Shaman’s Dream

Shaman’s Dream

Swirling tapestry of colors
Liquid vortex tempest hues
Wild imagination
Whirling
Crimson, violet, bluest blues
Flowing in and around a circle
Breathing fire through your eyes
Rorschach figures on the canvas
Shaman’s dream where worlds collide
Picture bursts of clouds and shadows
Blazing light and purpled skies
Leap to life in ancient caverns
Darkly lit where dreams unfold
Feathered serpents
On the temple
Brilliant, bright and blazing gold
Spreading wings of flame and fire
Blinding light
Sears through the mind
A scream of wild desire
Fans the flames of night
Seething
Out of control
The world explodes everywhere inside
As you turn
To meet your soul

George …

Ubiquitous

He cannot wait,
Nor hesitate.
For he is on the move,
In an endless groove.
Into thoughts and dreams,
Involved in schemes.
Through rivers of laughter,
Over mountains of tears.
Under rocks of sadness,
And by the lakes of regret.
Never stilled by wars,
Never silenced by doors.
Always at hand,
To focus on man.
Well known, his fame,
Time is his name.

Dusk

Dusk

In the perfect dusk
under the lace of oak and maple leaves
that domed the city street
and shaped the gauzy light its gaps let through,

we played punchball, running bases,
two hand touch and raced and raged
at one another,
breathing harder in the broken light
than we ever would at love

and thought it was the game,
the body’s test and proof and,
when we were minor gods,
the victory that moved us,
made us feel our hearts
as though we held them in our hands
and unbelieving watched them,

but know now, looking back
from where the dark unshaped
unhindered thunders in,
someone whistling from a porch
would call us home, it was the dusk.

The Beetle

The Beetle

Somewhere
there is a beetle larger than you are.
I do not know how large you are,
but it does not matter.
The beetle is larger.
The flat of its foot,
and beetles have no feet,
would crush you.

I do not say this to frighten you,
to plague your sleep.
The beetle is probably
many miles from where you are now,
though it is on the march,
its direction indeterminate, unclear.
Let us say, simply,
you have been informed.

One more thing, at least.
The beetle is real.
It is not a creature in a grade B film
or a computer’s spewing.
Nor is it a mutant,
a freakish accident of radiation.
It is a beetle.
It broke from an egg
like a billion other insect eggs,
like a billion other beetles.
Nothing about it seemed unusual.
None in its nest or hive or burrowed hole
thought it special,
destined for more than a brief life
of gnawing, digging with its two front legs
and copulation.

It was a quiet beetle,
keeping mostly to itself.
But it had a passion, ambition.
It had a dream.
More than anything. More even
than the delectable body of a spider
and the thrill of a settled score,
it wanted, however large you are,
to be larger.

Determination, intensity of focus,
the vaunted efficacy of prayer, perhaps—
give it the name that suits you—
the facts are these: Somewhere
there is a beetle larger than you are.
The flat of its foot,
though beetles have no feet,
can crush you. Moreover,
it has begun to move,
its antenni sweeping the landscape
like divining rods.
It has had its fill of water.

Old Faith

Old Faith

There is a bird, the elders say,
who, devouring man
one wretched morsel at a time,
devours his sins.
The pain to this bird is excruciating.
The poisoned skin and sinew,
mashed flesh and marrow,
gnaw inside him but he does not stop.
He knows there are sins in your ribs
and ankles, sins in your tear ducts, cochlea
and calloused knees.
Sins of course—even you admit this—
in your teeth and tongue.
Sins long ago sequestered in your hair
and you are going bald.
They are starting to reveal themselves.
People, some you say or thought
you loved, are staring.
The bird, with his small rasp tongue,
licks them off.
It is a mercy, but his feathers, because
he has done this for you, droop.
Each one, the weight of a small piano,
tears at him, but will not come loose.
He bloats proportionally
to the age and magnitude of your sins.
He is not a Christian.
The confessed are not the smallest
or most digestible.
Before he has reached your fingers,
where the worst are lodged
and lie in wait for him, in ambush,
he is the size of an apartment building.
The pain of the relentless pressure from within
is unbearable, but the walls of his tormented body
will not give way.

He grows with goodness.
Larks and thrushes sing to him.
Tribesmen fall before him, worship him.
Sacred animals are sacrificed and burnt for him.
The smoke wafts toward him, soaks
into his tortured feathers,
and though he is not relieved by one iota,
he feels rewarded, paid.

At a time of his choosing, none knows when,
he throws your remnants up
that they may reassemble, harden
in the dirt before him and begin again.
He is large of spirit.
You are given one more chance.
He remembers the anguish you have caused him.