[Aredubjay]

With all of the "commercial/Industrial" crap I've had to write over the past 30 years, it has been hard to be inspired to the point of poetry. I guess it's been about 20 years as a matter of fact.

The other day, the following bit of stuff just started bubbling up and I had to put it to paper.

I've passed it by family and close friends and since they didn't say it was total "crapola" I thought I'd share it with my larger circle of friends. I hope it speaks to you.


The Eagle Cries!
No, not the screeching, awesome, majestic cry of the proud symbol of freedom. It is the deep, heartfelt cry of sorrow that one hears only when a parent has lost a child. The paralyzing wail that is sorrow mingled with the question: “why?” Halt-less tears streaming, gleaming as they drop in puddles at his feet, shoulders shrugging, convulsing with sorrow.

The Eagle Tries . . .
To make sense of a senseless situation, pacing in a helpless rhythm, back and forth, the pendulum swinging with each step – sorrow, anger, sorrow, anger, sorrow, anger – the ticking of the clock pounding, the voices crying out, families weeping, loved ones keeping watch, jaws set firm with the resolve of hope, while other pallid faces are faced with aloneness – a void where laughter, love and life once dwelt.

The Eagle, Wise . . .
Wakens from the morose images, head shaking, breast quaking throwing off the anguish to focus on a job that must be done. He chokes back the word revenge as the need pervades the thoughts of a prideful parent, fixed on making the bully pay for attacking his child. Suddenly, wings snapping open wide with a sound as loud as thunder, in a pose of parental protection. No more of my children will be hurt . . . No more of my children will die at the hands of ruthless, cowardly killers.

The Eagle Flies!
Pressing hard against the air, the Eagle lifts its awesome form against a field of blue, a sky filled with stars, slashed with white and streaked with red from the blood of those who stood and fought for freedom. His eyes scan back and forth . . . searching . . . choosing his prey carefully. One last push of the air and wings, motionless, outstretched glide the Eagle downward . . . spiraling, silently floating toward his mark. There is no anger . . . it is not revenge . . . it is focus, as the eagle nears the target, and flings his feet forward . . . talons glistening like the rays of hope of those who wait and hear nothing. With one swift motion and pause-less precision . . . the prey is grasped firmly in the clutches of the protector, and as the Eagle begins to beat his wings, once again, the wind surges beneath their power and a gentle hiss whispers, “justice.”


Randy Johnson
September 17, 2001