Fall Away

Torturous dreams,

seeds for these nightmares.

Gladly my world is broken down,

to feed an ungracious song,

a melody of mystery thatr breaks my heart

most assuredly.

String me up.

Set me up,

then tear it all out

as my screams echo the dawn.

Curses on heads,

on blackened hearts with their cruel intentions.

Aching,

pounding,

driving,

I am blackened pool

of odious chorus.

I fall away.

8/28/2001

An old one

and today the sun shines a bit too brightly,
today the world outside changes once again
from cold winter into exhilarating summer.
Today the wind is ashamed to blow,
and the clouds too lazy to form.

Today I sense things,
after a sleepless night of the bizarre,
after a blackness of dreams
the morning saw me awaken with fury,
and with a depression of incredible depth.

Any many things seem futile now
and there are futures unveiled
without terror or fear,
but a simple acceptance
of the way things must be
the questions of the past mostly answered,
and my heart understands few of the places
of this new reality.

seeds have grown,
and indeed
the full blossoming of spring outside
echoes perfectly the growth
and disunion of the greatwood inside my soul,
the longing for that which shall not be
and the memories of those that never were
are birds nestled in the upper branches, the securities of my soul that are unchangeable as the day and night, only slowly mutable with season and fire.

where is that passion? and the answers are burned away, as is the history of the trees, lost in unforgiving time, the distance of years on a soul.

magic? sorcerey? nothing is perfect but all is twisted by man, by nature, and the understanding of people and the world destroy all magic and make that sorcery improbable. the twists, the deviations from my understandings, from my knowledge, the gaps in the stories, in the truth all culminate together in a small turn of metal, and I lack the power to do that which I must, and fulfill the man that I should be, or should have been.

leaves, hojas, the leaves speak to me, the winds of time rattling them in the branches, their music is sad and speaks of pain, and of breaking, of the death that came in winter, and the doubt of that new life with the spring. The patterns of the leaves, of their shadows, those patterns on the ground below the trees, they speak to me in a mysterious language, of persons I shall never know, and tiny worlds on earth that I shall never discover, that have not been granted unto my sight.

And where is the top of the tree, standing tall and proud in the sun, I am blinded by the light behind it, and I cannot see the birds and leaves in the uppermost branches, that is the future, and behind it is fate, blinding me from sight, from knowledge.

What are the words that can be expressed? nothing. There are no words, there is only the speach of the leaves, the clattering of their dried bodies, the sadness songs they sing. None can understand that language, and I can only gain a glimpse of their mood, and nothing of the intonations, of the subtleties and dialects, and therefore cannot communicate their message for I can speak the language of no other, and none can speak my own.

There are burnings things, there are dying things, there is life within and without, though that life without is a promise, and the life within is a hidden one. Within I can see some of the branches, and I can see what has been placed there, another vine to grow upon the tree, an
d with the winter it shall die once again, and its clinging corpse shall be cast to the earth, and again the tree shall feed.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The rings. There is fire marked upon those rings, the fire of ages and of passions, and each ring bears the scars and the growth involved in each. And the rings are again of metal, and of sunlight and shadow, rings from the tree, rings from the magic, rings from the leaves, language and passion and magic and time, they burn together a cycle of endlessness, for nothing can change, the top of the tree is the same, or nearly so, as the lower parts, as the roots, and no one part can be taken from the whole, and no one can read the language upon the boughs.

Futility and reality. They twine together, history, future, futility and reality. The land around is darkened, and those keys are hidden so very far, and reaching them is a task, a task for me and no other, for no other can hear the leaves, and no other should see the inside of the gates again.

Around the ages I see tranquility, calmness and silence, an acceptance of reality, an acceptance of futility, and I envy those silences, those strengths in the wind, in the face of the oncoming spring and fires. I envy, yet with such a great respect, that wisdom that has shut their words, and the ages hold to their secrets and their histories, and understand them as the prizes they are, personal and personable, proud heritages of scars and growth. I am so envious of their age, the age that has brought them closer, and has given them their own keys.

Do I talk nonsense? Yes. In point of fact I do, for the leaves are speaking to me again, and the winds outside, or without, shall stir once more, and the leaves shall sing of that greatness again, and teach of rings and fires and history. I must learn to listen, to listen without speaking, for that speech itself is a fire, and it is not the fire of passion, the growth fire inside the tree, within, but the destruction fire of without, the burning lack that consumes.

Do I hear nonsense? Never shall I know, and never shall one have ability to tell, for the languages are so imperfect, the communion and communication so false. Do I hear in those leaves falseness? Do I see in the shadows lies and histories that never were? Has time muted the colors and winter dulled the growth? I doubt. I so seriously doubt, and I have all but finished inquiring, I shall soon be content among those leaves, among the shadows at the base of the tree, and I shall forget of those upper branches, of the light of fate shining brightly down from above, changing the very shape of the tree, turning it this way and that, as it searches for the fire passions, and avoids those flames of hunger.

It is weakness that moves my tongue. Weakness and hope, hope in the incorrectness of the songs, hope in a distortion in the trees, and the search for the key. Weakness that consumes, it must be a part of the flame, and I begin to see a change here, so I shall end.

escaped

And into these places he put himself –

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

into the stories of darkness and war,
and into his heart he carved their images,
remembered the smell of things burning in the night,
smoldering in the shadows.
He felt the cold of just before dawn,
when the night sky is queen
and draws the heat from both Earth and Air.
He felt the dew on his hair,
and tried to suppress a shiver
even as he shook the exhaustion from his limbs,

trying to recall the purpose of this battle.
His ears caught the near-perfect silence of fear,
broken only occasionally by a cough
or a hoarse whisper.

He escaped.

Truth v2

(Photo credit: hartp)

I have one green eye and one brown eye.  The green eye sees only the truth — the other sees much, much more.  From the day I took my first scalp in a war party, “the shaman is not, nor never was, a warrior.  That needs to be evident.” to the day I first walked in the spirit world, they all knew I was something different “not looking for this degree of isolation.  There is not a they and I here, but a larger, family-style community identity.  They is the wrong concept here“.  A shaman of the plains People “there are no people other than the People.  don’t identify with indians or locale.” has many children, but he has no friends.

With my one green eye I can see the truth etched on the face of the distant peaks by the voice of the wind.  I can see the sad fate of a small child as he coughs blood and clings to a frightened young mother.  Yes, with my one eye I can see the truth of the all-father in every blade of grass dancing on the plain. “fill in this area — more detail of what truth can be seen”

But it is with my right eye, the brown one, that I see that I am alone.  It is through this eye that I see that alone I entered this world, and in a few short years, alone I will leave it.  It is with my brown eye that I see my seed blown as dust across the plains.  Forgotten. “this foreshadows the ultimate tragedy coming down the line.  this is the desperation growing from the pain of the upcoming tale to be recounted.  this is a voice hopeless in its despair“

Truth v1

I have one green eye and one brown eye.  The green eye sees only the truth — the other sees much, much more.  From the day I took my first scalp in a war party, to the day I first walked in the spirit world, they all knew I was something different.  A shaman of the plains people has many children, but he has no friends.

With my one green eye I can see the truth etched on the face og the distant peaks by the voice of the wind.  I can see the sad fate of a small child as he coughs blood and clings to a frightened young mother.  Yes, with my one eye I can see the truth of the all-father in every blade of grass dancing on the plain.

But it is with my right eye, the brown one, that I see that I am alone.  It is through this eye that I see that alone I entered this world, and in a few short years, alone I will leave it.  It is with my brown eye that I see my seed blown as dust across the plains.  Forgotten.