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 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.
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.
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.
|