In the singing hut, she mutters
incantations, rhymed and metered
to the beat of the drum.
Wolf lifts his muzzle and howls
a mournful howl, for the wild dark
is falling. The world of men
has wrought its horrors;
wild hearts have withdrawn
to the caves of consciousness:
it is too mad out there.
Green boughs make their beds.
A fire crackles; shadows dance
upon the walls. The healing
from the chaos and the clamour
lies within the wild heart
that stays fast in love
with the green world of the ancients,
that remains attuned to the whispers
of the Standing People,
the wisdom of Wild Dark Mind
that lived ten thousand years ago,
still echoing faintly in the spirits
of those who listen for its call.
A drum-journey into night here, the love song in the dark of the mind. To remember and invoke these songs is to learn to heal the spirits of the tribe. Keep it up, sister.
ReplyDeleteHow different the world was then! Thank you for the journey, Sherry.
ReplyDeleteThis is very evocative, Sherry, takes me back into the distant past.....
ReplyDeleteYour words draw me in, too, so I can share that ancient emotional tie, the one we must rediscover to survive.
ReplyDeleteIf only …
ReplyDeleteIn that hut we have to move and speak until we break the bounds of mutter and meter, I think. Yet, what we learn from ancestors, ancients, fauna and flora is where to begin. You always take me there. Bravo!
ReplyDeleteI like the way you take your anguish to centering the heart in the green world. There is real strength here that we can all learn from. Suzanne - Mapping Uncertainty
ReplyDeleteWe would all do well to heed this wild call, Sherry. Perhaps it will grow louder as the comforts of consumerism fall away...
ReplyDeleteI have sat in a teepee with drummers around a roaring fire, sweating out impurities. For during the cleansing clarity is found. Chanting in an ancient tongue.
ReplyDeleteYour poem reminded me of that night under a million stars and how mystical it felt with each beat of my drum.
thank you for that....