Athena Circe Beauchamp: I live in the beautiful rolling hills of southeastern Oklahoma, on a small ranch. I am a Dr. of Veterinary Medicine. My passions in life are my 8 Yr. old daughter, Esha Maree, my practice and my horse, Thunder. I am 39 yrs. old and my background is Cherokee Indian and Cajun. I am an accomplished horsewoman, who rides daily. I am also active in environmental and Native American issues.

Eagle Flight is dedicated to all who have suffered from the thoughtlessness of man...




Spring Rain

Dark ominous clouds fill the sky.
Rain starts to fall
becoming harder, faster.
The sound of rolling thunder,
echoes above.
A bolt of lightening flashes through the sky
the winds are rising to a terrific height.
Destroying everything in their path.
As day comes to end ... before it begins.
Perchance it will bring the sun again.
Leaving behind the darkness
rain comes to a pause.
Clouds disperse,
leaving the sun in dominance.
Raindrops are everywhere
the birds send a harmonious melody.
The fearful wind
is now a tranquil breeze.
Bringing the sweet smell of spring
replenishing the air.
And the day begins...again...


Copyright 2000 by




Winter

If I were young perhaps I would sing
about the bowl of the earth
filled with the coolness of the snowflowers.
Perhaps the dew of the stars
would sparkle
on the night blue meadow of my songs.
But the songs of youth are frozen here
only the tired song of a woman.
Hands knotted with time
gathering sticks for a fire.
Deep in the woods
in her old house.
Weathered with time
ivy covered and cold.
Winter is here
to sharpen my misery...
Torturing all with the whip
of its frigid winds,
nipping and biting as we trudge along.
Gates rusted and broken
sway in the wind.
As I circle my empty table
the bittersweet berries make an orange blaze
as I stare at them.
Days are like minutes as the sands of time runs...
Night comes as the day dies.
My time here marked and counted
cannot be long.
The cold my enemy
loneliness my soulmate.
Soon the warm winds will bring my breath
and being back to the light of time.
Hark as the wind whispers to you
listen ... it will tell.


Copyright 2000 by Athena C. Beauchamp




If You Question The Wind

If you questioned the wind
what would it say...
Would it talk of maiden voyages taken ages before
dawn of time ...
Monotonous repetition of crossing the
earth and its vast expanses?
Would it talk in a whisper as a soft breeze
that bends flowers in a meadow ever so slightly.
Would it shriek like a squall terrorizing the sea...
If you questioned the wind
what would it say...
Would it feel free to wander the sphere ...
Feel chained to its position for eternity?
Would it feel remorse for the destruction
caused by its anger, and rejoice in its creations...
If you questioned the wind
what would it say...


Copyright 2000 by Athena C. Beauchamp




Loneliness

Loneliness is a place,
a realm of nowhere.
It is a room with no exits,
no sounds,
no life.

Loneliness is a belief.
No one cares for me.
No one knows me.
What is wrong with me?
Why should I go on?
Why should I even try?

Loneliness is a siren
calling you sweetly,
Hearken to the call
and fall into oblivion.
Firmness and denial
the longroad out to freedom.

I have heard that siren.
Heard the deceptive music.
Walked the paths of heartache.
Faced blissful oblivion

And I have fought that madness!
Stepped off the brink of darkness
and sought the way to freedom,
that lead out to light and love.


Copyright 1999 by Athena C. Beauchamp




Eagle Flight

High above the earth we glide,
my trusted friend and I.
As through time we travel,
on his spread wings.
I see through his eyes.
I weep.
Representing courage and bravery,
he is a proud breed.

As he soars he weeps.
There was a time
he saw nothing but goodness
in this garden we call earth.
The sparkling water falling
from the mountains into the rivers.
He could hear the buffalo
as they moved across the plains.

He witnessed the newcomers
who ravished our land and us.
Stealing more than our home.
No longer the curls of the fires,
the songs of the women as they cook.
The clatter of the ironhorse,
shattering the plains, mountains and valleys.
Watching as brave warriors were slaughtered,
women and children too.
Seeing that they were hunted down
as wounded deer.
Brought much sadness to his heart.
They placed his image on paper,
sold his sacred feathers for the paper.

As we glide on our journey,
the iron birds are coming toward us.
His proud head raised we turn.
The air we breath, so filthy.
So sad, he is weakened.
Causing my weight to slow him.

As we wisp here and
there my visions of life are very bleak.
The sacred blanket in the sky is weakened,
so we suffer the heat.
The corn is withered and the trees are cut.
White men's medicine is strong.
The buffalo wallows are gone.
The men and animals, poisoned by Mother earth.
Sickened and dying in the revolution of disease.
Over time, I see the change of mother earth,
reflect through his eyes.

As he dips to the cities we see
his own kind, caged, for all to peer at.
Endless lightening wires
to kill and burn his fellow breed.
The noise and the destruction.
The crime and disease.
Filth and greed.

He is saddened by all his eyes reflect.
I am appalled...
He hears the cries of the humble...
His heart gladdens as he dances with us,
round the crackling fire,
honoring him...

He brings a warning to all,
we shall inherit the earth...
What will we have?
He is a beholder of the acts of man.
He never forgets his purpose...
As we do ...


Copyright 2000 by Athena C. Beauchamp




Memories

There is nothing I like better than to sit by an open fire.
Sighing in pleasure and contentment, as I feel the waves of heat wash over me.

Of course it can be uncomfortably hot, so reluctantly
I move away.
But on bitterly cold Winter's nights
I cannot think of anywhere I'd rather be.

Staring into the glowing coals I am mesmerized as we all are, by the dancing flames.
Seeing flickering images, in memory and fancy, things that have been, Cannot be or will never be...

I close my eyes and drift away, remembering, my head nodding as sleep takes me.

The wood splits, cracks loudly and I start awake,
the room, dark, quiet and serene.
I am back to your memory again.

your voice how it woos me, I cannot explain, the feelings
of passion I hold for you.


I look into the flames, my eyes aglow, my tears forgotten I see them once more.
They are here, before me, trickling down, keeping me company
along with your memory, you are gone.

As I am lost in my dream state again, I wake to the chill of the room I am in.

The fire is dead, no faces appearing.
As tears flow freely, coursing down my face
as I remember our love, thrown out,
what a waste.


Copyright December 13, 1999 by Athena C. Beauchamp




November

Walking down the narrow path
twisting turning and so steep.
I stop ... just to look at nature's paint brush strokes.
From the top of the cottonwood trees
to the bottom of the mountain stream.
Tints from faded green to apple gold
highlight
the range of burnt oranges to fiery reds,
plus evergreens,
and hues in between.
Signs of harvest end
and the summer's fruits stored in
saved before cold sets in.
Nearing is fall's festive-frolic
with turkey, sweet-potato pie, cranberry sauce
to be savored during this season of frosts.
The sun is adding a summer performance
to these borrowed days.
And we enjoy them
each as we can
because shortly they will end.
Even now chills are early and late,
as if, around to keep a date
with the coming ice, soon or late
after the colors
meet their fate.


Copyright 2000 by Athena C. Beauchamp