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Dreamed 1989/1/12 by Chris Wayan

My horse runs on damp sand,
under East African glare:
a riftlake shore.
In that vast and endless clean,
we come to a spot
where something's wrong.
But what?
My merely human mind
is spirit-blind:
I only scent the crisis
My horse can see.
He must solve it,
yet he looks to me!

Kilimanjaro on the horizon.

When out of the bush
The lion-head rose--
Gunless I snarled
"Stand! Hide your fear!"
He reared, defied,
slashed air
with a scythy hoof.
That lion backed off.

My horse faces a lion

When a wildfire corraled us,
Horse wide-eyed, in Hell,
As flame slunk inward,
grinning for the kill,
I saw the nearest hungry wall
was thin! "JUMP!" I howled
and my horse leapt through
light's fangs, to life.
Danced on smoky ember-eyes.
Being brave for me
saved his life. Our lives.

So, he trusts my discipline.
But here he has to lead the way.
I can't see the hazard:
It's off reason's turf.
Now, his obedience is crippling.

Now, the shore-waves rippling
cast up a soul-board,
passed hand to glassy hand
over the sinuous creamy sand.

my horse faces a wildfire

A long driftwood oval
holds my soul, my horse's soul.
In the warm lakewater,
Vermin have gnawed it,
Bored it near death.
Coiled wormy scars
bite at its breast.
"Termites of Tame," says a Voice,
and I know it's true.
Our spirit's eroded, though putty or new
Bark fills the deepest holes
Discipline gnawed:
A half-healed soul!

Termites of tame. Over-ridden!
He's paid such a price for courage:
Turns ears away from urge,
To listen to my voice.

How do we heal a soulboard?
First, it matters where

My Aboriginal soul-board floats in, somewhat gnawed away
the wounds and wouldn'ts are.
If the edges, not the heart,
the board may chip--but stand.
If only I'd concentrated more
on our soul's hurt core...
left the damn rim for last,
instead of impartially
salving every scratch--
Too late. We'll see.
See if our soul
will snap
or bend
or stand.
I can help his trial
If only I'll:
See with horse eyes,
Shut up, sniff, and hear,
Fear what I fear,
Refuse to press on,
Kick bravery away,
And really wallop reason.
Sidle up to mares, but run
If they stink or they make fun.
Eat what my gut calls good crude food,
Never EVER work except in the mood,
And laze around where it's warm.
Oh, and bite authorities on the sly,
Then run like an African storm.

My horse rears

My horse running free My horse running free My horse running free My horse running free

LISTS AND LINKS: horses - Africa - fear - fire - instinct - down with hierarchy! - the soul - healing from abuse - shamanism - termites - pure digital art - dream poems - picture-stories

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