Eagles Fly The Desert Sky Poem by James McLain

The black horse of smoking iron,
is this the swiftness of thine once thy mighty wind,
now it runs blind, and asking
for the smoking fowl you laid upon the floor, he did.
Doth she resemble his a tame wild-cow no groom,
unbarned alone ashamed from whence this mind?

And by whoose authority has come
and sold my calf has too be devoured by ravenous beasts,
while she through some
has suffered him to graze alone apart,
yet seeks you out in proper form
from wisdoms girdled unbelted sleeker waist
and relied for this protection on the leader of the herd
that is not there.

A father wolf with flairing nostrils
eyes a hazel sea and thine would be as he
with each full moon hence he misses too
whom, as reason as he misses his your two
can time move one,
and ceases not to run now hasty round the vales
between the tall pine trees-needled fallow hills,
and to fill them with his mournful heartfelt
wounded pride he tries and dies and cries
does no one up there hear his padded feet.

Thunder from the heavans
and rain as tears upon the dry and cracked
his face his eyes grow dim
his/her white-haired young,
whom now lies rolled up in fear of dusk,
after the den of wolves—Eagles fly the desert sky—
and still thine dicerned his perception
some would still divide his limbs,
and spread apart their feast his heart has not been interrupted
and critical thought must come and interceede
where some can't see a mirror always there now gone.

They seek him naught in her of this is his neglect.
Why they seize him with this Jesus like ones eagerness
he can not wrap his mind around, I am not thine thus me,
but oh why for, and oh, before thine eyes become and
how unerring are the arrows of his one unmourned death!

She passes through the night dull mind in agony,
while the wine it falls,
as rain it falls, in never ending showers,
and drenches his your tangled vines with reclaimed vingar
to sooth a dying thirst while white the water runs up stream.




20 June 2010