hark, how all the welkin rings, “Glory to the King of kings; Peace on earth, and mercy mild, God and sinners reconcil’d!” Joyful, all ye nations, rise, Join the triumph of the skies; Universal nature say, “Christ the Lord is born to-day!” Christ, by highest Heaven ador’d, Christ, the everlasting Lord: Late in time behold him come, Offspring of a virgin’s womb! Veil’d in flesh, the Godhead see, Hail th’ incarnate Deity! Pleas’d as man with men to appear, Jesus, our Immanuel here! Hail, the heavenly Prince of Peace, Hail, the Sun of Righteousness! Light and life to all he brings, Risen with healing in his wings. Mild he lays his glory by, Born that man no more may die; Born to raise the sons of earth; Born to give them second birth. Come, desire of nations, come, Fix in us thy humble home; Rise, the woman’s conquering seed, Bruise in us the serpent’s head. Now display thy saving power, Ruin’d nature now restore; Now in mystic union join Thine to ours, and ours to thine. Adam’s likeness, Lord, efface, Stamp thy image in its place. Second Adam from above, Reinstate us in thy love. Let us thee, though lost, regain, Thee, the life, the inner man: O, to all thyself impart, Form’d in each believing heart. by Charles Wesley

Walt Whitman I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them, They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul. Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves? And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead? And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul? And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul? 2 The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account, That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect. The expression of the face balks account, But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face, It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists, It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him, The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth, To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more, You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side. The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards, The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and from the heave of the water, The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horse-man in his saddle, Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances, The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting, The female soothing a child, the farmer's daughter in the garden or cow-yard, The young fellow hosing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd, The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sundown after work, The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance, The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes; The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps, The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert, The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv'd neck and the counting; Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother's breast with the little child, Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count. Walt Whitman