Writing in a far and broken country
my pen knows its kinship with the dark forest,
asks direction of its trees, celebrates its quiet amity
over the din of plastic medicine vials, the 40-foot
serpentine specter of cannulae, the hiss and sigh
of an oxygen compressor amid layered silences.
We are named on a long list of regional poets.
The region is the sickroom where the palm and
birch outside the window know their meaning.
Lend a shaman ear.
Trees will speak, will tell you that we are found.
We are here, not lost in our vessels but found
in the hallowed company of shaman poets
on a vision quest
Call it illness.
Call it artful.
Strike up the hill. Cry out for the Sacred Dream,
for the purpose of your life and its contusions.
A comforting infinity breaks through any grieving
fiercely embraced: The great dream comes to you.
The trees come to you. They speak in their voices,
which are – after all – your true voice . . .
Whenever life takes, it leaves behind the key to its
wide and wild essence. Unlock the door. Listen …
the voices offer solace and the privilege of poetry.
© 2013, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
Photo courtesy of morgueFile
JAMIE DEDES ~ My worldly tags are poet and writer. For the past five years I’ve blogged at The Poet by Day,the journey in poem, formerly titled Musing by Moonlight. Through the gift of poetry (mine and that of others), I enter sacred space.
The BeZine 