This living tradition,
Contains no mystery,
No secrets, nothing hidden,
All is as it is.
As we dance in morning mist,
Songs of our ancestors weave,
Our sacred unfolding path,
Breath of life, living gods.
For our poor limited minds,
Dreams challenge and remind us,
To tread with care,
To live with respect.
Our poor, poor minds,
Lost in a sorcerer’s spell,
Desire, desire, desire,
A mantra of death and slavery.
Sing, sing your way back home,
Chant your ancestral songs,
Leave the spell of this labyrinth,
All is sacred, your path,
Tribal life, all life.
Remember, remember, wake up!
© David R. Durham, All Rights Reserved.
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When sublime words fell from the sky, free to
Those who would listen, a few looked at
Each other in wonder, some felt a tingling
Fear trickle down their stooped spines, many more,
Intoxicated by their new human
Sensations, never heard anything at all.
Pitter patter as rain, holy words fall from
The sky, crafted in each listener’s mind,
Woven into new tales of joyful dance,
So close to us, near as our beating heart,
In soulful invocations; in prayers;
And most of all in our loves and laughter.
Faith binds us in a linen cloth, white, plain,
Contoured round our flowing body, shaping
Our spaceless reflective mind. Faltering
Words are slowly whispered in hoarse breath,
Lured, we wriggle free of holy embrace,
Tempted again into sinful secrets;
A conjurer’s trick of deceit and lies.
© David R. Durham
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