Gitchi Manito

As I lay prostrate upon the soft forest floor

The coolness of mother earth pervades me

I inhale the scent of crushed pine needles

And the fragrance of ancient lost summers

Losing myself in the silence of meditation

I traverse a landscape of visions and dreams

My spirit soothed by the sound of swaying trees

And leaves rustling in the damp morning breeze

Stirring the air in a peaceful moment of bliss

Ah, the whispering of the si-si-gwa-d

And unto you Gitchi Manito

I share my senses

My spirit, my soul

And give you thanks

For all that is

All that will be

And all that ever was

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The Apostles

Rising, falling

Ascending, descending

As if a weightless feather

Like a snowflake in the wind

I swirl onward in a never ending spiral

Floating, sinking

Flying, diving

As if a magnificent eagle

Like a dolphin in the deep blue sea

I swim downward in endless whirlpools

The ocean and the sky overtake me

Permeating my existence

Drenching my essence in sunset and tide

These are the apostles of the earth

Sent in stunning beauty to help us through the storm

IX Chel

My lady rainbow

Gazing longingly at the pale blue morning star

Hiding stealthily from the jealous Mayan sun

Your dark eyes reflecting the Cozumel moon

Gently you sleep in a gorgeous Yucatan garden

Daydreaming of a magnificent palace in the sky

Insects dance majestically upon blossoming flowers

Dragonflies swarm over their beautiful goddess

Reciting a soothing lullaby to their slumbering patroness

Brilliant electric blue wings entwined in her flowing black hair

 They lift her across an inlet upon enchanted wind currents

To descend upon Isla Mujeres in the salty tropical breeze

Raising up a sacred temple on the shore in honor of their goddess

Author's Notes/Comments: 

My poetry has always been inspired by spiritualism mysticism, and ancient myths-this one takes us to the Yucatan!!

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The First Rain

Upon a lonely shoreline appeared the rivulet of a shadow emerging from beyond the reeds.  A wraith-like silhouette.  Viracocha emerged from whirling mists dressed as a common beggar.  His long gray hair and unkept beard disguising his wizened ageless face.  His loose white robes flowing in the enchanted breeze.  The creator’s sandals seemed magical.  As if to make him weightless like a feather.  He rose up through the darkness ascending out of Lake Titicaca.  His soul blissfully expanding.  A lucent blanket of light extending outward into the atmosphere.  In the afterglow of sparkling twilight.  Where energy crackles luminous like thunderbolts.  He sat prostrate.  Meditating under a canopy of sacred eucalyptus.  Silence coalesced in a valley of indescribable beauty.  Under the distant shadow of blurry snow capped peaks.  A presence was suddenly detected.  A beautiful fragrance.  A melodic sound.   The creator god’s aura erupted in beautiful neon pastels.  In the solace of the startling predawn.  Where his consciousness flowed like a thick substance through the Peruvian forest.  His thoughts echoed as if in an ancient chamber.  Visions of the feathery serpentine god Quetzalcoatl appeared in lightning-like flashes.  A green mask.  Russet lips.  Emerald eyes.  A yellow profile, and a beard of feathers.  The shallow waters of the lake were suddenly stirred by an unseen force.  There is a sudden sense of birth.  An intense trajectory of light.  A moment of creation. Transformation.  The blossoming of a flower.  A sun-like aureole suddenly adorned his head like a crown.  He grasped two staves as they fell from the sky.  In the distance the gateway of the sun converged.  Extravagant cougars, pumas, condors, falcons and snakes adored him like disciples.  They reverently swarmed around the god in humble anticipation.  I can still feel your breath in the stones.  Your thoughts flowing through the rivers.  Your wisdom immense like the foamy Pacific.  As the emerging world pulsates with youthful energy. Giving birth to the universe, the sun, the moon, the stars, and the sea. Tears burst forth from Viracocha’s eyes like a flood.  Showering the earth in its first rain. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I actually wrote this for a musical piece my friend Andy Lee created, the music was entitled "The First Rain".  I did the spoken word, the music is lost now-a file erased by accident!

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Myth of Tollan

Quetzalcoatl arises like a blossoming flower

Protruding through the coiled serpent’s mouth

Scales and feathers fused in majestic splendor

A pale bearded face shadowed by Popocatepetl


Dawn illuminates the ancient valley of Mexico

The temple of Tollan quietly awaits its master

Priests and magicians trek dark emerald forests

To reach the Veracruz coast overlooking the sea


The winds blow divine fragrance…

The trees bear sacred nectar fruit…

The ash and cinder an ominous sign…

The rains to baptize the city of dreams..

The asteroid to devour fragile Tenochtitlan….

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Blue Bead Mountain

I felt the divine wind like the breath of the great spirit, tasted the dusty indanthrene pollen of summer, smelled the fresh fragrance of spruce from the far off sacred mountains.  The mists of first dawn radiated and reflected prisms of majestic light in the holy valley.  I followed the coyote pup through the four worlds of creation, under the indigo shadow of Blue Bead Mountain.  I came upon a magnificent island that floated upon the cobalt surface of seas that merged and blended into glittering waves and foamy froth.  It was here that I brought her black beads and crushed abalone shells, amongst clouds that glowed  almighty cerulean turquoise.  In this first world, I glanced upon changing woman, her eyes an endless void of chaos, stars, constellations, destruction, and birth.  In the second world, I became a beautiful eagle soaring gracefully above ancient gray wolves with luminous effervescent eyes that followed twisting pathways through rocky canyons.  In the third world, a sparkling river flowed through a rainbow existence, its sacred ephemeral waters pure and crystalline.  In the shallows, I caught my reflection upon the amorphous mirror-like surface, the youthful innocent faces of two mythic twins.  In the fourth world, I cast my volcanic obsidian stones against towering cliffs that rose up infinitely into the midday sun.  It was here that I picked blue flowers and the yellow pollen of corn and danced until daybreak at the night chant ceremony.  Kneeling, weeping and touching the earth, we knew once again as if awaking from a dream, this was our mountain, this was our scared land, we were home.


Obeah man

Obeah man son of the night
Stay with me till sleep find deese eyes
Take the soul from out dis man
Bless him by the water
Transmute from ‘im to I.

To save me from the rest
To de end I feel de pain.
Obeah man son the lady
Steal me life again
Obea man lay me down.

Crush de herbs an stoke de fire
Find de gold to close ‘im eyes
Whisper spell into ‘is ears
and steal 'is essence from 'im eyes.

Obeah man son of the night
Bring ‘im soul out to I
Pull the charms and whisper spells
Save me from de rest.

Chanting psalms of Lucifer
and switch the darkness in our eyes
pull the wear out from des bones.
sprinkle 'erbs upon 'is eyes
whisper words,
and take'is breath.

Me eyes open wide
and see de light of mortal world,
for long ‘ave dey been dark.
dis body is new
touched by de darkness
and laid on de slab.

new life in me 'ands
and praise upon me lips,
but Obeah man, ‘e won’t take no payment
Till I’m laid to rest.

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Just before the sky turns from black into blue,
I try to seek any cleric's voice floating through,
Renting the still air with "God is the Greatest".
But he does it mechanically like a clock with its clue.
(By Muhammad Naveed Ahmed/Emmenay. Posted on September 10, 2011).

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Potts Wallace

Have you heard the trancing words
of the Mystic Bedouin?
Have you witnessed his wonders
that force men's thoughts to skew?
Such things we could believe...
If only we were faithful...
Do you believe such magic?
Do you think of him a fraud?

An arm that's bathed in blessing
from which he calls his thunder.
Casts an eye upon us;
he speaks forgotten words.
A breathless gasp that rings amidst
a crowd that's been devoured
by a man that wields a God-borne fist
and charges by each hour.

Said to bore from Galloway
but born from Marmouth soil,
a hermit sheltered by the day
who speaks and sings untethered.
Truest name of his to own
is known by those who do such wrongs.
But they grasp at strings and find
that he has moved along at ease.

Sly Potts Wallace, forward on
to find a few and willing hosts
to feed upon with might and fancy,
at last to show them the mystic lives.
His palest skin, his fetid core,
his grin that serves his wandering eye;
he turns from "home" and sets ablaze
a path of righteous indignation.

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