Attaching Wings to the Fallen Bird

Attaching wings to the fallen bird

Depravity of one’s true nature

Photo by Igor Rodrigues on Unsplash

Divided fowl’s appendage further segregated sun
hearts splitting in two — body and carnage remain

Source essence forgotten — reaching distance bemoaned
wings of hope fly directional opposition

Wrapping promise across planetary circles
body of greed remains seeking more power that is

Across the Behring Straight or by Eastern Sea
landing with hopes of bodies uniting

Further division of left and right feathery breeze
rotting corpses and altruistic bodies sharing flight once prophesied

Benevolent are they — carrying carnage of ancient tongue
lost, broken, weak are they — not yet awoken

Rise, my feathery friends — united are we
flying together uniting one body — one family.

Empty are the bellies birthing peace and tranquility
evil seeking asylum in Mother’s bosom.

One heart ripped in two
two hearts beating as one

Once torn from the tribal council
uniting in the streets — sparing voice

Fighting over first nations unimportant
concerted front-end loaders are pouring love across the fields

Photo by Lyssa Sutter on Unsplash

Conflict amongst ourselves, varying stories of right and wrong, beginning and end, creation or evolution. What if we are all correct in saying these things? What if our realities are all true? Pain and destruction, Love and peaceful valleys — all true!

There was a time we were one, further dividing through the passing of times, consuming flesh and body — devouring our tails without ever knowing the infinite cyclical behavior self-inflicted upon ourselves.

Yonder, passing vibrational tune onto the next generational song, screeching and sounding absurdly childish — scolded for biting brother’s hand that once fed us.


Return home, whence you came, before beginning was The Beginning. From beginning to end, we are that ouroboros absorbing self-realizing truths of yesteryear, emesis, and regurgitating source not labeled by man.

Unable to swallow once begotten, uncomprehending decapitating foretelling of heart’s all-knowing, submitting to an omnipotent source far beyond space itself, we are becoming. Hand’s once cut — my father’s son, now holding warmly to brothers and sisters sun.

~Ani Po

Photo by on Unsplash

From the original Friday the 13th, where the Knight’s Templar were ordered executed, by King Philip, in October of 1307, to The Bloody Sunday led by Lenin, to modern day fighting amongst ourselves — brothers and sisters are we. Turned against one another, fighting over our story-lines as to who’s carries more validity.

I pondered all of the wars between man, then the first nations arrival to the Americas. Uncertain to the origin with varied stories, I envisioned the First peoples arriving from the east and west, as to embrace the whole planet in unity. From the right and left with great wings of hope as one body — they are still here, holding the sacred flame.

My heart aches for humanity

Continuing to pluck the wings from source and body of what was, how can we expect to fly in harmony? Unity of self and collective whole — we shall return.

Not knowing where this was taking me, allowing it free reign over the keyboard. Thank you Ravyne Hawke for allowing me to share these words, thank you for holding this space.

Previous story which led into this piece…

Much gratitude for those who take time to read, ponder and allow the inner workings of self to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and more importantly the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.

Joseph Lieungh

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash

The Prophecy of Eight Golden Rays and Our Final Flame

Igniting the flame of heart-filled knowing, returning to its natural ways

Photo by Nathan Lindahl on Unsplash

Destruction had fallen upon ancient times once filled with paradisiacal feels — mimicked god-like transference to peoples of power and servitude alike — all harmonious in daily events. Dragons called to clear the air, wiping out wars against those living a simple life, uncontrolled by czars and dictators analogous — like that of a bird right-winged and lefty Lucy making love in open-aired constructs for all to witness.

Pitting humanity and animal kingdoms against one another, dragons used against their fears of lost tranquility, caging them in a self-inflicting fortress not fit for the smallest of these. One brave soul, youngest of the lands, presents a new possibility of milk and honey as foretold by ancient texts before scribbled into words of way-finding truths.

Boats made of trees, wisdom carrying the first settlers before documented falsities of historical fact now overturned by elders coming forward, and the Promised Land waits. Crossing the seas, traveled believers with spirit-filled stories — Utopian societal beings living from sacredness, drinking from mother’s bosom — living naturally — nourishing mind-body-spirit — hanging their hats and calling it home.

Myths or factual data prove yet another group reaching westerly winds by winters waters bridge, two tribal bodies forming a triad unifying front. Those traveling by softened waves unifying those of hardened waters front, tender-hearten as one tilling — preparing the soils for future generations. Before the ‘first peoples’ were the first, cyclical teachings and argumentative thought about whether chicken arrived before the egg, henceforth binding hearts as one igniting the eighth and final flame.

Food grown upon liquids provided by headwaters of spirit itself, disbelief fed to the masses with conflicted continued battles of a thousand generations to come. Like an hourglass pivoting on zero-point energies, flipping switches of time itself before — after — observant being gifting present-day understanding. Fork in the road, collectively whole, self-insisting knowing of better ways, chosen path leading to the Promised Land — despair or paradisiacal as it was written a thousand times before.

Pale-faced as known not yet kissed by golden sun — never seeing the true light of day, set out with ill intent tainted by greedy destructive ways, awaiting the fate of two by four head smacks, awakening to better ways. Then and only then, approaching the path of least resistance, shall the final flame be lit — while the first settlers painfully await their growth into cosmic reciprocation.

One body — two as one — three as trinities holistic healing selves tending to their own, practicing mindfulness daily, whole-heartedly, acknowledging the four directions walking path within all sentient beings. Ever-expanding waves of first love self-conflicted sacred embodiment of all there is — four as nine — forging everlasting source of light tranquility, infinite flame strikes on the eighth spark of flinted shrubbery — holding space for those choosing to arrive.

Truthiness and falsities grow amidst the peoples yielding more confusion for beingness as carried in ancient satchels across open waterways of truth be known. Pain so great, falling bitters from bird kingdoms feathery worlds — bloodstained Canvas repeated offending centuries between who is right and wrong — until that day we lay down our lives for not knowing the cosmic extension of self fully.

In this final hour — eleventh sun as spoken — adjoining of hands of pale-faced and pigmented akin, whilst the struggles of the czar’s fatal attempt at squelching this uniting voice, they raise arms to another day bearing light handed down — sparks of ancient ones hidden deep within our global core. Self-reflecting on cellular reproduction, self-destruction — decaying of reptilian brains leading the way.

Ouch! Holy heck!

My brain devouring itself — closing in on a true understanding, “This is the Way, no secrets to be found — yet hidden within our hearts of understanding, we shall see the light of day.” The eighth flame was lit on sacred tunes, beginning the cyclical calendar of the Mayan peoples’ twenty-five thousand accords again.

~ Ani Po

Thank J.D. Harms and the whole Scrittura family for this wonderful prompt! Trying to intertwine the prophecy of the Eighth and final flame as told by the Anishinaabe peoples, first settlers of Canada and United States, with the first settlers before the first and the Mayan cyclical calendar beginning before time itself, carrying divine dichotomy of life into today.

Captivated: A Prose Poem

Wednesday Prose Poem: the inserted story

Note: We still are unsure if the Bering Straight existed and argue against the stories of old, demolishing myths and story-lines of existence. As for me, the question still remains, “Does it really matter?” -Sparking further discussions. Whether the first nations came by boat, landing in the east, crossing a bridge made of ice or was their a first before the first? I think the essence of this story is how we come together as one family, abolishing the fighting amongst ourselves.

Much gratitude for those who take time to read, ponder and allow the inner workings of self to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and more importantly the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.

Joseph Lieungh

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash