To Ride The Wind

To Ride The Wind

Ride the wind,
upon gentle wings,
beautiful feathers of billowy white,
which flutter from behind,
as a mark of transformation,
allowing the one to transcend,
above the mist and clouds,
into the incandescent rays
of eternity's encirclement.

Ride the moon tide,
upon churning waves,
which sprinkle and purify
in a cascade of sacred salt,
so that the one may rise
up to the ocean's level,
and reach beyond the horizon's mark,
to touch the iridescent twinkle
of starlight wonderment.

Embrace tomorrow's rise,
as the dawn of what is yet to come,
a journey which begins
a moment from now,
of things which lay in wait
for the one's singular touch,
a future conceived upon yesterday's dreams,
born in today's lessons of understanding,
raised within the fortitude of time,
strengthened by the will of resolve,
and finally,
coming to fruition,
upon the boundlessness of the morrow,
a dream of enchantment,
the odyssey of a dream.

Meditation Within The Crystalline Veil

Meditation Within The Crystalline Veil

She closed her eyes and willed herself,
into a crystal veil of pure illumination,
where everything within her sight,
was the purest of celestial white.
The light surrounding her began to pulse,
ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump,
as she was slowly enfolded
within the core of the crystal veil.
First the hands and feet were touched,
and on further to arms and legs,
until finally it reached her chest and head,
and she was enveloped within its heart.
She floated there for a time,
lost in transcending beauty,
as her heart beat in time
with the core of the crystal veil,
an ancient rhythm of old,
whispering a gentle call into her soul,
ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump.

Whole, complete, and renewed,
she slowly disengages herself from
the entrancing grasp of crystalline unity,
in order to return to a world filled
with vibrant colors and vivid shapes,
a place of illusion and imperfection,
a place of love and human need,
a return to home beyond the
transcending walls of a crystal veil.

What Is Yet Unwritten

What Is Yet Unwritten
Do not dream of troubled times,
still yet to be born upon this plain,
of things as yet unwritten,
for they will come to pass within time's progressive frame.

For bound within fate's mighty will,
is the promise of another stay,
to hold back the encroaching night once more,
until another turbulent day.

Days begin and end,
with uncertainty at the rise,
but a solemn vow of hope resides,
within the soul of nature's immortal prize.

Do not worry with dread,
that ends will rise in haste,
to lay the lands across the world,
down upon a crumbling bed of waste.

Do not fret for what is yet to come,
and pray for rapture's grace,
when hope resides upon the land,
within every single human face.

For redemption's truth dwells within,
the sorrow filled woes of mortal men,
but its light may only blossom forth,
if and only when,
its song is heard within the heart,
through trial's errors of pain,
to light the way through troubled times,
through darkness's eternal refrain.

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There is always hope, a brilliant light to hold back the encroaching darkness, even in the darkest of times and through the hardest trials life throws at us. So do not fret for what is yet to come, what is yet unwritten, for it will come upon the tides of tomorrow and we will preserve no matter the cost.

Namaste
Misuchi

Dance Of The White Buffalo

Dance of the White Buffalo

All sit as equals within the kiva walls.
The darkness blinds the eyes but can not
sheild the whispering voices speaking
in husked tones of exuberant expectation.
Suddenly, without warning, the silence
is pierced by the keening wail of the reed flute
rising eerily out of the darkness, silencing
the unattentive and rivoting all with its plantive notes.
And then, as fast as it appears, it disintegrates
into the darkness. It is then that the mellow
beating of the heart of the conclave slowly rises,
quickening its thunderous pace. At its crecendo
it turns into a double beat,
thump thump....
thump thump...
thump thump....
Torches suddenly light the darkness, as the drums
draw the air from the room and all are held
breathless and spellbound. The room is filled
with spirit dancers masked and cloaked in the
eternal visages of animals.

The spirits dance in turn, s the reed flute
mates harmoniously with the drums. The
haunting melody, reminiscent of an ancient time,
calls forth the dancers in procession.
Their bodies sway in turn with the beating
heart and its mated call. The raise their
feral voices in lust filled predatory anticipation,
causing onlookers flesh to tingle and their
spines to chill as they wait for climactic completion.
And as rattles call forth, snake dancers hiss their
dangerous presence and eerie horns call forth a
circle of buffalo dancers stomping the ground
in time with the drums. And from within the heart of
the buffalo dancers, as all grows quiet and
entralled onlookers hold a collective breath,
the magestic visage of the White Buffalo embodied
appears. Suddenly, the drums pound faster and
harder and the reed flute calls to each onlooker
as the White Buffalo faces each person seated in turn,
slowly swaying in procession as buffalo dancers
stalk its grand image. And from the dark recesses
of the kiva, piercing wails ring out as warriors appear
among the circle of dancers. Buffalo dancers fall
to the ground untli all that stands among the warriors
is that of the White Buffalo. All take aim with arrow to
bow at the heart of the sacred beast, and with
the last beat of the drums the White Buffalo falls
and the crowd cries out its praise.

She Who Waits In Lone Vigil

She Who Waits in Lone Vigil

Deep within the stormy windswept eve of twilight,
enshrouded within the obsidian haze of ethereal night,
upon the sea swept craggy rocks,
she stands in lone vigil,
waiting for an endless eternity.
And as solemn eyes scan the distant horizon
for a sign, any sign,
of he, whom she has awaited for so long,
stoically she stands against
the rising tides of the raging seas,
a single isle amongst an ocean of endless nothing,
bound by her cascading heart of fluttering emotions,
and rooted to the singular rock formation upon which she waits.

She will wait for an eternity,
for a moment that will never come.
For he is long gone, lost to the momentary wrath of the sea,
and she is but a specter, a shadow of her former self,
bound to the edge of a reality
she clings to, but does not belong to.
Such is sometimes the absolute price,
for a lost and forlorn love.

Faces

Faces

I've watched the faces
change over the years
from one person to another,
from the young to the old,
and from the shallowest of souls
to the wisest among men.
I've seen the faces of
heaven bound angels
and those who dwell upon
and walk the Earth.
I've stood outside in
torrential downpours of rain
and gusting winds to view the
force of the true face of
mother nature and her wrath.
I've laid in gentle arms repose
and watched the face of love
turn bittersweet.
I've wiped the sorrow filled tears
from my children's weeping eyes.
I have stood vigile over the
mask of all that remains
when the spirit departs in death.
I've seen the faces of
hate and prejudice so complete
that it brings the cycle of
violence to an end
that resonates death.
I have seen the faces of
the humbled and abused
project the resounding
crush of their spirit selves.
I have seen dual faces that
engender our world
supress,
dominate,
alienate,
and harass
their own counterparts.
I have watched and
I have been moved to tears
for the complex tragedies
that encircle our world.
I have watched and wondered
where the love has gone,
and if it was ever there to begin with.
Such bitter faces entrenched
in the working class world,
for dreams long ago lost,
and wisdom overlooked
in times of need.
So many faces,
a sea of faces with an ocean
of emotional expression
brought on by exhaustion and stress.
But mostly I see the faces of
those who are left forgotten.
I see them, and again,
I am moved to weep for them.

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Have you ever looked into someone's face, into their eyes, and seen all of their pain written upon their brow? Stress, abuse, prejudice, joy, love, bitterness, an ocean of emotion flowing from them into you. And in that moment, all you could think to do was weep.

Namaste
Misuchi

Slumber's Glorious Journey of The Senses

Slumber's Glorious Journey Of The Senses

Close your eyes.

Listen,
hear the thrumming,
the beating of your drumming heartbeat.

Feel,
as it carries you away upon silken threads
and lays you bare in velvet moss
to sail upon the amber boat of time
with satin sails billowing in the wind
and chenille veils to cloak your naked form.

Smell,
the scent of every flower and every herb,
mingling, to shape the very air you breath
into ambrosia nectar that
sates the pallete and quenches the thirst.

Taste,
the thrill of anticipation as you soar
upon a sea of mischievous clouds
that rise up in subtle form
to harken you back and
tempt you with a siren's song
calling you home.

See,
heaven's paradise stretch out before you,
as you stare into oceans of blue,
as the sky embraces you,
cradling you gently, until finally,
your eyes close and you fall into
a sweet, silent slumber.