April 30, 2014
As the men left for the morning fishing,
Sky yawned first glow upon their faces
And the winds bid them abundant catch.
They walked and turned back to the boy
Who stared idly upon the mountain. Speak
Then of the brujo, if you must, they commanded.
The boy answered that he took the journey
There, that he saw the sun and moon
Rise and fall many times, that the days
Went by in blinks with the sky blazing
Then dying red pink into twilight.
These things he had seen. But the men,
Who were a fishing people, mocked him,
And branded him with disbelief.
Much later, after the ceremony and deep
Into manhood, the boy descended into
The cycle of his visions, this tenuous life.
One day, he emerged from a long absence.
He was of an age to take wife now and asked:
Mother, speak to me of women.
She looked to her boy who was now a man
And replied: for women with art,
They are either going into it or coming out of it.
But you son, are in art and that will be
Hard with women. It will be hard with Men too.
Posted by The New Poet at 10:11 AM