i belong to the wind, to grandmother moon
to the vision of the hawk, the depth of the sea
i am the heart of a lion drinking the sun
i am the true journey, the undiscovered path
i am the life in the fox, centered and silent,
apparent in the stillness between breaths
i am the flame of meaning that lights the night
see me with your old soul, your wise owl eyes

© 2014, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; illustration: spirit animal with permission by Gretchen Del Rio.  If you have not visited Gretchen’s site, you must.  Fabulous!


What is your vision of that essential energy that is the base of all things seen and unseen? Does your vision lean toward the scientific or the metaphysical? Tell us in prose or poem. If you feel comfortable, share your work – or a link to it – in response to this theme. All writing shared will be published next Tuesday.  You have until Monday evening – 8 p.m. PST – to respond.



  1. The dual nature of clouds

    A sponge to filter light and wash the pavement
    A hammer to bang my head
    And rise my blood into my ears
    So I could see thunders and lighting shows before my eyes
    A preview of the storm to come

    The dual nature of the clouds
    The dual nature of the light
    The multiple nature of the human beings
    An artist work of art
    A dual nature artist
    Both God and Flesh
    Just a matter of perspective
    A free will down to the subatomic level
    And up to the clouds

    Liked by 1 person

  2. My first response :Jamie #Resurrected Quietude #
    Scintilla of firewood I had kindled last year in your fireplace ,
    Celebrated its return last night to my destiny ;
    My fuzzy keekers ,
    My languid -feverish corpus ,
    My throbbing toes ;
    Were in most spectacular finds for thou ,
    In the dale of eclipse ;
    Unguarding my state
    essence of my wise owl eyes ,
    Resurrected years after ,
    From the cinder of my mystical conjecture ;
    Like a phoenix ;
    The most spirited one -the Almighty resounded through my crinkled bosom ;
    Leaving abaft a lingering instant ;
    Immersing me beneath the rear of his wavy quietude .
    Kakali Das Ghosh

    Liked by 1 person

  3. third response

    :: the pool of tears ::

    from where comes the love,

    comes the pool of fear,

    the fright of interrogation,


    i hear.

    from where comes the mourning,

    late afternoon,

    and evening,

    comes the spirit,

    and singing,

    dancing, ringing.

    i hear the bells,

    the crows,

    the chaffinch,

    and it shows,

    my hearing.

    from where comes the whistling,

    comes the pool of tears,

    the laughter we hear.



    Liked by 1 person

  4. response two.


    is a short word in varying degrees.

    a slight one, can be alleviated with
    unecessary treats, parfum , curling
    round in soft places.

    lift the spirits with little things, be
    glad it is not a more serious form
    of the word.

    i drove the road yesterday, it
    is such a pretty place.


    Liked by 1 person

  5. Thanks Jamie…..response one.


    I wish to say that I do not mind the grey,

    dark over lakes, morning mists, my hills,

    my window shows graves, the quiet ones


    the colour comes later, in the studio.

    the land reclaimed, is bolder now,

    energy splashes in orange.

    colour comes, from friends in conversation,

    music and sounds, and i eat them

    with hunger.


    Liked by 1 person

  6. Your poem is so beautiful, Jamie. It touched me as we are traveling through lands that are new and we are talking to people who are living a life different very different than we do and seeing a nature that can’t be tamed but can be lived within.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Hi Jamie,

    My second response:

    The Sky Is Food

    The sky is food.

    Above iridescent coral canopy of trees
    let us throw nets of birds
    to catch the fish of clouds
    the spider balloons

    aphids in the currents and eddies
    cross the atmospheric bridges of gusts,
    dead cells in clouds and ice
    morsels for migrants in the swim
    through rivers and waterfalls of air

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Hi Jamie, my first response

    Once Them Lasses Start To Spin

    with distaff and spindle whorl,
    another year of sweat and effort
    to break the stubborn sod
    in the fields begins, so lads,
    this day only, play the fool,
    burn their flax and tow,
    and lasses, while we laugh,
    scurry round with water,
    dousing our flames.

    Virgin, mam, and crone, and present,
    fate, and future, and spinner, alloter,
    and unturnable are the stick
    that holds flux of the flax,
    delicate web of their clothes,
    spin their unspun blood, breath,
    bone and sinew and event
    in a thread from underground.

    Their spindle is a wooden rounded rod,
    that tapers toward each end,
    twists into thread, story,
    fibres it pulls from
    the distaff, the imagination.

    The whorl is a stone weight,
    fitted onto the spindle
    to increase and maintain
    the speed of the spin,
    pace of the story,
    twist of the imagination.

    Spindle and whorl
    spinner controls
    suspended from the thread
    that is being spun.

    Worlds and stars spin,
    use force and gravity,
    to “turn” one thing,
    into another.

    Spindle and whorl
    create through movement,
    spinner at the centre
    of be and become.

    Once the lasses start to spin
    with distaff and spindle whorl,
    another year of sweat and effort
    to break the stubborn sod,
    while the threads twist.

    Liked by 1 person

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