Day #3 of the Poetry Challenge

Walking the Bone-White Road
by Galina Krasskova

The red road is sacrifice.
I know it well.
It is holy,
rooted in life.
It nourishes
from this side
of that great divide.
I walked its crimson trail
for many years.
then the white road claimed me,
white like bleached bone
and marrow
white like the shroud
that covers the bodies
of the dead.

When they come,
sounds no longer resolve into words;
colors stop animating vision;
and the steadiness
of floors and walls and chairs

When they come,
all the spaces
in between my bones
are filled to breaking;
the overly pixilated caricature
of living and being opens up
to show the raw flesh beneath.

When they come,
gently and graciously
or fiercely and mad
requiring help
desiring a voice
seeking , demanding
that which was ever
their due,
I am taken up,
shaken like a rag doll
in fervent, excited hands
and I spew them forth:
their words, their wants,
their needs.

Now my tools are simple:
veil and water,
and the fervency of my prayers.
and this road that seemed so
far and narrow before,
now stretches before me,
never ending,
an ocean
of reverence.




Posted on August 9, 2015, in Ancestors, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.

  1. This is absolutely beautiful.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. From what Roots

    Roots of the tree torn from the ground
    Cast adrift over Aegir’s lands
    Eastern shores of new land found
    No speech would they teach, no stories to tell
    That was the old country or so they say
    But silenced it is not, deep within to swell.

    Death by age twelve a grand follow year
    Cast adrift in Iroquois woods
    Made to bend and swallow a tear
    No cry could effect, no ties to reject
    Seemingly gone no justice done
    In loosing the finding and making respects

    Acorns dropped sprouts and so too the maples
    Deep driven and down to roof for the dwarf
    In fair fern hollows I fire my tables
    Entwined in moulde each need be told
    Web woven and wyrd in my eye appeared
    Quest of the hero meant for the bold

    Down lain body and prone to the fire
    Geometry visions in sight, sound, and mind
    Self given self my Self to acquire
    Children of Gandalf on eastern weed stem
    No where to hide and cannot deny
    In new lands are old ways awakened again


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