SONG TO THE HAWK, OWL AND WOLF:
SONG TO SKYBRUSH


Inspired by Native American teachings:
“Each life is precious and it is important to honor our beginnings;
to remember that we effect all life.
That our lives have meaning, and
we are known by the tracks we leave.”

~~~

I.  Brother Hawk Soars:

and you paint the sky
with flaming vermillion,
violet, aqua and
shimmering fuchsia;
bold tastes that flow easily
on a summer day
turning the heat and humidity
of Iowan plains into
a cool breeze with
your  flapping wings.
You always did love to fly
and showed us your world
with dreamy eyes.

~~~

II. SkyBrush Rising:

I saw you fly,
brother Sky.
First as the ferocious Hawk, then
as the fearless Owl.
Flying as the spirit warrior
to where Tama first arose
on grassy plains
and you began your this world, journey
as artist, wonderer,
seeker of Grandfather’s wisdom-
of the beauty
above and below.
So long ago, you entered this world
leaving foot prints
among untold words,
sailing down the Oronoco flow,
yet, it was not long enough.
For our world needs so much more
of you
from you.
This is the duty
and the obligation
as one of the people
that this artistic
journey demands.
Yet Dale,
you have given
and given,
and given.
Your have shown us what it is to live
no matter where
those wooden ships sail; no matter
how they impale
our sobbing hearts with pain.
You have shown us how to breathe
in life
as star gazers;
as nomads
wondering on an ever
changing universe.

~~~

III. Howling Brush:

running, roaming, laughing
as brother wolf
when I first met you,
unfettered, on
midnight trails
by the mountain lake.
I was chasing my tail
in contented circles
when you challenged me
to a game of tag,
and then to some of your grandma’s
homemade tea,
while we sat, restless, howling
under the old oak tree.
We told outrageous stories
of dancing with human beings,
and flying with condors
on cloudless skies.
You even claimed to be friendly
with an old, grouchy grizzly bear.
And I believed every word.
Even the moon made itself full
when you would howl
and paint the world in metaphor
at the PoetryCafe,
located just this side of cyber space.
Yes my friend,
as brother wolf
you were a howling Brush,
and I your open canvas.

~~~

IV. Sky’s Mysterious Brush:

flowed with colored psychadelia
and words,
yes words, shaded in pastels
as well as whimsy;
fashioned in chaotic order along
the broad strokes
of conscious designs,
reaching into the prism
of your mind,
refracting the elements of light,
turning each nuance uttered
into the evenings springtime wind
blowing across Iowan plains
and piercing a receptive heart.
It was a magical brush
filled with mystery;
filled with the thrill of sky
seen while laying
on a hill of clover.

~~

I see you flying brother Owl.
I see you running, cousin wolf.
I see you on your journey
moving along the trail
of beauty – above and below,
finally in harmony,
with Grandfather’s brush
showing you the way.
But old friend
I am missing you.
It is lonely under this old Oak
listening to the leaves
singing the old stories of
brother SkyBrush.

~~written 7.20.06