Best Shaman Poems
Bone Lady.
Pippa Gray
If you have come for romance, please leave.
Follow the fireflies and they will lead you
back through the woods, to your manmade path.
There is no sweetness or solace here.
I am a thunderstorm, a fierce force of nature.
My heart is a patchwork quilt of tattered skins,
Hand stitched with lengths of bloodied sinew.
I shall decline your perfumes and silken robes.
For I have my bones.
I throw them upon my thighs and listen
as they whisper of your future.
The dark to come,
Creeping in through the corners, from all directions,
To disturb the parts of you, that you refuse to examine.
As for necklaces or gold
I have no time for tin trinkets.
My jewels are mustika pearls,
Dug with my hands from the corpses of snakes and foals, from red fox remains and oak tree roots. As I roll them in my palm,
their spirits share secrets such as you'll never know.
There's no polite conversation in this space.
Tell me of your descent into madness,
Where your mind wandered through worlds
not known in your pleasant awareness.
Where your limbs were torn apart by
winged shadow creatures,
Who devoured your flesh.
Do not ask to stay the night.
For salamanders sleep with me,
Gliding through the embers of the fire,
caressing my skin with their warm licking tongues.
And my journeys to the other worlds
are not to be disturbed by lonely, snoring men.
I am not to be rescued or conquered.
For I am vast, unchained...
Indeed, freer than you could ever hope to be!
You there, shrinking, stinking in your self imposed conformity,
while you weep at night for the lost parts of your soul.
They flew, my friend!
To be with the talking swans in the faery glen,
Where they could live the life that they deserved...
I spoke with them in the lowerworld!
And they do not wish to be returned to you anytime soon!
So leave quickly while you can.
Return to the old sprung bed where you were born,
Before you are forever changed
by the reflection in my eyes.
For once awoken,
You can never sleep soundly again.
A Shaman's mind, filling with shimmering visions.
Reddening petroglyphs resurrected, so lightly breathing.
Wild horses running above arrowheads and starry plains.
An ancient hearth, chanting embers and drumbeats waning.
A deity floating into lavender canyon. Night pools dreaming.
Pinwheel hearts dancing along an eternal sky and sea.
The maple leaves and river rocks are forever softly speaking.
The TFL Shaman- A Journey Home.
Raindrops trickle down the misty train windows,
Obscuring views of coloured graffiti,
Works of passion sprayed on to embankment walls.
Bright colours splattered onto neglected structures,
Wild Statements of art,
Arising from the urban ashes of creativity.
Serious and distant faces find the protection,
In-ear plugs and Smartphones, from a carriage,
Painted in soulless grey and from fellow travellers,
Silhouetted against stark Fluorescent lighting,
From contact that might demand a human response.
Hopeful eyes, searching screens for some outreach of love,
Social media, this agency of sometimes silent desperation,
Of outsourced spirituality,
Paper castles and empty rooms,
Designed to steal us from the very now,
This very now, that would wake us,
From a digital nightmare.
Suddenly the sunlight slips through dark clouds,
Transforming the soulless city grey
Into instant beauty,
Sunlight bounces of wet sparkling windows,
Shafts of white light scatter across sky and
Concrete Landscapes, highlighting and making special
For just a moment, the ordinary.
And against a quietness,
Only disturbed by the rumbling train,
Comes the faint voice of a passenger singing.
Awkward feet shuffle as people turn away,
But as she sings, this TFL Shaman tears down a hidden vail,
And for a moment we stand exposed, real,
Scared others might see our pain.
Next stop, Chadwell Heath a soft voice says.
The doors fly open, and the TFL Shaman steps off,
Her glowing Red hair lifting gently in the breeze,
Her Shopping bags cutting into her small hands.
Outside In the warm summer sun, a blackbird sings with all its heart,
Falling silent for a moment, and then sings again.
John Roberts
The days moved slowly, but did pass.
He had spent the last three dreaming
of his mentor Wakan Tanka.
Calling him from Han in darkness,
waiting for his sign of answer.
It had come in bits and pieces
of Ojibwa legend mainly.
Thirty days purification
Of mind, body, spiritual.
Bathed in ginger, pomegranate.
In the round house incense offered,
Calls shadow land of Lakota.
Nagila, Nagila come be my bride.
The hawk and fox are beside me.
I have fasted forty summers,
visited the spirit of death.
Niya, the spirit of life’s blood
has lifted me up to the stars.
She has cleansed with healing waters.
Now let me take the talisman.
Now let me repeat the promise.
Now let me take my rightful place
among my people as Shaman.
Apr 16 2011 CGH the Ojibwa of the
north western plains
Wakan Tanka- creator of the Sioux
Han-place of great emptiness, darkness
Nagila-shadow land
Niya-breath of life
ginger and pomegranate-not factual
My heart bleeds
But I'm immune
The shaman walks
In the midwinter moon
The hawk guides me
On my path today
Under the wandering willow
My heart does stray
The wolf my ally
With the Raven, I fly
No man can touch me
With the serpent, I lie
I have lived many times
In many forms, I've been
My soul is immortal
This universe I've seen
Mysteries are unraveled
In the initiate’s eyes
Seeing only the light
In the darkest of skies
MARRIAGE OF A SHAMAN MISTIQUE
The paths we take under the eye of god
and universe, but some consider odd
Great spirit knowing all and everything,
help us to grow, throughout our Shamaning,
and know from where our lonely feet have trod.
In Celtic roots, from shores of Normandy
we came from long ago, a time called history,
made weary from the Roman and his sword
in seeking vengance, as if they were lord,
and this, our land, is where we chose to be
They layed to waste all things we'd ever known
spared not one child; their hearts were solid stone;
and Caeser put us where we choose to be
Kincardinshire, our city near the sea
and where, great spirit, only you had known.
Our Celtic way, so deep out of our past
now comes of age, as if a spell were cast
to love all things, and have you at my side,
the only place where two in love can hide,
here in the only dream to ever last.
You'll be as much a part of me
as anything in life could ever be,
and we shall honor all and everything,
each to it's own, our destiny might bring,
and everything in life we'll ever see.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
A shaman priestess
Is deep in thought
Engaged in Meditation
on the fate
Of the earth
She is deep in the cosmic woods
In the world between worlds
Where she is communing
With the spirits of the universe
Who listen to her tale of woe
She tells them
Of the rise of the neo fascists
And the refusal to address
The possible end of the world
Due to run away climate change
She prays and prays
And finally
She receives an answer
More a prediction
It is all up to humans
She has two visions
Of a possible future
Two contrasting visions
One a dystopian nightmare
The other an optimistic vision
The first
The neo fascists
Seize control
And usher in a dystopian nightmare
That ends with utter destruction
Nuclear war
Nuclear winter
Ends climate change
As civilization ends
And mankind retreat to caves
And it happens
In a blink of an eye
In less than five years
The world will end
Game over civilization ends
The second vision
The optimistic vision
Humanity wakes up
From their collective night mare
Throws off the neo fascist cabal
And begin to change the world
Making the economy works
For all of us
Not just the corrupt 1 percent
The so-called masters of the Universe
They are overthrown
In a people’s power revolution
All over the world
People wake up
Demand change
And slowly the world
Begins to recover
And overcome
The dark hours
Of the present age
The shaman priestess
Returns home
To spread the word
It up to us
To choose our fate
The end is indeed near
It is darker than you think
But it is not over yet
If we choose the path
Of the cosmic light
And overthrow
The neo-fascist cabal
And restore democracy
And peace will break out
And all will end well
If not
Well she says
You have been warned
The universe has spoken
So, mote it be
april 16 poem for April Poetry Challenge
With the self declared bomoh king around, smiles are going around...
Vigorously shared are pictures of his quirky aids and aides gathered round....
One widely circulated pictures the venerated one holding up a magical vase ....
Plain looking yet with mystical powers you could never have guessed....
This time the exalted one has deign to offer earlier a press session....
A genuine effort on his part to better inform us all of his good intention..
It is within his will and intention that Malaysians should suffer the haze no more...
Never fear, he's the bomoh king, he is here for us in order that we suffer no more..
Once he and his aides get into their mystical antics with religious rites next....
Why, expect nothing less than all round crystal clear and blue skies next...
His precious mystical vase will draw in all that cursed haze and dust...
He will supernaturally clear the skies and heavens of all the haze and dust...
All that invisibility problem at the airports will be a thing of the past...
With him around, all ye people shall get to sleep safe and sound that last...
Hip, hip hooray! Hooray to our most exalted learned one rushing to our aid...
Like a superhero in a fantasy novel flying in to give much needed aid...
Malaysians all countryside wide, look up, look ahead and be relieved...
Bomoh king and his aides come to the rescue and all ye people, believe!
A tribute in jest to the local shaman who endeavours to clear the skies of unhealthy and thick haze over Malaysia and her neighbours here in SE Asia. His latest antics brought more fame or rather more infamy to Malaysia....
Coming ashore at the island of Trunyan
to its teeth of bone
eyes to four directions tongue bloodthirsty
- what do you want this late at night? surely
to seek help from the moon
black chicken
sticky-rice flower
baskets : baskets
a frozen kris at the tip of my shoulders
suck the remaining portals of shame
at the split of banana leaves I look at her
purple sweat. her white kebaya sodden
pura gede pancering jagat temple as foreground
my name once again
my name once again
- that pot of authentic China rolls like a cart
speeding out of my body
like the shameless envious souls of jealous skeletons:
“look ma, my soul reawakens, I am no longer dead”
two baskets
black chicken
one o’clock that night the island of Trunyan
rolled its tongue in laughter
its tickled eyes stripping all bare
its hoarse voice splitting the eerie road
I want to go home soon – my boat is moored by the lakeside!
Notes :
Kris – a dagger with jagged edges.
Kebaya – traditional shirt that ladies wear in Indonesia, typically made of see-through cloth or brocade.
Now of New Age, I am a fan,
I communed with my healing man,
I relaxed, breathed, because I can,
Yes! I communed with my soul's shaman,
He appeared, by my psychic side,
At last, I met my inner guide,
But, you see, it was lunchtime,
Hunger pains panged inside,
Who is this messenger guide?
I asked, yearning deep, besides,
Yes! I did commune with my inner shaman,
Unfortunately, his name is Manga!
Let's do lunch,
End of hunch!
She put herself out there
Alone, cleansed from the stink of the city
She perfects the art of quieting one's mind
The fading blah blah blah's, a relic of "Civilization"
She hears slight groans from above and below
A sickening wrench to her heart
The transmission is unanimous
"STOP!!!!!", "PLEASE!!", "THERE'S STILL TIME..."
Cedar, stone, and river feel the break coming
If only the stewards renewed their vows to Terra
From out of the black she snaps awake, eyes of terror, urgency and hope
It is clear to her what she must do, no alternative
She must return to the metropolis she loathes
To rally the spiritually dead, to reconnect them to planet frequencies
She sacrifices herself for her love of the land and the hope of her brethren
Charcoal tar and gold brown tobacco
are both packed into a paper stick pressed
firm and trusting to the lips of a modern shaman
inhaling a cloud of harsh, strong, bold, and bitter barbs
that caress the tongue and prick and stick to pink organ flesh.
Disorientating nicotine is potentate in his scheme
it's purpose similar to black coffee; smooth and polished
blended beans for those late nights and early mornings.
His baked euphoria is living a constant maximum dosed out
and measured into separate jars of aromatic herbs.
Some for brewing, some for burning
each action acting in different ways to bring forth the contained mystic
hidden, shackled, held bare within his copper frame
conducting the currents of living, learning, thriving emotion
and like alchemy the chemistry
is solid.
He is the sum of all his parts.
He is the sum of all his senses.
Jolts, bolts, and shudders are
controlled through clever use of contraband
to establish simultaneous fluidity of thought and action;
Thereby soothing the soul and softening the daily struggle;
bluntly unnatural to every one of us
simple lovers of peace and passionate emotion.
He chases the dragon
He chases experience
through vistas both brief, and limited in scope,
to gain a sense of things
Great.
He is rounded at the corners
He is the sum of curved edges
smoothed and polished
(like coffee beans) in composition
balanced
by talented influence.
He is the stone worn strong
by paving a path where none is present.
He is the sword forged strong
through temper and tradesmen excellence.
He is man standing tall against the landscape
held up as a bastion of collected worth,
with marbled walls all round in a carved statue of constructed rock
aged fine by the time and the wind of the element opposition.
He separates the skyline,
the layline,
the landscape,
and delegates the elevation of the land beneath his feet.
He moves, builds, crafts, and dictates
(as the spider to the fly)
to bring his titan pen to the white page;
empty and inviting.
Beyond the invincible Death,
Past the infectious Icons,
The ever-winding spatial staircase,
And the crack between Time and Space,
Lies the unconscious mind, the ethereal plane, and the land of the lost.
I have traveled miles to be here,
And there are miles to go before I wake.
On a vaguely familiar cracked playground,
Where weeds grow wild
Between fences, bleachers, and tents,
At the crossroads of interconnectedness
I will be meeting him,
Or
He will be meeting me.
I notice distinctly that
It is light but there is no sun in the sky.
There is something non-real, yet realer than existence, about this setting.
On top of the bleachers a small black child beckons me
Toward him.
His face reminds me of my childhood;
His smile reminds me of my long lost home;
There is something both wise and foolish about the way he smiles.
He strides back and forth across the top bleacher;
As I get closer he informs me,
“Animals are the dead coming back to communicate with us.”
Some of what he says doesn’t make sense.
“Mij saw I,” he chants.
He informs me that if ever I want to see him,
I am to come to this spot.
As I try to look at my hands,
The child drops off the back of bleachers,
Disappearing into oblivion.
-Joseph DeMarco
Called by the Spirit, creator of all things,
Protector of Life, Healer, The Peoples Guide.
Freeing the Soul with drumbeats, the Shaman sings,
Traveling other worlds, where secrets may hide.
Restoring Life to Balance, with Peace it brings,
between Flesh and Spirit, when Joy will abide.
A lonely path the Shaman walks with Wisdom,
while comforting the People, when troubles come.
For the 8 lines Native Cultures contest.
Was tree cutting on the island
North of the last logging camp
I was a young faller for the company
That didn’t have a heart
Thought I knew what I was doing
Thought I was doing no wrong
But then the Northern Lights appeared
And sang me magic songs
“Save me from the dying
Save me from the death
The old growth is crying
But cannot show its wrath”
I stood on the mountain
Overlooking the sea
Green auroras swirled
And the channel opened me
A Shaman appeared in moonlight
Bathed in lights of green and gold
My body shook and I felt
The depths of ancient souls
“You have been chosen to sing our nature song
What you are doing, now you know is wrong
Save us and protect us!
The ancient wisdom cried
The forests and the mountains
Need to stay alive”
The Shaman passed through me
In the prime of my youth
A 6 foot 2 logging man
At last had heard the truth
Was a long time ago
Nothing much has changed
This message is all I have
Maybe I’ll be saved
Chosen to remember
Chosen to forget
The green force of nature
Forever in its debt