At certain times of the year, mostly in times of battle,
two dry sticks rubbed together light the ancient pipe,
since this year’s suffering has nearly swept the board.
For even as peace burns all tribes are affected by war.
As smoke trails round, poetry turns my body full circle
onto dropped knees, until the door of my heart, sacred
shrine for the Creator, opens. The holy traveller enters,
seeking sanctuary and shelter for the light of the world.
In the vastness of the savannah it is only the shepherd,
tending the rising moonlight, who listens in on the soul,
oblivious that our world has become completely insane.
A world faraway from the sacred tree and burning bush.
No longer do we offer incantations for what we receive.
No longer do we welcome the divine in our daily bread,
nor the food of the earth. We export the miracle of life,
the miracle of our own life, for imports of hate and fear.
Let our prayers be released from this long wooden pipe,
let us unite war and peace until they are no longer foes.
Tell us again how this year, despite our hearts breaking,
we still kissed the ground that love walked naked upon.
Things happened this year that cannot ever be undone.
Our people are dying one by one. For every time death
crosses our path, we inhale the great spirit of warriors,
a peaceful journey back to the land of the smoking fire.
Copyright © Deborah Gregory 2016
Image Credit: Google Images
Dear Poets, Let us light a sacred fire, burn a candle for
peace this New Year’s Eve. Blessings always, Deborah.