The golden eagle
Fluffs its hideRose
A rose is pretty
To look upon;
The blood red petals
And its perfect form,
A single drop
Of morning dew,
Glistening like silver
On a moonlit night,
But what of its thorns?

Their piercing tips
Await your hand,
To reach and pluck
The single red rose,
To cause you pain,
And draw your blood.

So what of their thorns
Beneath the beautiful blossom?
What of the danger hidden
By the radiant glamour?

Pain in beauty;
Beauty in pain.


of feathers,
Its talons clasping the branch
Of a towering pine.

Its piercing eyes sweeps
The land below,
At the valley sprawled
Beneath his gaze.

With a heave of its wings
It plummets to earth,
Sharp wind pouring past
Cutting through the veil of air.

The ground approaches quickly
Waiting to swallow him up,
But he flings out his wings
The wind gathering beneath.

His wings hold strong
The wind lifting him up,
Below him lay
A thin ribbon of blue.

It turns this way and that
Crawling on the valley floor,
The pine forest pressing in
Like a mother’s tender embrace.

Mighty mountains cradle the valley
Between their gnarled hands,
Their peaks cracking the sky
The golden canvas split in pieces.

The ball of yellow flames
Sinks beneath the knuckles of stone,
The strokes of golden sky above
Pink streaks bleeding through.

Another gives it cry
Ringing in the land below,
And he tips his wing to the ground
Turning to greet his kin.

Older this eagle be
His eyes laden with wisdom,
And the younger greets him
His cry of welcome piercing.

They circle one another
High up in the sky,
Looking at each other
With wise warrior eyes.

©2011