Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Walking in a Good Way (excerpt)

After the first sweat lodge, Child of the Desert went to Grandfather in tears.

"Grandfather, was I ... was I paying attention? I felt the same in sweat lodge, in ceremony, as I did before. Was I not paying attention, or ... am I walking in ceremony all the time?"

He looked up at her and smiled, his brown eyes soft, his voice low. "You did impeccable work on your medicine journey." He emphasized each word, and each word rang in the her head.

"I'm very proud of you."

She cried all the more.

"Then I've been walking in ceremony this whole time?" she asked, her eyes wide and voice trembling.

"I can't imagine now not being in ceremony."

He nodded.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Rain Magnet (notes)

She lay on her back looking at the sky, relaxed and concentrating, melting into the earth and feeling everything everything in it. Overhead the clouds came from every direction, slowly at first, collecting in great puffy masses, condensing as their numbers increased, whirling together in mottled expectation. They sky faded to gray, and darkened further as the atmosphere blotted out the sun. Beginning with a few blessed drops, the rain struck the dust of the desert, created ripples on the surface of the parched earth. Finally the rain came down in torrents, soaking her hair and her face and her clothes.

But it wasn't imperious, this coming together, this gathering. It wasn't controlling. It was simply what was; it was natural. And so tiring, to be a magnet for the rain! But invigorating. And not hiding, but not broadcasting either, because people are afraid of what they don't understand, and that wasn't the point, to make them afraid. Or to be revered for some strange power, because it wasn't strange: it was only what was.

It wasn't like gathering the clouds in her arms: How could anyone gather clouds that didn't want to be together? But it was rather like creating a space in herself, letting herself open to attract the clouds with the intensity, like a magnet. Trusting.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Hall of Records (poetry)

My hall of records
is a library of compositions
in leather-bound volumes.
An old man curates the collection,
recording the cyclical scenes of connections
that fill my mind.

Unreality dusts the pages.

Compassion for my sanity
dictates the preservation of
observations clouded in ego -
but if I were true to my intentions,
I would burn the books
and emerge from the ashes of time as nothing.

As it stands,
the best I can do is furiously re-write
the vast identity with an alien hand,
and try to dust the fresh ink
with what is real.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Laundry (poetry)

Air the damp folds of my heart.

Musty secrets lie in mildewed
passageways -
Let winds race through every sinew.



Begin again,


Monday, June 1, 2009

Ode to the Peace Eagle (poetry)

Smiling at the stench of carrion
Great vultures tear great dead life
Sustain heavy beaked frames
Reaping life from non-life
putrid flesh thrown aside.

Purify what is rotten excess
Digest what no longer interacts with the world
Clear the ground for winter's turn.
The near-dead grasp at everything, feel nothing, wall themselves away.
Preparing for flight - the dead weight must be left behind.

I can smile at the stench of carrion
for I know it will be devoured by
ravenous buzzards who prey on my dead weight
and leave me free to fly.