"shamans" poems
Shamans, in an attempt to find a word that all cultures could understand, to represent, universally, the subject; married the languages by root.
Each attribute or thing that the beast is said to do, have or have power to do or over is found as a definition in a language of the individual roots.
Take Sanskrit for instance. "Dra," is "water and combine it with Sumerian, "Gun, Gon," and you get a "water-born," beast who "writhes, twists or wraps around," which is the Ouroboros Serpent as shown in ancient images.
The secret to all ancient myth or religion is in interpretation of language into foreign languages over time.
And, yes, it is very creative, appears complex due to time but is just humans trying to describe observable nature.
None of it is meant to be taken literally unless you literally live six thousand years ago and speak in an ancient tongue.
Addendum
* Keltic, "Con, Kon," makes the Dragon, "All-knowing." *
And we know from Plato that Greeks
stole their root words from the Celts.
Plato's own words in,
'The Cratylus.'
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
Jesus runs in Everglades, Mohammed climbs the roof
The Angels stamp in anger as the Devil stands aloof,
A wandering Pope in la-la land while Jewish hands do writhe
Those apoplectic Muslims glare while Catholics pay the tithe.
Religion, girls, has hit the skids…the game is up on God
With rosaries rotating hard, theologians do nod,
While Mormons rant moronically with frankincense and myrrh
The irreligious bark and howl in Rastafarian fur.
Sectarian’s recant Sanctum’s Shrine the rite of soul is lost
As neophytes are dancing… the High Priest counts the cost,
Theocracy unbalances as Voodoo’s stamp the floor
And the Prophets throw their hands up, fast retreating for the door.
It’s transcendental disbelief that’s nailed it to the Cross
With the Priesthood chasing little boys all credence here is lost.
With sanctity’s monastic plunge the pagans roar and shout
As Shamans scream their incantations…God declares a route!
There is silence in the Temple now, stillness in the pews
As dust lies thick on altars, a nervous clergy holds reviews,
What, once, was good and vibrant here, is now as dead as dust
As the Blood Red Wine evaporates and Holy Bread…to crust.
Marshalg
Feeding the pigeons by the dusty, open door of the very, empty Chapel.
30 November 2013
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
I find myself diving inside of you where the weird dream shamans draw sketches of naked humans.
And you’re a human, and we're both naked. You’re purple, you’re just the perfect shade. I place my flag inside, to abscond us away inside of a womb where our world will open to portals to all of our favorite places. A floating haven, of cashmere. Gestating where the climate is warm and damp, and coloring me dark with wine—sweet wine of lovers, penal forgotten, and fermented anew in maternal rite, because…
This swarming melodic nectar that swims through my nostrils and rolls in my eyes cannot be drank casually. It’s the elixir of love. I love you,
And in you, I find that I love myself.
What’s more, the shamanists exclaim, “She wants to give you all of herself.” Yes, they’re right. Even what I do not love so much, I want you to have, if you’ll take it, because I have to live with it, and if you live with me, you’ll have to live with it too. And then, when you crack open your sternum to let the things in, the scribes of my life’s doing, of ancient passion proclaim! They burn their papyrus scrolls soaked in the blood that I drew from my veins to pass unto yours— and you swallow them whole like divine burritos. And then we are ready for the world to fall suddenly, if it felt so inclined. Now that our chests are pressed together, and our tongues are fused tight. We are the daughters of the prima mother. We are the goddesses of our dreams.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
.
*Rider On The Storm of trances,
LA Woman led through ritual dances.
A Poet just Waiting for the Sun,
when The End was where it all begun.
The Spy trying to Break on Through,
a native sharing his Shamans Blues.
A Ship of Fools tinged with mirth,
destined Not To Touch The Earth.
Mr Mojo Risin', the acid dream rover,
taking rest When The Music's Over.*
© Pagan Paul (04/12/16)
James 'Jim' Douglas Morrison
(Poet and Rock Star)
8 December 1943 – 3 July 1971.
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
Somewhere along the line
it feels like I lost my poetry.
But I've always had a deep affinity of childhood curious-gaze with the light of a passing car slicing through a slumped drapery in the dead of a powerless October night
like a fumbling mouse with night-vision, glassy eyed, walk, walk, walk
run, run, run
scurry-rubber like an imperial humvee of red-carpet glamor.
Somewhere along the line
the freeze of a less-than-bourgeoise temperature never felt close to Antarctic
until the ring of a cell-phone became my national anthem
and the complacent all-eternity-and-everything-we-are-and-more reflective one-eye of a laptop became my national flag
I waived it with surrender calling to all nation states that 'I don't give a sweet ****
entertain me.'
watching politics like sports and sports like politics I couldn't help but hear the old Native inside of me scream in suffocated final breaths so I turned up the volume to drown him out
and when I wished to return to his comforting embrace, I found he had drown to death
so all I could do was stand over his wading body in the river of my mind and lax my shoulders in defeat.
I rang the midnight church bell of 'send new message' to tell the world that didn't care
the shaman is dead.
all they said was
'finally, the shaman is dead.'
I nodded, laughed, locked the bathroom door
and cried until the river ran dry
the shamans body so far down creek I could pretend to forget he had ever existed
the ache inside became a masked anonymity with the glare of Dorian Gray
I shrugged and said, 'I could never make time anyways'
and fell right back into my sleepy routine with another cup of coffee.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
carry me through lands of dreams
sleepy shamans oaths perceived
the new humans rewrite their creed
to reconstruct the codes beneath.
as sands of time brush through my lungs,
beneath where silver moons once hung,
the catalyst for earths progressions,
tantric winds of gods procession
are pulled to fuel the fires in our chest.
to fuel the fires in us.
ride the colors of the wind, my friend;
dance with death until your end.
the serpentine son rises to speak eternal truths
and soon his weary eyes will rest upon you.
the deepest shades of blue green hue
from the swoon of palaces
dreamt of once, so long ago
where trees from ancient soils will grow
and we, collect their morning dew.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
On occasion,
I dream about drowning at least once a week
And when I drown
I always expect to choke under the pressure of the ocean
That the salt stings my eyes shut
But I am always surprised at how easily my body sinks
And how buoyant it can be under water
And it makes me think of all the slaves
Who threw themselves overboard
How they thought themselves fish before slave
Did they grow gills?
Were they grateful for the mercy of erosion
Under salt instead of whips
Did they backs bend like dolphins do?
Did they build an underwater city untouched
By brutal hands
Do they know, that I see them sometimes
The ancestors who chose water over land
And they are not bone and marrow stacked
At the bottom of the ocean
They are not corpses who chose the easy way out
I see them
They have built an underwater world from their bare hands
They laugh and bubbles exit out their mouths
Even now my family would not mourn my departure
If I were to be called by the waves
For the water has a language that some
Of us have an ear for
It is not the place of mortals to tear up
When one of us africans drown
Because to sink is to find new life
Is to be in the hands of those who control their own destiny
I know them, the water people
They call me during the night
And i don't fight anymore
I laugh with them, and live
And wake angry that oxygen can suffocate me
That I suddenly become flailing fish
That my home is not this land
That I find comfort in ocean floor
That is where my ancestors speak to me
Console me
Teach me the ways of spiritual healer
At the bottom of the sea
And it is not a dream although I wake from it
It is a reality that is bestowed upon
The xhosa shamans from birth
The western world does not have a reality like that
So they will argue it does not exist
They will be quick to diagnose my mental health
Call the act of reuniting with my own
An episode, a stress indicator
A sleeping pill prescription
These are the same people who believe in
Three day resurrection for death
But cannot fathom an african never dying
And we don’t die
We do not die.
There is life for us elsewhere.
And when we are ready
The waves will welcome us home.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 5:50 PM UTC
In contemporary belief.
A archer went to a shaman for relief.
A answer to ease fear of thoughts.
Finding his way home, the trail of war became too much.
He struggled with the regret of building a life away from what he knew.
When he came to the shaman.
The shaman hung his head low.
Smelling the stinch of blood.
Still he could not turn his back to the archer.
When posed with the young archers question.
He sat puzzled. Summering the long winded statement to "a great change must be made. Else all will fade."
Knowing of the young archers longing for a maiden.
The archer looked puzzled.
Yet the shaman spoke nothing else.
The young archer was called upon.
A war broke on the opposing side.
They needed his skill in fear that survival was utmost.
Without time to think the archer grabbed his bow. His arrows and darted quickly in the direction the war has taken place.
He quickly coiled arrow to bow. In repeated motion until none were left.
A field of arrows covered the small space.
War does something to a man.
A brief clarity after the slaughter of contemplation.
The shamans words dawned upon him like a snake.
He darted to the shamans place in great discoverly.
Finding that the shaman as well as his possessions were completely gone without trace.
He darted back to the field.
Searching through a forrest of arrow.
A heart wrenching feeling stuck on his face.
Guiding his way through the arrows he found a familar hand. Connected to a familar torso.
A face stuck in agonizing eternity.
The shamans words made more sense.
Backing away from the body.
Thinking deeply. Damning his hands.
The thing that came as habit.
He broke his bow in the reflection of his maiden's eyes.
This war gone astray inside of him
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
If you haven't noticed
our generation is failing
Our earth is dying
Doesn't any body understand?
Its all a reflection of us
what the earth feels we will feel
Empty
without true love
the sun is lonely
it burns what drops by
Even our earth turns away from it
what a sad existence for something that gives so much
its warmth holds us up
and we work away its light
and only come out
when the moon shadows the night
women
don't compete
men
don't back away
take what is yours darling
you'll never get another shot
fix me
fix you
please do
lend a hand
be a friend
Love
I don't get the word
its a word to disguise our pain
pain as pleasure
even on entrance
a trick of cancer
***********
risking death
the end of the ******
love may sew temporary wounds
but we are chronic
The belief is free love
in sexuality freedom
its only a myth
because of our duality
one side suffers
as one side grows to yield
one side grows to grow
eruption in the psyche
and the shamans and heroes are gone
our women are now men
and are men are now women
Visions of our future come to me
although, we are better speakers
than we are listeners
so
would
could
one soul make a difference
I could go on forever
but I will someday die
and when I returned to the earth
I expected a lot of change
but I only saw my hard work
twisted by the power people
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
Light waves, frequencies, and distorted thoughts. Aligned with misperceptions. Auras tainted with beings of another stage. My duality cracks into a million faces. Astral physicists of higher realms. Who needs a doctor when you have perfectly good shamans? Green monsters, unseen to the naked eye. I remain broken as twisted images carry me along the sea of paranoia.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
I see you in my dreams..
Yes dreams.
I mean they used to be nightmares
But that little girl who used to have fears?
The fear of you coming after her again
The fear of you taking what was truly hers from the beginning
The fear of you hurting her again?
That girl is dead!
Who killed her you may ask?
You.. *******
See you took away my forgiving heart
The heart that did not believe in revenge
I used to think an vengeance was a *****
And breeds anger, causing the past to impinge on the future
But that was until you came into my life
And took away my dignity, my pride..
My youthful exuberance
Now I'm not that naïve little girl you hurt..
I am like Judas 'la Scarriott
The man who sold Jesus
Man, I am now as brutal as Satan himself
Call me anti-christ if you may
And you are my slave.
You are like Thanks-Giving turkey stuck in the gist of my throat
And I?
**** I need to puke!
Who do you think you are heh?
A boss? A king?
Living by "This is a man's world" ?
Going around taking what doesn't belong to you?
Well meet me, I am the Devil
And you are just my spawn
I'd call you a son of a ***** but ***** my nikka?
is an understatement for whoever it is that bore you
Entlek you too are a *****
Remember when I said "Please" and you said "No" ?
That was the day, man, was the day
You killed the last grain of light I had within me
I now embody hatred and evil within me..
I now live by the timeless creed "revenge is sweet"
I am like the shaman, "That's a cute word for witch"
And shamans do not forgive..
I shall seek vengeance, get a knife
A gun even..
So ***** You better watch you ***** back..
And sleep with one eye open
Because my name is Thuto Gaasenwe..
... And I'm coming for your ***
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
Forgotten memories remain to be a significant part of the rich tapestry of contemporary establishment, just like an Indian summer which dries the drab and weary soul of those who are ******
History reveals that the Spaniards sold Erythroxylum Coca to Bolivian and Peruvian populations, whilst tyranny exerted its illegitimate dominance.
So, the quest for power and social control remains to be exploitative in the guise of jovial and seemingly convincing salesmen. Just ask the shamans of traditional cleansing.
The pulsating groans of ancient civilisations will never dissipate, despite the lusts of mankind to establish grandiose constructs.
Oh great and mighty spirit of the land, we need your residence amidst our conceited political climate, because you have truly won the war even though our realisation is blinded by fierce presumption.
I desire to take a bite of historical and gourmet delicacies, and to swallow the diversity of gustatory brilliance, because their remains to be a discrepancy between Spanish and Portuguese validity.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 11:51 PM 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
a soul history is like the caligraphy of dunes
the psyche toiling its dark materials
sketching shadows from imagination
the cabaret of desire contemplating all the wonderful trivial terrible beings you can be. a wave in my mind you are
between the visible and invisible man the wisdom of the shamans
I walk on streets, I see things, I touch hands suffering from imagination deficit disorder. sometimes I have thoughts in reverse
but I cage my heart in this shrine of memory while
I am looking for you dawn by dawn, bird by bird
Feb 5, 2024
Feb 5, 2024 at 4:15 PM UTC
there’s a madness to the method
just like madness to the **** head
just like sadness when a pets dead
So shaman practice to ***** death
dream up palace for the friends beds
give up hours made to break bread
we’ve a table so we share meds
******* tired, mai oui bed spread
going line by line
with a fine tooth comb
this my time to shine
that’s a spine made moan
ecstatic just like ﻮ๏๔ up on the phone
syncretized to science
split the spine to find it
sip divine in silence
܁܁܁પﻭɦ܁܁܁
sift my mind is chalice
peep my mental palace
be love be never callous
self poison only malice
who’s next up ?
Phil my boy defining finding
fluid flows that’s kinda violent
quiet convos
with sigma shamans
hidden wicked prevented
predicted problems
consciously coming
to all three of the shy
๓ﻉ & ฝﻉ & ฝɦﻉก; ๓ค & ๓ﻉ & Շɦﻉ๓ร
I might get off my ult
while I sip off my colt
best slip off that coat
when you roll with me
Where were going...
its too hot for that ****
Sometimes we the hero
Sometimes we the zero
Sometimes we the feeder
Sometimes we the carry
Sometimes we don carry
way too much up on our shoulders
heavy stacking rolling over boulders
etch away the borders
swaying over voters
reeving up the rotors
drinking with the smokers
hugging all the soldiers
all the loners
better freeze time
so we can compose
the pose for all the posers
oppose the poachers
humans are people
Not supposed to be vultures
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 1:06 PM UTC
Lovely elves and charming witches
Wizards with great power
Sorcerers and dragons
I've read of these for hours.
Woodland imps and fairies
Their faces may seem pure
But these creatures are spirits
And they are meant to lure
Spirit guides and shamans
Fetishes and feathers
Burning sage and totums
Beating drums together
Werewolves and vampires
Voodoo dolls with porcelain faces
These creatures are monsters!
They have ***no redeeming graces!
HALLOWEEN IS WICKED!***
Yet it is for SALE!
Kids dressed up as GOULIES
*And DEVILS WITH A TAIL!
**SATAN ISN'T BEAUTIFUL!
The devil isn't CUTE!
HE'S HERE TO DESTROY US!
Yet we dress KIDS in his SUIT!***
Yes, they are romanticized
The source of tons of ink
I've even written of them
A fact from which I shrink!
I repent of doing this
And as popular as they are
I will now delete them
I will no longer share.
I will not praise this "beauty"
Or perpetrate a lie
I've had some trouble reading
Now I know the reason why
These deceptions grieve The Spirit
My holy heart. My SOURCE.
These ideas are of evil
I will not endorse.
I could have done so quietly
Never made a show
But you need to read this
*You really need to know!*
I may seem a fool for writing this
You won't like this share
But if I'm now unpopular
I DON'T REALLY CARE.
And, Christians, be ye HOLY!
Think on something nice!
Think on God the Father
And The Lord Jesus Christ!
SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/27/2016
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC
Spirits, sages, mystics and wizards
shamans and charmers
voodoo, hoodoo...wanga and juju
and..
old old women- those teller of tales
weavers of dreams....casters of spells
Warnings of darkness and deepness
conjuring clues or readings
from spangled stars on black nights
Guidance on this spiritual journey... this mystical quest
Sunrise into sunset... dark into night
Answers to questions you never asked
Questions to answers
long buried in self shrouded past
There are those who would lead you
to dark alleys astray
Those who would steal your hearts diamonds,
your trust.. and betray
You hear whispers and rumors
strange tongues, and hushed voices... muffled sighs
You search for everything and nothing in the shadowy mist
What are true truths... what are lies?
Keep your eyes open..receive the whole
and know..
That real truth is sometimes
in the unexpected, the untold, the unwritten, the uncharted....
Like..
in the moment of exhale from one true kiss!
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 6:30 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
woo
woo
woo
solid solitary
crying out into
the night
around the fire
our emerald eyes
bleed
to inhabit the
stars
shamans dancing
wooping
hollering
shouting
roaring into the
invisible
air
invisible
snakes wrapping
themselves
around
our limbs
phantom elves
shaking
in the embers
of a dream
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
nothing bothers me more than people who say they have found god.
no one has found god.
life is not about finding god.
"GOD" is intangible and not something we can grasp,
but we pretend to.
people put quotes around his words
and then put those words in his mouth
they string ideas of her into beads and crosses -
what exactly are you clinging to?
people don't know.
we are too small
and we are not wise enough.
god is the whole universe.
god is nothing.
god is a tree, a bird, a thought.
god is a little boy with a piece of candy stuck in his hair,
an artist in a garret,
a dog on a cushion,
a girl in an alley.
i don't believe that god has abandoned the church.
i believe that the church has abandoned god.
i don't believe in my catholic roots.
i don't believe in christianity.
i don't believe in buddhism.
i don't believe in islam.
i don't believe the bible.
i don't believe the priests, the shamans, the medicine men.
i don't believe the trappings we place around god
(our weak ideas of her,
our sorry attempts to define him).
i believe that god is people
god is rain, god is the sun
god is the night air
god is the words on paper
god is the paint on canvas
god is creating, god is being, god is gone.
god is here, now, and everywhere
and i only call her god because i lack another name for him.
it has no name.
i understand this
or i think i do.
god knows me intrinsically
or not at all.
god loves infinitely and sees to the depths of humanity
or else god is old, decrepit, and alone
curled in a corner of the world
trying to shut out the mayhem of his earth
(what have i done?).
god cringes at our killings
rejoices in our births,
or is vengeful, red, and full of war and death.
god is spring, summer, and fall.
he is the snow in winter, she is the birdsong
at my window.
she is multitudes and she is one
wildly insignificant
and all-knowing being.
she is the creator, the destroyer, the lover.
she is nature, she is earth,
she is people,
she is the industry, the tapestry, the travesty.
she is love, she is me.
she is loss, she is you.
she is life, she is them.
and i love her,
as anyone loves her -
if you can love an energy,
an idea,
the ungraspable concept that a grain of sand
is the same as the greatest mountain in the world.
but i don't presume
to know her.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 10:21 AM UTC
Hordes of mangled marionettes hoard so many histories of mystery,
That I beg in blank brandishing tongues, hounding the hordes most swiftly.
Because I am a puppet master pioneering such a broad pallet of poetic pleasure,
That surely the most silent shamans will sound their poignant sighs in solitude.
And we've accosted such armies--allied only to destruction,
Only to be found in fruitless dust.
Demons will someday antagonize them in blissful anarchy,
But for now we’ll pass an ancient altruistic remedy
And leisurely lull the pull of destruction.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 9:10 AM UTC
opening up an eclectic ruddy random selection of books to the sound of classical concerto dimmed to 'whelming' (neither under nor overwhelming), is like entering point after point to perspective to new brain after old brain after subject to object to alluvit, the few, the many-- 'on July 21st, 1936, Lockheed test pilot Elmer C. McLeod, with Amelia as copilot, took the new Electra up for its first official flight..' 'This is the picture of the Djinn making the beginnings of the Magic that brought the Humph to the Camel..' 'A block away from the museum doors, the guards still follow us, until a new group of guards from the next building has us under surveillance..' 'More and more, I suspect that Buddhists and shamans are correct..' 'I liked Bloodworth and in the spring we were going to play outfield together on that Lowell team, he whose name for years had mystified me when I saw it in Lowell High and Lowell Twi League boxscores-' 'if the world at large found it impossible to believe the truth of the Holocaust, even when provided with incontrovertible proof, Berliners presented with piecemeal evidence, rumour and hearsay were bound to dismiss such talk as enemy propaganda, or perverted fantasy. As Ursula Von Kardoff recalled after the war: 'we were realistic and pessimistic. But Auschwitz?'- '"Twenty-five centavos."
"Twenty-five centavos," repeated the Syrian in a firm voice with almost no accent.'--
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
THE TRECK
Step-
step-
step
Walking through
orange mountains--
a journey toward
the blue hole,
like shamans through a desert--
except we have beer.
never loosing our sight
of the sea,
I swear, every step
makes the water glow a more magificent blue
as the wind travels through every rock.
Step-
step-
step
One of the electric men
from the rocks whispers
through a gust
to trust the path ahead of me.
I take a swig of beer.
Step-
step-
step
ARRIVAL and RELAXING
Subdued
Subtle
Serene duet
between Nephthys and Nuit lulls us
to rest after a feast of honey tahina
in a hut with the words "Peace City"
painted over the kitchen.
Silent
Soothing
Solace
wondering
if Moses was really lost
in a place many might consider paradise.
Saline
Saphire
Soul blood pours from mother's veins--
Dahab/Sinai is a major artery
of civilization creation, a sacred
space for those seeking to unplug.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
Come and let me tell you
Tales of distant wizards
In far off foreign lands.
The speak in words of poetry
And magic incantations
Even they don’t understand.
They tell of arcane stories
Of dragons and the caves
Of gemstones where they hid.
They tell of verve and derring-do
And swashbuckling heroism
In legendary acts they never did.
They chant, these ancient shamans
To deities and gods of ancient name
Who they know well are fakers.
They foretell and portend wonders
And riches for those who rule, and
Call themselves movers and shakers.
These magic-minded soothsayers
Drape themselves in auras of mystery
And tell the believers they can heal.
And if the congregation fails to look
Closely enough at their performances
They believe the mythological is real.
And time can coat the stores in paint
That looks like the patina of the ages
So it passes the inspection of he willing.
No true believer looks for cracks
In the walls around the real facts
Or questions the truth they are killing.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC