Thinking Thoughts of Merry-Madness

Lately I've been considering the necessity of thought. Is it? Of course, something as natural as breathing is going to be difficult to get rid of, if it someday turns out to be unnecessary. Shocked as you may be after a statement like that consider the word Government. Begins with 'govern' which means to control and ends with 'ment' which is mente or mind. Govern + mente = to control the mind. Thinking, whether on the course to enlightenment or as the loyal subject of the new republic is a clinging to the old world. My instincts and heart tend to keep me out of trouble anyway, although it is aided by some rosy colored spectacles and this old monkey on my shoulder. We have to learn to just Be.

Do words mean anything? Really!? Just lexical symbols to represent ideas. Ideas inside our heads which form pictures of things we see in the world of our experience. Its symbolic alchemy to arrange the letters which mean nothing unto themselves but when placed in specific orders and combined they take on meaning. Words begin to appear. Mastering words produces sentences. Where the meaning begins to take on layers. Words, abstract constructs, Command and commemorate, clarify and congratulate, criticize and consummate, they are the pillars of meaning in our understanding of things. Why have the beautiful ones been abandoned? Why have we chosen to stop thinking for ourselves? I want to see words like philanthropist and cynosure, epiphany, ethereal, soliloquy, potamophilous.
Good night.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Lakota Spirit

fox

- The word Lakota means "considered friends" or "alliance of friends" and denotes the union of seven Native American tribes who believe their home in the Black Hills of South Dakota is sacred. Coyotl, which means "little wolf", is an old Spanish name for Coyote, who is legend to be the trickster and could change his physical appearance.

In the red stained dirt
where the Lakota spider hunts,
calloused feet dance and pound the earth
coal black and rough. I sit atop the rocks
hunched over from thirst, exhausted and praying as I
stair into the eastern wind
where the mountains give birth to the sun.

My brother, the shy little wolf, coyotl in his masks, whose work
never ends, calls out in the early morning
soft and still.
My arms reach to the wind that falls
from the great whispering spirit, who
wanders the earth painting the skys and tall cliffs and
prairies, bursting water from mountain springs
returning with a whisper to the sea.
My voice cries out in song
from distant memory to the one from whom the spirit came
to the one who creates; and I weep. For I am

the unnamed sage, who is content with nothing
but the sound of the whispering spirit and the old red earth.
My eyes in constant wonder and my heart at peace
filled with the sadness in life
I believe, only joy can bring.

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