The Medicine Bag
The Medicine Bag
March the centuries on,
the talisman wraps and
clings to the collar bone.
The medicine bag cups holy
bones that speak of the
future, flint and stone to
make magic fire
strong medicine in the
feather of the eagle
a tooth of the wolf when the
spirit guide is he,
Should the moon's cycle be
the guide. an agate stone.
Antler bone, its spirit
sacrificed, meat and juices
hiss into the fire on a wintry
night.
Amulets forever worn „round
the neck touched by hands
to reassure.
Fear, pain and loss subside.
Joy celebrated stroked in
thanksgiving, always there,
a comfort.
To lose it was to lose one.s
self.
The medicine bag still adorns
the educated, the modern,
the agnostic.
Turquoise of a native people
rosary beads for a strict and
vengeful God
a locket filled with a
beloved.s hair
hippy beads from the time of
peace signs and Haight-Ashbury
a gold chain dangling stones
ripped from the earth
David.s star shining over
centuries of darkness.
The shark.s tooth from the icy,
indifferent depths
silver charms jingle and talk of
life.s landmarks
the gold cross celebrating a
vicious torture
worry beads from a
mysterious and dark cult
a modest grain of sand
coated with oyster spit
the ashes of one that ca'.t
be let go, lest it diminish the
life that remains.
Medicine bags…all.
Trisha Sugarek from
Butterflies and Bullets
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