Poetry 2014…









Understanding Heaven…

What lies beyond the

wooded valleys and

mountains, the oceans,

moon, sun; will it all

one-day fade into time

without end; eternity.
Will the spirit move with

nimbleness and with

fantasy; will time without

end be ecstasy.
Will everything be pure and

divine, will love replace the

hate that lives today in earths

polluted space.
Will pain and fatigue no longer

exist; will only tranquil and

exciting wonders live within

Heaven’s glorious mist.
Like the Morning Doves, will all

have wings to come and go

unafraid of flight; to enjoy a mystical

life; one love, one language, one

understanding for all, is this what

Heaven will bring?

In the Minds-Eye…

Imagine being on the edge

of eternity where hours have

no end, is there day and night,

are the stars close and bright.


Does the moon hang below

Heavens invisible veil; do the

stars hang by silvery threads,

and are the clouds soft like

feathery beds.


Are there beings living on planets

scattered throughout the Universe,

are their lives better or worse; do

they have a God like ours, do they

have greater powers.


Is there actually a Heaven and Hell,

are these places fiction or fact; only

time will tell, in truth one must die…

to find if paradise exist or if it was

all just a lie.


Imagine being without sorrow or pain,

if it is all true, we have nothing to lose

and everything to gain; we can allow

our imagination to wander away; but

remember to live life day-by-day.



I Write…

In writing poetry, one not only finds an outlet for releasing the quandaries life might bring; creating also gives one a reason to share joy.   AJM


The Voices…

I am a writer, from me you shall read

the sounds  of insistent voices of those

characters whispering in my ear. They

are fierce, burning with passion, their

messages clear.

They speak to me with the force of a

turbulent sea, at other times like the

surge of the tide, yet always protecting

me… “within me they reside”.

I am a writer.












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The Mindful State of Reality…

The knowledge of a loved one’s death

brings forth a time for unearthing a part

of the soul.  Few accept reliving the past,

looking for clues; and few are comfortable

with life, this mindful, state of reality brings…


An internal awareness…

A time to celebrate…

Moments of great revelation…


Embedded in an undying remembrance

brings forth a time that within ones soul,

the consciousness of life resonates





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A Native American Sketch/Watercolor…



This sketch/watercolor using my granddaughter and great-grandson as models for the small 5X7 painting.  They were not in Native American dress, but their faces sketched with the clothing created afterwards.   

3.ANNA-Mother and Child

Anna and Child


Black, Grays, White Watercolors

“Sponge painting used in background”



The American Dream…

There was a time when life flowed

slowly like a perfect meadow stream,

fresh was the air, blue was the sky

and everyone had a chance to live the

American dream.  These things that

use to be, will never return, we have

put a hole in the sky, all because of our

selfish greed, we are destroying earth

out of self-seeking hunger for the

things that we really do not need.


The sky is no longer clearly blue, only a

dingy hue, the rivers and streams filled

with debris, between Heaven and Earth a

cloud of toxic waste; we are destroying

this planet and doing so at an incredible

pace.  Our wetlands taken away sold as

summer get-away; gone are the lands,

forest and streams that wildlife was free

to roam; today it sold for some greedy

person’s million-dollar home.


Listen, do the birds still sing a joyous song,

the animals are not happy; their lives

changed, their feeding grounds gone, we

never give it a thought as to where we

expect them to call home?  Nature tries to

correct our mess with hurricanes, tornados

and such, but Mother Nature believes that

the rest is up to us.  It appears we do not

care and one day we may see crumbling

buildings, bridges and monuments turned

to dust.


When you ask about the American dream,

it is lost among the rubble of crooks and

banking schemes.  The planet will die and

waste away in fishless oceans and down

dirty mountain streams.  There was a time

when the life flowed slowly like a perfect

meadow stream, fresh was the air, blue was

the sky and everyone had a chance to live

the American dream.






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The Killing Fields of Yesteryear…

I hear the cries of my grandmothers and

grandfathers, I feel their fear; I walk with

them in my dreams on the Trail of Tears.

Their feet bloody as they walked the rutted

trail, every scar on their backs another story

to tell.  They planted crops, gave blessing,

taking from the land only, what they would

need, a word they did not know… greed.

Strangers with pale skin came from the east,

my people taught them how to live, when no

longer needed they drove them from their

ancestral homes.  The Grandfathers and their

families stood tall, their backs they refused

to bend, herded like cattle to a far off land, to

die in hot barren sand.

My people believed that the land belonged to

no one, given to all by the “Great Mystery”; still

they died with broken souls never knowing that

their story in time would cover the blood-splattered

pages of history.  They watched as women gave birth

and warriors carried the dead; the children went to

sleep hungry with the ground as their bed.

The day came when these great people were corralled,

given musty water and bug-infested cornmeal to eat,

in a place with no hope, to the pale man they were

bound, a killing field where the blood of my family

spilled upon the ground.  I hear you my grandmothers

and grandfathers, your cries in the darkness of night;

for in my dreams I walk with you, I feel your fear; I wake

each morning with the taste of your tears.



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With Death Comes Freedom…In Honor of my Great-great-grandfather “Hawk”

Smoke circled within the birch bark shelter,

a tiny mouth suckled upon his mothers’ breast,

born in a world without fear in a world that

would one day disappear.

Innocent, he grew into a man, a warrior, riding

into battle with only a “coupe stick” the blood

of another had never stained his hands, until he

taught how to kill by those who called him

friend from a far away land.

The once peaceful coupe sticks of war soon lay

rotting below the ground, principles, and the

right to freedom within  gone, the lands where

they were born became the white man’s home.

Driven to desert broken spirits would never mend,

no longer peaceful warriors they lived with scars on

their souls as well as their skin.

Mother’s eyes cried invisible tears, aching breast

and arms mourned for dead babies that would

not be forgotten by the passing of the years.

Proud people herded and confined in a worthless

land, no longer free because of lying and greed,

hungry and dying of the trespassers disease.

Truth is in the journey, many tried to take a stand,

the rivers became their burial grounds, and their

blood stained the desert sands.  Remember these

people they held onto hope until the end, warriors,

women, children, all dead because they thought

the white man was their friend.

An old man in his final moments knew that only in

death… freedom could be found, his fading memory

returned to songs merging with wood smoke, a tiny

mouth suckling upon his mother’s dark breast; born

in a world without fear, a world he now remembered,

a world that did disappeared.



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When the World Was New…

Red hues beyond the land

Fire in the sky as twilight is

Painted by God’s hand.

Graying dark clouds musty

Against the sky.  A magic

Scene no one can deny.

Imagine when the world

Was new.  With clouds so

White and sky so blue.

Do you think God is outraged?

At how we have changed his world?



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