Long Shamans Poems
Long Shamans Poems. Below are the most popular long Shamans by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shamans poems by poem length and keyword.
Vanquishing Fear
by
Odin Roark
Her unwritten diary
Read of descriptions
glittering private
Her hourglass of
diamonds
Where forever truly
destined forever
Her beauty made
artists shy
Their palettes’
ablaze with
unfettered colors
Her trail of
fragrance brought
flowers about face
Her presence in
crowds like a warm
tropical breeze
Suitors rifled their
pockets of tricks
Bent on conquest of
the untamable
For beneath her
silk-like curls
Dwelled the
inexplicable
The enigmatic
defense
Protecting the lost
Never to be found
Lips not yet ready
to part
So grew the nymphet
of patience
Often confining
herself to shoreline
treasures
Where shamans
fathoms deep
Shared sonnets of
passion
From sea shells to
auricle passage
Personal imaginings
to echoing without
end
And then…
A man did appear
Heretofore merely
another serial lover
Leaving traceable
imprints
Evidence for
confirming
He did exist
Her first glance
fostered nightmares
Burning fear of
losing that
Which she knew not
of
So virginal her
experience
Yet rarities do
happen
Pen and paper gave
birth
To offspring of word
and symbol
The poetry of two
reflected many
Where shamans and
sea shells
Imprints and
nightmares
Poetry’s family tree
of shared resonances
Became transcendence
together
THROUGH THE STORM...
Strange fruits no longer hang
from trees; they’re boxed and stored:
seeds left behind lie rotting in blood soaked streets.
Yet we have overcome the poverty of spirit
and still march in solidarity with a world imbued
with the blankets of fear and bleak confusion of purpose.
Today, the circadian rhythms of time weave us together
breaking bartered bleak silence of moral purpose
eviscerated by deceit: crusades and jihads are not the lessons
of the Shamans, Gandhi, Martin and Malcolm (Imam); nor what the Dali
and Pope would wish upon the human race. No! Let's not be victims
of the acid of despair; neither of the venom of those who say they don’t care:
Rest assured Brothers and Sister of the world, the time of martyrs
will not be bastardized; the blooded juice of strange fruits
will not be comprised; nor their seeds eradicated.
While sitting, standing, shouting and marching
along the river banks of history, there's no dam of injustice
the blood flowing waters of liberty cannot and will not overcome.
Though our feet be tired and our souls be weary,
let the world continue the prophet's march...marching
through the howling winds of pain---the jostling storms
of adversity...our faith stamping out the whirlwind of despair;
our bruised hearts stirring up warm breezes of spiraling hope:
nourishing bleeding wombs of peace, love and unity.
Mongrel Dreams
by Michael R. Burch
for Thomas Raine Crowe
...These nights bring dreams of Cherokee shamans
whose names are bright verbs and impacted dark nouns,
whose memories are indictments of my pallid flesh...
and I hear, as from a great distance,
the cries tortured from their guileless lips, proclaiming
the nature of my mutation.
NOTE: My "mutation" is that my family appears to contain English, Scottish, German and Cherokee blood, meaning that my ancestors were probably at war with each other. Did my English ancestors force my Cherokee ancestors to walk the Trail of Tears? Keywords/Tags: Cherokee, Native American, America, Racism, Discrimination, Blood, Shame, Shaman, Shamans, Flesh, Genes, DNA, Genesis, Mute, Mutation, Night, Dream, Dreams, Vision, Visions, Vision Quest, Visionary
Imagine paranoid schizophrenia evolving
as Right-hemispheric totalitarian bipolarity
living in a rabid stress-filled ecosystem
of dismaying relationships
with human nature over-populating systems;
right-winged family
and those other terrorist aliens.
Now imagine paranoid behavior's function
finds an entirely natural schizopathic response
to an abusive
marginalizing
institutionalizing monocultural reaction against madness
wildness
discontinuous liberation of ego-identity
explored within one eco-primal Othered.
We used to call less paranoid, more manic, bipolarity
Shamans and Prophets,
witches and androgenous medicine [wu wei]men,
wizards and saintly dry sages,
wise old crones,
messiahs and muses and wise womb/men,
mystics and hermaphroditic hermits,
awesome pot heads
and opium worshipers.
Now we call such mediums
schizophrenic and really nothing more empathic,
other than paranoid, of course.
We fail to remember that economically disempowering paranoia
is co-empathic intuition
worthy of rational political merit
if "they" really have decided you are merely insane,
without any cultural or commercial value.
Our purpose
and perhaps even our sacred promise
remain clouded in unknowing.
For hyper-curious co-arising dipolarity,
a constantly stressing threat
of perpetual solitary confinement,
deep listening
in silent echoing silos
of trauma's non-communication
Ominously silent noise
followed by angry
frightened monotheistic voices
screaming prophecies of AnthroSupremacist doom
Reciting slender mythic HerStory memories
of lost panentheistic potential.
Stamens and pistils
delicately poised
Shamans and pistols
making too much noise
Soft buzz preferred,
a silencer’s desired
Pollinator’s sense
the triggers just fired
Nectar brings balance
agape open wide
Willing the seeker
to do laps inside
Comes with a snag
also stitch in the side
Fulcrum of a rose
the thorn realised
My soul’s not a flower
just gives and takes
Wants what it craves
accepts all, even fakes
Opens too early,
closes far too late
Can’t tell if I’m full,
yet knows when I’m sate
Possesses a thorn,
and stabs by design
Fulcrum of my soul’s
human not divine
Protects at all costs
only thing that’s mine
Not pain or loss,
just my life to define
Clocks tick on old, wooden walls
shelves of books line the room
suede elbow patches rest on chairs
part of the suit that plays host to
men of distinction
stories as lavish as their clothing
tobacco smoke billowing
fantasies constructed in the ephemeral clouds
Toys are tinkered in shops
carvings are made
the shop keeper closes up
pulls her hole-riddled jacket snugly
against her body
and starts home
following no footprints
she manages to reach her front door
shuddering, shivering, and sniffling
she sinks into a cushioned chair
and dreams of a better life
Children stand attentive
pressed and grilled by authority-figures
made to feel despicable
tears stream down like tributaries
bending and flowing
filling up the pockets of their tortured souls
dreaming to leave, mentally able to do so
not physically though
just dreams
A hidden village
deep within a jungle
a community
one that which
looks out for one another
rites of passage
communion with some great divine
hunters & shamans
speak only the language
of plants and music
feverishly wondering
if the collective consciousness
the great spirit
is just dreaming all of this up
If we're going to
live
we might as well
live our dreams...
In the sacred gap of "Maheo" the creator
points the star compass lighting the path
where the moon falls into the still earth
of Mother Earth's bosom.
He beckons them to enter
to sanctify the quiet secrets
held by many peoples from many lands
in many seasons with many reasons
to be guarded to protect "Ese he"
the light that sheds on truth and wisdom.
The coyote and magpie talked peace
before the council of buffalo eaters
for the entrance to the mountain of truth
bore the burden of knowing the shamans power
in the rushing stream that emptied in the cave
with long words without the language of the ancestors
to find the termites that dug holes
deep into the peace pipe's dream
so the stone pans would always be filled.
"Maiheyno" I have gathered from the winds
that blow from the four directions
bringing the "Mahuts" sacred arrows
to the new life lodge
so all spirits will journey down the long fork
of "Hestanov" in the universe to the rest of the world
where I dreamt the spider's dream.
She told how the fox danced with the badger
how stealth and secrecy was the bold victory over our enemies.
This is why the termites dug their holes so deep-
to welcome the wolf as keepers of this nation's reservation
within our sacred mountain.
"Ehaoena", he prayed.
August 27, 2020
Strand Completely New (28) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
--- Illusion ---
Meet your guest! I am your friend.
Together - We - until the End.
I am your mind! 'Control' I send.
It’s Me - not You – the shamans blend.
I control your arm – your feet – your hand.
The path of which you think you’ve planned.
Pre-ordained by Me is where you’ll land.
In sky - on ground - in sea – on sand.
You stumble through your programmed day
With little doubt ‘twas all your way
While ‘I’ – in here – do make the play.
‘I’ control your actions night through day.
You’re rejecting this – thinking false?
Try reaching down. Feel my pulse.
‘Tis I – the this – the other – else.
‘I’ - not You – would cause convulse.
Who causes flinch when you get burned?
While you’re asleep life’s my concern.
Why must resist what’s being learned?
My place within I think I’ve earned!
It’s Me! ‘I’ beat the heart - expel the pee.
The poop of what you should-not-be.
It is ‘I’ - the senses four – plus see.
Be sure to capitalize the ‘I’ in Me!
2015
In contemporary society, doctors & scientists for example, are considered to be experts in that they hold a body of dominant knowledge that is on the whole, inaccessible to the layman.
How I feel about the vaccine, its nobodies business
When I look around I find tons of brainers on the subject
Half of them scientific experts who know it all (yes) 100%
Half of them scientific experts who know it all (no) 100%
Just like politics and religion now we have a 3rd subject
that has become taboo
I rather focus on a cure for the world at large
stay positive, don't pound your opinion on either side
"They say never throw away a Layman" was originally used to distinguish between non-clerical people and the clergy.
It soon was used to distinguish non-professionals from professionals in a field (such as law or medicine). In a similar fashion the collective noun "laity" originally referred to non-clerical people, but came to also mean "persons not of a particular Profession.
In my opinion, most of us can be considered layman
so why are we so quick to act as Doctors or Shamans
How do I feel about the vaccine is an opinion too costly to say these days
you got it ? you didn't ? you ! gamma rays ! I'm in a daze
Digital Smoke Signals
by Odin Roark
Yesterdays keep pushing todays into tomorrows,
Yet history’s boyhood games
Remain in limbo with sand paintings
Holding imagination delicate
In earth colors eternal.
From past days shared by ancient shamans,
Now but museum daguerreotype photos,
The smell of clay oven bread,
Sage smoke healing,
The hunt’s curing for winter survival,
All remain layers unvanquished by wind and rain
Such make-believe streaming from
Small fists of dust in blood red and granite gray
Images taught by great grandfather,
Remain cherished lessons from
Yesteryear’s shared trust with nature.
I’m told the press and TV cameras are waiting.
Casino jackpots will be especially loose for the inaugural night.
After all, it’s not everyday a tribe can open their fifth strip mall.
As I stare at the fawn atop the hill behind,
Father says I need to cut the ribbon soon.