.

the shaman said

for Jim Morrison



the shaman said
utter your spells with purest thought
believe your chant and know
all matter will be moved
if you so desire

the shaman said
break into your myth
invade the story
change the plot
re-form forms
take your destiny
into your own hands

the shaman said
truth is disguised in myriad forms
will not be encountered 'til layers of soul
are peeled away laid bare to the abyss

the shamnan said
those who hunger personal power
who climb the ladders of dominance will dissapate
like every other thing into the perfumed aether
of beautiful chaos the impersonal cosmos

the shaman said
let fire burn
water flood
earth plunder
air be catalyst
for balance
always returns
after chaos

the shaman said
spiral like snail
fly as primordial dragon
transform to alchemist's gold
unwind like cosmos
be perfect as passion-fruit-flower
surrender to deep water
know your soul repeats and repeats
the ancient story
the sacred song
the dream inside everyone

the shaman said
the only escape is to oblivion another prison
the pain within is flesh of living
spirits of ancestors will guide in ways
seemingly obscure seeding voices inside you

the shaman said
all ends in chaos to be re-born again and again
let be logic's noisy jangle inside your head
and listen to the infinite quiet
eventually the voice inside
will speak to you

the shaman said
all is a dream within a dream
we dream to leave the dream
and so we dream anew
death comes in the form of a dream
to be re-born again into dream
the shaman said

The Leaf

A fragile golden leaf I am fallen

from a great tree onto a mysterious lake
the boundaries here defined, formed, so I am caught
confined within the limits of a random inland sea

I know my origins, spawned, I was born
I was this tree, it's trunk, a mighty limb, a small branch
to eventually become, a tiny insignificant leaf
side-lined from the main-game
trunk and root for so long
the stately image of importance
I find myself a leaf floating on a lake

what can life hold now, so fragile
so delicate - what is to become of me ?

I did not choose to dive into this abyss of water
yet find myself here, my past, my ancestry
means nothing now, I am adrift
to lightening, rain, sun, storm

what can a leaf do but acquiesce to earth
lose identity to the greater whole

will this make of me a magnificent fragment ?

Young Siddharta

(for Ali)

His mouth curves
like a ripple on the river Ganges
owes a spiritual debt
to the wandering sage-gods of India.

His eyes pierce with the fire of Malcolm X
with the spirit of a Black Panther
with the tumult of the sixties revolution -
and that to peace.

His cheeks pure pleasure
rival Eros for perfection
Aphrodite surely smiles
on the good humoured calm
he exudes amid the adulation.

His nose could be compared
to a much loved Greek warrior
who travelled to the land of the Lotus Eaters
or, he could be a follower of great Plato
but more probably Socrates.

His hair is pure Oscar Wilde - spirit of Bohemia.

He stands straight and tall
as might Cleopatra's soldier Anthony
but he camps not upon some barren hill
waiting for sunrise and a battle to begin
but squarely, gleefully shoulder to shoulder
steeped in poetry of his era –
riding the wave, sometimes sordid
sometimes ecstatic as only a hero might.

His face could be a young Siddharta
before spreading middle-age set in
before Nirvana slowed him down
to sit, forever smiling, beneath
his tree of lightening beams.



Pamela Sidney 2002