29 September 2012

Medicine Wheel

The Medicine Wheel is becoming.
Dreaming indigenous form
Creative directional aid
Blind inner act of power
Gathering stones in the midday sun
I’m sure I look crazy to some
To the few who even notice
I hear their howls of laughter
I feel the biting cynicism
Perhaps I am crazy
I know I am dizzy
If only from desert heat and dehydration
I break from this circle to replenish
Still it calls me back
Seeking those closest to me
In my own backyard
Standing my ground
Searching for meaning and purpose
Assembling a semblance of truth
Some of the rocks sing to me
“Pick me. Pick me. I want to play.”
Some are too stubborn to move
Others hold their angry heat
And burn the palms of my hands
The circle widens
My own search ripples outward
Gathering from the front yard
And the abandoned lot next door
Leaving no stone unturned
A datura flower wilts in the sun
Trumpeting hallucination of tears
Trailing my own footsteps
Mirroring my altered vision
Buried treasure, an old coin or two
A piece of purpled glass
A bit of bleached bone
They’re buried there.

The Medicine Wheel is becoming
Showing the beauty way
To who knows where
No one sees the inward progress
Searching for a way back
A way out and forward
Returning to Self.

(c) 2012 

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