Anasazi Rock Painter

My Song is unique.
The Rock's Song is unique.
But in our Singing for the Painting,
we create a new Song
that transforms us both
into Oneness.

It is a good morning...
the sun-song is quiet
and all life around me
is touched by the stillness
of dawn;
I kneel by the yucca
to ask for its leaf-brush
to join in my rock-painting

Sometimes I sit with my Paint-rock
And we do not paint.
In the late afternoon shadows
we share our Oneness:
we think of each, inside the other:
One breath, One song, One spirit.

The rock sings
when it sees me coming,
and I can't help but smile
to see my friend;
we share hearts
as I set to painting...
and who's to say how deep
our colors blend.

The rain leaps from the clouds
singing and dancing
drumming on the sandstone walls...
I cannot help but join it
singing and dancing
following its eager calls...
and when it all is done,
the Rain and I are One.

is another world to me:
the sun
is not my master...
Who can count the raindrops
in the sky?
Who can say,
"Tonight, I will not die?"
The Truth
will come no faster.

We have seen the same canyons
beneath different skies;
We have walked the same valleys
in a different disguise;
We have heard the rain sing
felt the warmth of the sun;
We have shared the same heart-song
and found we were One.

I have watched the clouds
play with the sunset,
Painting heart-songs in the sky;
I have felt the wind
caress that beauty
And sing its reverence with a sigh.

The wind is but a whisper of a dream,
a gentle coolness brushed across my frame;
it moves the sun to ease the burning touch,
and pauses by my hand to see its name.

A Stillness holds me
and guides my inner reach
til I am quiet
and lost within its peace;
our communion touches deep:
so I will listen
to learn the Path I seek.

There is no dance tonight,
and no moon --
Who can deny the darkness?
We sit and share the fire,
and our hearts --
Is there any less?

The moon has come to fullness--
Feel her heartbeat match my own!
Feel the drumbeat hold my song!
I could dance the whole night long!
The moon accepts my offering --

The eagle calls me
to reach beyond the stone,
to reach beyond my own,
and touch the sky...
I answer quiet,
"My people need my skill;
my people need my kill..
So who am I?"

Tonight the rain sings with fiery drums --
but will it leave
its children for the morning?
Will I see
its footprints in the dawn?
The corn cannot hope to live
on memories alone.

Little Crow
I am no warrior, Father;
I do not wish to fight.
Why are these Others casting
a shadow on our Light?
You know I paint our history
--make honor to our life--
Who are these Others, Father,
that summon only strife?
The spirit of the sandstone
works with my heart's design:
I cannot be a warrior...
I am a gentle kind.

Who will hear our words
when our voice is vanished
in our death?
I will draw our Life:
the rocks will give our People
one last breath.

I hold my brother
til he sleeps...
and what more is there?
What better thing than this?

Circle of crows
above the high rock
--black chips of obsidian
on turquoise sky--
You welcome me Home;
I give you this Song
to honor your powerful Sign.

The wolf is very hungry:
I hear is call --
a sadness
cutting through the night
and coming close;
we share the pain of hunger:
the snow remains too long
and so we come to fight
just to survive.

The wind comes rushing
through the trees --
running and pushing,
calling through the canyon:
"Storm is near!
Call your children in,
and set the fires!
Already you can hear
the drums of thunder
and see the killing arrows in the sky!"

I sit against my paint-rock --
both of us quiet in the dark;
the moon weaves our shadows together,
and joins our song:
How bright the night becomes!

I seek no distant thunder for my own,
nor mastery of the river's gentle flow;
I hold no need to steal the canyon's heart,
nor would I ever think to wish it so;
but Visions show me some who come to conquer -
to sell and trade what none should ever hold;
they come to prove they are the new-born godlings,
and sadly end up selling their own souls.

Sometimes when my heart
sings a song of sadness,
Paint-rock will sing sadly, too;
othertimes it echoes back
a happy, clever song --
as if it's counting coup:
How can I help but smile!

The Great Gathering is soon:
See the Moon of Ripening Berries start to grow?
At its fullness will the Shamans of all clans
gather here with other leaders to discuss
the changes that are killing all our lands.
Many years have gone to building for this time
to provide for all the different Shaman rites,
that our differences can be erased in sand,
and our equalness achieve a Higher Light.