A White Tail Feather

The still of the lake calms my soul
as I wait beneath the willow.
A light breeze moves through her branches
lightly touching my face,
sweeping the hair from my eyes.
An Eagle calls in the distance.

My mind races with pictures and words,
adventures and quests of self and we.
Along the horizon lined with dark blue waters
bursts colors of red and orange.
I offer my asemaa.
An Eagle glides above calling my name.

Morning rises as I answer my old friend.
A gentle ripple forms on the lake
as the wind delivers our greetings to the other.
I hear his calls carried to my open arms,
his words pass through me.
I hear the call of an Eagle leaving with the wind.

He lands on the broken arm of an ash
on the sands of the shore near the willow.
Praising me for walking the path,
many have guided me towards for years.
A choice of life destined to be.
The first tracks are laid down.

He lifts his wings and stretches
to a magnificent size of honor and respect,
wisdom and truth with humility.
He tells me to listen and be open
to what crosses my path
for this is just the beginning.

Rising with every flap of his powerful wings,
he lifts into the blue sky calling his goodbye.
I answer with gratitude and love
as I notice something lying on a rock.
He has left for me a piece of him,
a white tail feather.

River Maria Urke 8/10


Soul Companion

The evening arrives
in a downcast moment.
Jabbing spears at
anguished hours of longing,
cynical wounds
bash the soul
of a romantic.

Struggling to breath
consumed by the emptiness.

Alone so very long …
desiring a gentle caress,
an essential need.
A touch that awakens
the body’s impulse
to the hands of another.

Not just any other…
a soul companion,
a match of the mind.
A connection that
knocks me silly,
that drives me crazy,
that I cannot walk
away from easily.

Cynical thoughts
creep in trying to
pollute and weaken
a romantic’s heart.
It wins some days
most other days
the optimist lives on.

The wise wear purple

Her roots travel miles long
buried deep below her soles
wondrous unforgettable moments
next to grueling times of hell
paths of fading footprints tell
lessons are learned even at ninety.

Years drawn in lines upon her face
sagging breasts and slow steps
carry endless hidden strengths
rising from a passionate spirit
flashes of piercing youth
mingling with eyes of the wise.

“The wise wear purple,” she says laughing
sipping on her hardened water
swinging in her purple hat
telling joyful tales of years past
wearing a smile of freedom.
©River 1/11


The Stone Nordic Theater
by moonlight is barren,
except for the latest Graffiti
and once in a while a
drifter borrows a night,
soothed by crashing waves
and the hum of the city.

By daylight, the stone
reveals its cold, empty stage,
a webbing of jagged cracks
crumbling from neglect.
The stonewalls hold memories
wrapped in aged grape vines
flowing from crevice to crevice
near a woman dangling her legs
over the edge.

An edge of the mossy wall
overlooking the mighty waters
behind the Nordic theater.
She contemplates choice
with tear streaked cheeks
watching the brewing storm,
the swell of rolling waters
crashing against rocks
wails against stonewalls
echoes through the theater.

a river stone

he carries a stone in his pocket
a dull cream with speckles of black
irregular in shape
small enough
to lie in the center of his palm.

he carries a stone in his pocket
a treasure found on their first walk
absorbed in essence
her beauty
in the elements of its design.

River 1/11