poetry
Leigh Eaton and Bob Miles
Poetry for Living
Old Gods
It was just a passing comment,
how he missed the feel of
that San Juan country,
but I knew that feeling,
there are places like that.
Places that still have the pagan soul.
They have not lost the magic.
There the Old Gods await the time
their healing will once more be needed,
unmindful of the insignificant creatures
moving with destructive persistence
of termites over the land,
creating their own artificial world.
A few sense it.
Most ignore it.
Those who knew it too long gone,
defeated and banished by the blind followers
of the cross and the politics of Rome;
those same fine folks who brought us
conquistadores, crusade and inquisition.
Those with eyes and hearts so set on
their other world they do not know this one;
taking, never giving back.
In some few places,
the followers of the Old Gods remain
and they remember.
The magic is still there.
The pagan soul remains
and the Old Gods wait.
by Bob Miles
My Homeland Hills give way to prairies
And back to hills again.
The woods are suddenly thicker
And it begins to rain.
I must be headed to the shore
Where Texas meets the sky.
by Leigh Eaton
Back to the Blanket
I envied him,
My Mescalero friend,
That day he chose
To return to the reservation
And become again what he was.
He had a blanket to go back to
And I did not.
I have since learned
It was not true.
Among the simple, real people
Of my younger days
And the majestic mountain beauty
I see around me,
I do indeed have a
Blanket to go back to.
And while it may be true
That you can't go home again,
I can see it from here.
by Bob Miles
Cenizo
Fourth Quarter 2015
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