#shaman
You know that you know what you know.
Built a raft in dimensions untamed, seer.
Have you placed where you fit in their flow?
How to keep motivation aflame, seer?
It's you who signed up for this game.
To know, to know, your power in tow.
Weighed down by your previous gains, seer.
To know, to know, the narrative flow.
Now come to your senses again, seer.
Touch wood or your insight will wane.
There's no going back, no previous track.
To try is to know it's in vain, seer.
Download, call-back, the universe hacked.
To try is to know it's a brain, seer.
Now come to your senses again.
Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 7:29 AM UTC
The shaman welcomes
the spirits, their wisdom is --
sweating from his pores.
May 31, 2025
May 31, 2025 at 2:21 AM UTC
An old enemy turned into clarity.
In the silence I hear my truth.
The winds carry my voice,
from lifetimes ago.
Eternal.
Ancient wisdom purifies my soul.
I now choose to listen.
Beyond the noice, I hear life.
Jun 27, 2021
Jun 27, 2021 at 4:21 PM UTC
1 thank you
—- = —————
X I love you
Teach: Solve For X
X is 1, thank you = I love you
if you are lucky, lucky to be adjudged trustworthy,
someone’s ******** inside insights freely given,
unexpected with no disclaimer, no red stop sign,
“danger ahead,” after all, you inquired sincerely
you caught out breathless, the big data absorption
rate is exceeded, but you understand this tidal wave,
formed thousands of miles away, you and your silly
notions of ‘learning from love,’ aye, were the trigger!
you understand this gale force long in the forming,
the unleashing a cleansing, a self-tallying evaluation,
a crooked trail of struggle, optimism, recovery, both
a reliving and a relieving, and an entree to relief living
and you, fancy shaman, you wordysmith, understand,
you’ve been appointed a trustee of someone’s heart,
can only best muster is an ineloquent encompassing
“thank you,”^
acknowledging a bond you’ve granted, a bond accepted
and overwhelmed by this Rubicon crossing invitation,
you can’t yet blather, pry, think small, just acknowledge
this gunshot across the bow landed squarely tween eyes,
sensing, hoping that this simple response was pitch perfect
minutes later, you receive a summary judgment, to wit
an entirely unexpected
“I love you,”
a declarative, simple equation, understanding that it’s
a spontaneous gush, with no judgment, no risk, pure
acceptance is purely sufficient, that it comes with an
overwhelmingly baked-in affection for,
you, fool,
for just being there, for asking, for learning, eyes tearing, if
you, fool,
have love within you, then you should give it, give it,
give it
3:53 PM
Tue. Jul 21
Twenty Twenty
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 4:04 PM UTC
For someone
it can be a noise
Drum beats
tremble with space
metals split
the bunch of leather beats
A typhoon of disorder
Staying wrapped
in the middle of a striking hurricane
Feeling the sound
shouting to me
My heart beats
It absorbs those beats
It shakes my head
touching my spirit
This music long ago
came from shamans
When the music was
a human ceremony
Mysterious rhythms
What are those numbers
in the elastic organic rhythms?
What are those symbols
of the perception of the world?
Followed long roads
and formed through time
passing from people to people
with their own body rhythms
Their clouds
Their rains
Their thunders
Their earth
Transformed in the
orchestra of percussion
And the story of their nature
descends to me
I hear my ancestors
their messages
I meet them
and now I play
Their and our rhythms
of the Korean percussion
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 8:54 AM UTC
for Thomas Raine Crowe
...These nights bring dreams of Cherokee shamans
whose names are bright verbs and impacted dark nouns,
whose memories are indictments of my pallid flesh...
and I hear, as from a great distance,
the cries tortured from their guileless lips, proclaiming
the nature of my mutation.
NOTE: My “mutation” is that my family appears to contain English, Scottish, German and Cherokee blood, meaning that my ancestors were probably at war with each other. Did my English ancestors force my Cherokee ancestors to walk the Trail of Tears?
I have recently created these new translations of Native American poems, proverbs and sayings ...
What is life?
The flash of a firefly.
The breath of a winter buffalo.
The shadow scooting across the grass that vanishes with sunset.
—Blackfoot saying, translation by Michael R. Burch
Speak less thunder, wield more lightning. — Apache proverb, translation by Michael R. Burch
The more we wonder, the more we understand. — Arapaho proverb, translation by Michael R. Burch
Adults talk, children whine. — Blackfoot proverb, translation by Michael R. Burch
Don’t be afraid to cry: it will lessen your sorrow. — Hopi proverb
One foot in the boat, one foot in the canoe, and you end up in the river. — Tuscarora proverb, translation by Michael R. Burch
Our enemy's weakness increases our strength. — Cherokee proverb, translation by Michael R. Burch
We will be remembered tomorrow by the tracks we leave today. — Dakota proverb, translation by Michael R. Burch
No sound's as eloquent as a rattlesnake's tail. — Navajo saying, translation by Michael R. Burch
The heart is our first teacher. — Cheyenne proverb, translation by Michael R. Burch
Dreams beget success. — Maricopa proverb, translation by Michael R. Burch
Knowledge interprets the past, wisdom foresees the future. — Lumbee proverb, translation by Michael R. Burch
The troublemaker's way is thorny. — Umpqua proverb, translation by Michael R. Burch
Feb 22, 2020
Feb 22, 2020 at 6:33 AM UTC
The whiskey bottle is empty,
But I find the cap on the floor,
and give it away.
Somewhere, my closest family
sleeps, and I live
for the first time all week.
Ask whoever you want,
they'll tell you the truth;
the hymns of ancient people's
resonate in your ears,
and dead ancestors will look on
horrified.
Still, I am the medicine man in these parts.
But that was another life,
one of silent contemplation of the infinite.
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
Indigenous knowledge and unwritten tradition
Ritual dances and pagan gods
She speaks to the deads
Heals the deepest wound
Whispers to the reindeers
But one day people with skins, the colour of snow, came
Untouched by her wisdom
Nothing she could do to stop them
The land was soiled
Purity went away
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 11:27 AM UTC
I heard of a shamaness
who cures dogma
lays off documents
on the coast
of her ******
swings her liberty torch!
and puts on a red cloth.
Her ******* like
speechless
fragile animals
Eyes like poison wells
across the
grand brows
and her smell wrapped
in a burnt sleep
for
ten thousand years.
She cures dogma!
I smoke too much
I dream of an explosion of the silver forests and
I want to fall as beautifully as the ballads tell,
I have held my breath and now I'm entering the coast of her ******
- Samar Charulingah Godfrey
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 3:03 PM UTC
we suckle the **** of the "civilized" world
thats designed for your comfort and your ease.
but we are all blind, hit stop and rewind.
its the shaman that really sees.
umbilical chord to the material world
designed for fleeting satisfaction.
chasing for tomorrow, life that's full of sorrow.
fooled by capitalist distraction.
turn our backs on nature, killing for the dollar. eat some of nature's candy so you can hear the mother hollar. dog eat dog, no more running with the pack. shaman saying he could change the world with the fungus in his sack.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
I create a dream and then lose myself into it.
My whole self.
I create the biggest most soothing dream that I could ever imagine; all of my wants and all of my current needs I put into it.
I invest all of my life energies into the dream and then I crush it.
I really mean that I crush it.
It gets scattered into millions of pieces of stardust and meteorites sprinkled among the mountains and dales of the galaxies and beyond.
Nothing fails as nothing is started. I am nothing. I become nothing and I stay as nothing until a new dream appears and the process is repeated once again. It expands and shrinks as it blinks back at me.
"It is all a big joke August."
I can hear the voices of the gods.
It is all the mystical nature of it all.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 10:16 AM UTC
She who cannot hex, cannot heal.
She who cannot curse, cannot cure.
*She’s a sweet little thing;
a Moonflower’s paradigm
enjoying sweet isolation & silent slumber by day,
waking up to start her magick escapades
after society’s bedtime*
*Self-disciplined & at times
knavishly upping the ante
But I can guarantee you
It’s always revealed in the end
the intent she directs at you is
never anything, besides good.*
*and unannounced observers
you may catch her dancing around the kitchen at 3am,
maybe writing her Galdr spell-songs,
maybe causing mischief
with Hermes or Laverna, (as usual)
maybe testing her gifts this Völva has bound to her mane
Because for her, that’s a way better vessel than any pendant on a chain*
***And remember: When she dances,
if she shakes her hair, her power is twice obtained.***
*So if you’re hooked on schadenfreude,
Cease and desist; Please knock that **** off.
Because, at the very least,
you’ll be returned with what you’ve caused.*
*But if someone’s harming you
or you’re being hurt, but confused
whether the root of tormenting
brews with a What or a Who*
*Go ahead, take a deep breath
Dolour will be overcame
your Spirit’s to be momentarily reclaimed
the Völva’s arrived
and her prowess resides with
cures and curses alike.*
**She who cannot hex, cannot heal
She who cannot curse, cannot cure.**
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
The Name's Selcæiös N.V. Witega
The N.V.'ll only **** you if you're a curious cat.
Your Tech-Age Völva
Onliest Healer
Avant-garde Seeress
& Upping the Ante
Once under my Wing
--a Sui Generis sorta catalyst
But take note,
I'm only here for your healing
---and occasionally to quench the thirst
for all types of Second Sight
weaving, seething, and
any and all other appealing witchy hype
And this niche in the Craft
Contingently consecrates
--you know. when it rains, it pours--
the Superseding of Spirit;
Under the Utopia of Unorthodox Psychotomimetic Wonders
enthralled by your scintillating mishap to wander
Gracefully falling face-first into
The Empath's Curse
in other words, to come to terms with Sonder
Dyed in the wool
lies the
Fluorescent & Incanting Sparks
of the
out-of-place-even-for-you
outre wanders
To me though,
It's vividly violent & evincing
Capitulated roars,
Sequestered howls,
Once Upon a Time
the proud growls morphed
to crying whines
'Carpe Omnis Scintilla'
In Perpetuum,
to no avail.
Your Sui Generis Hedge-Rider
Call me Selaecios N.V.
or Selcaeia, if you like
the sting of serpentine strides
I'll proudly continue to
uphold this chaotically labile path
as it's my Labyrinthine Rite
Taking under Wing
Protecting & Defending
Fellow Humans & Spirits alike.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 5:49 AM UTC
--- She who cannot hex, cannot heal
She who cannot curse, cannot cure. ---
She's a sweet little thing
a Moonflower’s paradigm
enjoying isolation and slumber by day
waking up to start her magick pursuits around society's bedtime
Some spells & her abilities, this Völva has bound to her mane
But for her, that's a better vessel than a pendant on a chain
And remember: When she dances,
if she shakes her hair, her power is twice obtained.
So if you're hooked on schadenfreude,
Cease and desist; Please knock that **** off.
Because, at the very least,
you'll be returned with what you've caused.
But if someone's harming you
or you're being hurt, but confused
whether the root of tormenting
brews with a What or a Who
Go ahead, take a deep breath
Dolour will be overcame
your Spirit's to be momentarily reclaimed
the Völva's arrived
and her prowess resides with
cures and curses alike.
--- She who cannot hex, cannot heal
She who cannot curse, cannot cure. ---
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC
If there ever was a golden age
The smile on the cherubim’s grill,
Wistfully look into her eyes,
Devoted to her algorithms---
Like Christine there are no eyes,
Desoto algorithms---if there
Ever was a golden age
She’s sleeping in,
Evolutionarily destroyed by fire---
Mysteriously her eyes go blank,
Blank for all eternity,
If there ever was an algorithm
For the golden age---she was one---
For a quarter of eternity or an hour
Show her the pile of stones
The men will use
Saints go under the bridge
While over the bridge go the lions---
Her bones thick and mammalian
If there ever was a golden age of stripping,
She was there, her ideas and sciences
dawning on troglodyte mankind---
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
Much like the Mayans thousands of years before,
Granting 2012 the honour to host
An apocalyptic end of the world,
Peruvian shamans now declare
2017 the year
Of turbulence and widespread war.
The healers thus reunite on a hill,
In the capital of Lima to perform
Cleansing rituals able to prevent
The fatal clash between North Korea and the US.
It comes at a time of heightened tensions
Between the two countries over
Threatening nuclear missile programmes.
An unprecedented inferno ignites the night of a West
London residential skyscraper burning
From its second to its twenty-seventh floor
Unleashing the worst nightmares
Of its sleeping inhabitants
And the courage of sleepless fire-fighters.
Colombia's Farc rebels hand over their weapons
To United Nations Inspectors
As part of historic peace accords,
While the President declares,
“Peace will be built little by little,
Like a cathedral, which you build brick by brick"
Revolutionary forces no longer armed.
Migrations creating social unrests
People fleeing their threatening nests,
As mayors plead governments not to let
Any more in and ministries ask, cities to absorb
Two hundred and fifty thousand more.
Coast guards relentlessly saving the drowning ones.
US Attorney General denies, having undisclosed meetings
With Russian officials in Washington hotels.
Any suggestions of collusion with the Kremlin described
As appalling and detestable lies.
Agency’s investigation into Russian political meddling impeded
As Intelligence believes in conspiracies. Memories of Cold Wars
And Bond movies where the ‘traitor’ was lucky to be fired and not shot.
While doctors announce people over 75 taking
Daily aspirin after a stroke or heart attack
Are at higher risk of major and sometimes fatal
Stomach bleeds than previously thought,
Anthropologists excavating in Morocco
Find fossils of potential ancestors, the oldest sapiens retrieved,
Tracing back our steps to 300, 000 years before present.
Across the ocean, somewhere in Arizona,
A man heading to a retirement home prepares,
Cleans up his garage with the help of a neighbour
And finds a 15 million dollar ******* he ignored
He ever had.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 4:58 AM UTC
A model of matters
make me fill my beak
with anecdotes to lark upon breast
that capper shall nigh
and spoon fulfilled parlance
take romance through angels
with their chants that elope
in shoes of Miko with tears of joy.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 5:57 PM UTC
An injection of self, a reflection of self
Orphic explosion, in this brain of mine
I touch the sky, my shaman-self lifted
To realize some kind, of undefined divine
My soul wants to soar, although some parts to plod
Among the grey citizens of order
Dull thumpers of the one, dull god
(And as I come to fear, the night, boredom
And my internal extremes, the hyper-brain
Says ‘enjoy this, though it ends in a crash
You were dead before, so live and fear not death’)
Somehow free of the hate that claims others
Oh those self-defined, self-refined prisons they create
Only to lament their loss and deny their place
In the ranks of bile, and spite and hate
Maybe to cloak themselves from the leviathan-machines
Which provides their plenty, as the global south screams
Their shit-eating hypocrisies, judgemental non-philosophies.
And I have landed among their pretention, problems hidden
Beneath the rug, the armoured iron carpet
That supports the weight of their bloated heads
And blood-drenched souls.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
In the United States
some men whisper to themselves in sleep
dreams of divine masculine
they seek support from the Ultimate Father
and hear of things from long ago
that feel so relevant
of ceremony to become a man
Offer tobacco to the raging fire
Shamans and tribal leaders throw rocks in its mouth
4 blocks to 6 blocks as we honor the 4 directions
Deer antlers present in geometry
everything has its place and function
And as the the rocks glow
they all sing prayers using sacred vowels and tones
from another point in time
reviving ancient memory
and they sang until every man knew the words
to the song, to the people, and to the great mystery
a lifestyle repressed but yearning to thrive
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
You were draped across a girlfriend's bedroom wall
where a cross would be,
your arms held out loosely like an ambiguous invitation,
shielding your countenance from extraneous intrusions
under which she would sleep soundly
in the shroud of your incantation.
Your fallen angel wings beating back bad dreams
slain mercilessly
and falling at your feet.
Your lips slightly pouting, eyes dark,
obfuscating the madness and sex-crazed hallucinations
they harbor.
Hair purposefully unkempt,
disheveled sensuously atop your head,
tufts of hair brushed across your broad chest--
Bare muscles taut and taunting,
placed topographically on the poised temple--
those ready to worship bow their heads
in reverence to the sonic alchemist.
The modern adonis,
sculpted out of the Mississippi Delta Blues
and Dionysian wet dreams--
brought to life with the electric current pulsating through the microphone and its stand upon which you straddle with skin-tight leather pants--
Your left hand around its waist,
your right cupped over the phallus--
your lips part and your cataclysmal eyes
envelop the darkness before you--
Your image,
tormented and tantalizing
in an open invitation
to prostrate ourselves before you
and succumb to your hypnotic stare.
The door opens.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
Summon she that burns within
Fierce shamaness, the goddess divine
The blessed witch & the evil ******
bear her forth unto this plane
She who calls the wind
She that leads the fire
Intent.
Intent.
Intent,
She that is, eternal quest, divine union.
The yin, the yang, the monad within the circle of light
She that is the circle.
She that is the light.
That is within.
That is.
Is.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 7:10 PM UTC
Now of New Age, I am a fan,
I communed with my healing man,
I relaxed, breathed, because I can,
Yes! I communed with my soul's shaman,
He appeared, by my psychic side,
At last, I met my inner guide,
But, you see, it was lunchtime,
Hunger pains panged inside,
Who is this messenger guide?
I asked, yearning deep, besides,
Yes! I did commune with my inner shaman,
Unfortunately, his name is Manga!
Let's do lunch,
End of hunch!
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 12:51 AM UTC
I traveled seeking otherworldly unknown spiritual erudition,
Twilight was approaching, the village was illuminated; by lit face's and fiery pit's.
Shamanic foot pounding dug into the ancient soil, visages were daubed by psychedelic mirages; as embers flew from the state of consciousness matched. As tis these wild child's wore feather's as celestial hat's.
Chant's of healing echoed the earth, an old man with a map drawn on his countenance, and in the palm of his hand's. Stood crooked, spine shifted; with a feather inked with wisdom as the quill's were year's of time's past.
His peeper's as Sunshined glass, aged and freed, he was around the birth age of at least eighty-three; he's lived many form's back before time, before me and thee, he told me " Brandon, I've been waiting for thyself to be seen.
As tis I kneweth a messenger hadst guided me there, I was standing in the shaman's presence, as the plume's covered his hair; he kneweth I needed soul-retrieval, his grin bounced the air.
He brought me into his Wigwam, as tis I felt the demon's inside me, his singing smoked under his breath; verily a man of astral tithing, I passed out from the beastly being's biting.
Mine apparition hadst left me, I was aloft weightless over mine body, I felt as if I died, none more pride or lifes prizing. The medicine man tranced, none need for him to digest any elixers, he's been doing this for centuries, he was a past angel and spirit mixture.
I hath seen mine life's picture, just up high in the cloud's, mine aura climbed atop the great mountain, I didst not want to cometh down; I was watching this tan-skinned tribal just below mine sight; he danced, tranced, danced throughout the night.
Then at the ending before I awoketh, I stared the demon's coming out of me, as tis their infectious breathing got me choking, I pushed out all the thing's trying to latch onto mine burning light inside me, the hellion loveth good soul's, to Satan that's control: anything good is open to their inviting.
I opened mine vision, when the death-bringers left, a holy Bible was placed upon mine chest; as tis the shaman told me his Secretive gift and holiness: he told me Christ he turned to many kingdom's ago, once back when, when he was working as God's angel.
As when I left that small earthly hut of his, he started singing Christian proverb's; reciting Christian hymn's, he wasn't thy average medicine man, he kneweth truth, not fable's nor myth's; before I left he painted mine head with a cross for protective bliss. As whilst at that moment in time, the devil stayed away from mine mind, Satan's chain's wouldst be waiting for him in the brimstone abyss.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
Your life was created
you deserve to be celebrated
Each soul is living heaven and hell
this makes many stories to tell
The wise man lives life simply
the ignorant can't even be fitting
they're so about possession
this world needs recreations
The legend gives life form
coming straight out of the dorms,
with a poetic soul to give emotion
and a rockers heart to devotion.
the man is like a shaman
yelling on stage yeah man!
with the smell of marijuana in the air
there is no time to spare,
Give in to the alternate reality
where its nothing but being happy
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC