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Shaman's Song








The spirits woke,
to holy smoke,
and the pipe is passed around.
The drumming starts,
like rhythmic hearts,
and the drumbeats softly pound.





With magic's aid,
a circle's made,
and the drumbeats voice their call.
The shaman stands,
on sacred lands,
and the drumbeats slowly fall.





With mystic phrase,
and healing ways,
and the drumbeats reach our ears.
He's singing songs,
of many wrongs,
and the drumbeats fall like tears.





With painted face,
and catlike grace,
and the drumbeats take the lead.
His dancing feet,
the spirits greet,
and the drumbeats pick up speed.





The power grows,
and magic flows,
and the drumbeats all command.
With booming cries,
the Thunderbird flies,
and the drumbeats fill the land.





Untangling webs,
the pain now ebbs,
and the drumbeats give us aid.
We have our cure,
and the drumbeats softly fade.





On the last word,
no dancer stirs,
and the drumbeats ceased to play.
All magic done,
and the people one,
and the pipe is packed away.


R. Christopher
July 1997








This is a poem written a few years back by really great person Skiewolf and I met and became friends with recently. Here's hoping our friendship withstands the test of time. Take care, Chris!
























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