DAVID BUNN MARTINE - Artist
Giclee Editions.
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ART OF THE MOMENT
  » Oct 24, 2017  




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  POETRY  

The Sacred Hill
The Sacred Hill
The prayers went forth -
five thousand years ago
five hundred years ago
yesterday.

It makes no difference; the sound resounds in
the earth – for the preservation of this world,
for safe passage to the next; charnel houses and sacrifice, almost Egyptian-like to preserve to the journey beyond, fire, air, water and earth - they were familiar with these. And they came and went chanting their sacred sounds of the earth:

giving thanks to the sun
giving thanks to the eagles and the clouds
giving thanks to the plants and the fire and the seas, but there was power here too – sacred power, power to transcend time space, to ride
the trails of spirit and matter;

the grave was multi-sized, containing pottery and stone, wood and bone, ash and ochre, mysteries all were these. On the east they buried them, facing the sun and its pathway to the creator, to absorb the golden substance of life above and below with portals, high frequency portals to other worlds they say – worlds above or worlds below?

Shades of Egypt again and shades of Cahokia
And the mound builders, shades of Palenque or
Is it ancient Peru – this sacred hill of the Sugar Loaf?

Quietness
Quietness
Quietness is pleasure of ages.
Quietness is womb of energy.

Within universes and cosmic heights
Of creation of all energy.

Springs other things with quietness-
Harmony and perception – the self.

Recognition of Divine self that
Seeks to realize itself in matter,

Realization of soul
To become more of itself,

Leads others to that
Realization – Holy multiplicity without end.

Big-bang which created all existence
And blasted innumerable sparks,

Manifesting as out-breath of time
Indulged itself to create more of

Itself over and over.
As cookie cutter on dough

As drop of water to ocean,
An inspiration of cosmic reality.

Apache Mountain Spirits
Apache Mountain Spirits
The Chiricahuas have a dance; but it is more than a dance:

it is four men painted in soot and ash whose
base is for celestial pattern in white-
of moons, and stars; of rainbows and mountains,
of slicing lightning, cracking through the deep
darkness of the evening sky

it is the bon-fire, tall as a white pine, roaring
to life with the substance of gold, and orange
crackle and hot with the heat of a
hundred blast furnaces

it is the round clearing, symbol of the
cycles of cosmos, around which the people dance side to side, or one behind each –
offering the life within all

it is the mystical move of the deer and horns;
the headpieces and masks and swords of the
protectors, the avengers who avenge the affront
of the light by foe of darkness

it is the slash and spin of their movements, the
jagged, posturing grace of other-worldly souls
sent as guardians to the people

it is the powerful songs,
it is the ancient songs, which underscore all
creation as the heartbeat of earth and sky
and the “Giver of life”.

The Farmer
The Farmer
Watching, you carefully draw the worn oak
toward you - tines parting the loamy
soil, in neat furrows of precise depth;

As you hummed a tune you
uttered fifty years ago as light
as a feather, falling on the ears as downy frost;

Memories fool you – those days when you
liberated Europe and saw a new future
ahead live in your mind only;

Now all you see are the
nearly turned furrows parting to
the left and to the right of the wrought iron spike

And the only infantry you watch fly
v-shaped patterns
heading north for the winter.




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