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These photographs may inspire you to develop a deeper connection with your higher self and the natural world. I am offering digital prints of the images displayed on this website between 4x6 inches to 5x7 to 8x10 inches (and up, upon request). See right side panel.



Black and white images are only available as darkroom prints by special arrangement. Please e-mail.





"I call forth that light to

penetrate my soul

and to activate my soul memory of freedom


and the original blueprint of my soul's destiny."



-El Morya on St. Germain's sacred violet flame of transmutation








Friday, October 19, 2012

She-Wolf Rising




















Darkness fades on
her own blood-stained skin
Her body is limp, exposed to the wind
She lies down her hips, paws curled in submission

But all she remembers: take no supervision


The She-wolf’s fur lifts itself
up into ice-blue skies
She has one or two breaths left,
Maybe One just a sigh
She begins a soft moan,
for God’s pillow, she cries
But She never loses heart
even as she dies.

Her eyes would once glisten
Before greed stained the skies
And the buffalo once grazed here,
and the smoke curls would rise


They were coals warm and shiny
and blackened one time,
what’s left now is dullness
and bleak from the lies

As daybreak arises,
Two hawks she did see fly
She prayed up to the heavens
as worms quivvered by

The winter sun sets,
Last horizon, her view
Once children could hear her,
Her call among few

Now she awaits: Grandmother, Grandfather
Oh please now take me, I’ve lost me earth mother

The bullet was shiny, a white man’s prize.
Rounded and silver, it gave him a rise.
My stomach left queezy, my head and heart splitting
It’s the hidden I dread now, legs weak from the spitting

Her shiver, her wheezing
She knows her own suffering
Her witness to rivals
met its end in their rough ring

Was a call to submission
No she-wolf would answer
She gave no permission
So they couldn’t chance her

Was better to finish, in the sky of the moon
at winter’s cold brightness
Then to wait for the noon

So off they had hurried, five drinking gentlemen
With arrows and pistols
to see who would win
The best-looking among them, wore a cross with a dove
His aim was plumb, says it was nature, he loved
Was a derringer bullet, the heaviest draw
That man took his best aim
…and the bullet it saw.

A surprised look, a scream,
Those wolf-eyes’ did gleam,
They darted in anger,
in that waning moon beam.

Was not for the food, nor the fur
that they prized
But the sharpness of the draw
and the sport of it, they would pride.

So down goes the wild one
Spirit leaving the plain
For the savoring of blood
Lest the wild one be tame.

Copyright 2010, 20111, 2012/Nancy Dundatscheck