(Isaiah 40: 31)

They brand him bald eagle,
His head, a blob of snow.
He rides above the clouds,
Sights the horizon close;
Nests on a lofty peak
From where he sees the sun,
Sharpens his crystal balls,
Drinks in wisdom of stars,
Hones his hunting vision:
Observe and swoop and pluck.

Wisdom lacks in a crowd,
No might missed in a mass.
He loathes the floating filth,
Where ants in numbers swarm.
He makes no friends below,
But those precious as prey.
He does not flap his wings
And strut like a rooster.
He bursts through the windstorm,
Galloping on its back.

At a high altitude,
In sublime solitude,
The eagle dons his frost,
And weans his wings on storm.
If there’s pride in the air,
Or one that rules on wings,
The eagle stands erect.
He reigns, a lonely king,
Sits on a lofty throne,
Graced with a wisdom cap.

© 2024
Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi

By savingwordtracts



Many drink to December;
Like last phase of ember days,
Rejoice, a step to cinders.
The smile of festive faces
Etches subtle lines, the frown
Of trying year, a furrow.
Traces of unrhymed rhythm
Of waves and of crest and trough,
Of a strange romance with time,
Chime a solemn distant toll,
Heralding our ember days.

© 2014
Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi

By savingwordtracts