Time of The Shaman

He prays towards Sirius

at dusk.

Draped in strips of colored cloth,

Spartan in fashion,

hanging with bright feathers

and bones of reptiles.

 

He is calling on the universe,

on that which lies

above and below.

Sometimes long dead elder gods,

or ancestral spirits;

he coaxes them down

from the astral plane.

 

A small stone cup,

made of a rare mineral,

holds a vile smelling tincture.

This he drinks

and he chants,

old, archaic language.

With soft words of invocation,

he calls the stars and planets

down from their place in the heavens.

 

Heartbeats

become the pulse

of a thousand suns.

Blood flowing in the body,

is the river of time,

the history of all creation;

locked into the DNA

and translated

by beings that do not exist,

as we know existence.

 

The firing of synapses

becomes communication

between far flung galaxies.

Radiation speaking through dark matter,

faster than light,

all received by this well tuned

human antennae.

 

He shuffles in his prayer seat,

eyes open

and deposits sacred herbs upon the fire.

His eyes have changed from the brown eyes

of an elderly islander,

to a splendid cosmic blue.

From a leather bag,

he withdraws a pipe

and some rough cut tobacco,

Pushing a long eagle feather from his face

before lighting it.

 

The smoke slides from his lips,

in solid forms that resemble dragons,

before being caught by the night air.

He looks across the fire at me,

those piercing blue eyes

laying bare my soul.

I feel exposed,

like a naked child

standing before the ocean.

Alone.

Afraid.

I know he sees all of me.

 

And then he speaks,

in perfect English;

” I have counselled with the others

and they have agreed that this

is too important to remain hidden.”

He pauses for a second,

blowing out a ring of smoke

and capturing my eyes with his gaze.

“Listen carefully.

This is what you must do,

if you are going to save this world.”

 

DR – 2016

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