Shamans Poems

Fulcrum of a rose

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

Rain Dance

gently on the roof
water marches as rice grains,
manna from heaven
attend our homeland,
exiled clouds pour your romance
onto cracking earth.
Our poor scorpions,
in bellies of hot, dormant
wells raised their generations.
Shamans still dance in rings, arousing bands of blessing.
Timbre grows, grains gaining size, dusty dreams refreshing.

a shaman of guatemala

I fear the shamans, great or small,
I saw one, with long black hair,
In a cemetery of the green Guatemala,
He danced among the colored tombs,

it was inhabited by the spirits of the dead,
Better to keep away from this king,
I have hidden behind graves,
He spoke to the spirits, to the blue ghosts

He agitated a sort of burning ossuary,
He screamed and danced, agitated like a nightmare,
I was for a moment frightened and petrified, seized
I preferred to run away without taking a picture.
The moon began to whiten on the grey pines.

Stuffing Darkness

She moved carefully into the light bulbs
Didn’t want to stumble into the gloom
The shamans looked on speculatively 
Unable to raise in the silence
Another dark and brilliant spot
Strange in the rolling velvety space
Played at the far end of the odd feeling
She went deeper into nothing but an unlocked someplace else ahead after either

Shaman

 Beneath the sacred
witchwood tree
healers and shamans
rest

Lost in translation

Words, words, words.

I want to be a poet so bad. But the leters can't make the right chords. To make the melody evenly sad. To flurish it with a spark, big words, ornaments, or some genius. Competing with myself, perfection itself, I am left speechless.
Stroke feathers of a lamb lit fire in a lamp. Nothing is impossible. The possibilities are endless. Endlesness is endless.
I want to touch souls like mine. The universal language of love. Spread understanding. Or find it. When touching it, light it on fire and watch the flames bloom. Methaphors, conections, puns, and games. In a sharp mind, all may be relevant. Thus am I so frustrated. Pride and prejustice, teach me your ways. Foxes, teach me your ways. Shamans, teach me your ways. Please, please, let me be the soul I want to look at. Sharpen me like a knife. Knife that can carve a Venus and David. Auguste Rodim, make me your thinker. Catch me before I fall. Please. Until it's not too late.

Questioning the Answers

What, who, or where
 the sages portend 

What, who, or where
the shamans belie

What, who, or where
 the scholars defend 

What, who, or where
—not questioning why

(Dreamsleep: November, 2022)

On the Back of September's Wings

Autumn waits on the back of September’s wings /
transforms her green to enviable hues /
the castanets of crickets like shamans sing,
chant to the moon ~ their hallowed muse.


Original date: September 19, 2022 revised on Sept. 22, 2022 for contest
For: September Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietrich
Placed 3rd in contest

Illusion

--- 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

Datura Moon

I have chosen to hide away
when night has come without delay
with moonrise

I'm toxic to those who know me
with no misgivings to finality
apathetic moonstone

Shiva worships my offerings
Chumash use me for sufferings
sacrificial moondust

The Shamans of harvest and rain
are the keepers of old soul's pain
like moonbeams

I am hidden in the open
where the night from day has broken
I am moonflower




May 11, 2020
Compounding the Verse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May

The Shamans Drum

Slephnir for thou art mine as well with Odin
Trusted companion
 whose rhythmic beating charms and guides us.

Yours is the carrier which protects and finds us,
Upon your back it’s that we proceed to unknown worlds and take council with those who have passed and we have loved before.

Slephnir ‘Thy mighty hooves send drumming through out all of humanity
And brings communion with the one and the great everything.

For these wondrous gifts  I thank thee and pray 
Your rhythm and gallop will always be with mine .

Mongrel Dreams

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

Shaman's Grotto

In these healing waters of blue you will learn peace
This sacred grotto of Shamans who first came to heal here
Passing down rituals from natures' beginnings

Kneel before my alter and drink from my goblet the nectar
of my holy waters where the rites of our fathers lay
Feel yourself open like a new spring flower growing ever wiser

Now slip into the charged waters of our universal truths
I will caress your skin and ease the tension from your brow
Float serenely upon my back as I cradle your desires

Slowly you unlock your chained heart from the miseries of your world
You are released from your despair as gently as a mothers' touch
against a child's cheek asleep against her breast

Now rise through my body, gathering moonbeams for strength
Feel the tranquil energy flow outward to warp around your shoulders
A secret cloak passes to you from those before your time

Residual

Ancient priests,
witch doctors,
shamans,
sorcerers. 
Power!
Held the
ancients in
control.
Existence 
frightening,
answers few.
Power, the
few holding
the many.
Control!
Controllers,
followers.
Power,
rewards for
those who
grasp it!
Humanity, 
pecking order.
Power passed
from ancients 
thru modernity!
Nothing 
changed!
Few
controlling 
the many.
Change.
Change
coming.
Hive.
Human hive.
Hive mind
technology,
internet 
singularity.
Pecking order,
dies!
Power 
homogenized!

Bazaar

Bazaar
 

The nights’ chest opens up -
strings of illusions
rattle in palms
the knowing buyers haggle
for a dream
while the fascinated women
try on 
toles of princesses or odalisques.
In the shell of hope
genuine perls are priceless.

Silk labyrinth
of amber and incense,
amulets of shamans hidden in death,
a mirage in golden cases,
the drug of success
paths and passions
unknown potions
scaffold question.

Merchants with epheb faces
skillfully spin shadows,
scarves, dependences, embroideries,
compasses, elders, rings, sapphires,
open 
conspicuous roads.

Rubys, gold,
sealed fates
days delirium
forgotten writings
bracelets and silver girdles,
old things, 
new objects
disturb the untold air.


The world’s cornice
crunches upon the stalls
heavy stars
cramped into bags
shriek 
with undecipherable voices.

Thousands of dead and living worlds
rise to the skies
from eyes
touched by temptation.

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