Cave Drawings

my quill has soggy feathers    my quiver nearly empty
my eyes    fogged by pollution and prescription medications
have no reason why    words come so seldom
upon parchment of life in a morbid apoplectic angst
that Mother Earth has ascribed
no words    nothing but bleeding ink
assigned by her need for us to stop    to look      to listen
finally    and Creator punctuates such dire circumstance
taking this spinning orb    giving it a few slight shakes
and gives it a new orbit and a trusted soul appears

a withered face      backlit by his roughshod fire
eyes glossed over like skim on milk in his strong tea
sorts between truth and vision to tell his breathing tale
to smoke    threading through pine needles at topmost tree
wisps escaping to whisper to navy night sky
that great megaphone pressed to the ear of God

we have nursed at Mother's breast too long
we have sucked her dry    she withers and yet offers
what she has left    but belying our beliefs
she cannot sustain much longer  this needy orb
ungrateful orb  blue-cheeked babes who are dying with her

he draws ash into his tired lungs and tells us 
in circular storytelling where all stories begin and end
including creation and deaths and rebirths
that are far and few between these days

his coughing bestows a tender sadness to his telling
and we    who hover    awaiting a new kind of ending
hunch down    backs against night cold
to see visuals of dying buffalo in dying embers
sputter and suggest a going out

we survived many fires    adamant during the tale
yet yearning for new beginnings    without having our comfort
denied or designated dire    our panting worry
somehow partitioned from responsibility
pointing fingers to East, to South, to West, to North
in order to not carry a commitment for ourselves to change
to meet drying inkwells where scribes attempt to edit
a wise man's wrestled truths

draw near    fires sputter and inks fades
caution as you can    create a new way of writing
of painting    blood smears on dark cave walls
told The Way too long ago    and we have forgotten
how to read lines staining history that knew no more

©Carol Desjarlais 4.2.20

My heart and thoughts have been spiraling around the loss of a Medicine Man who saved my life, saved my son’s life, through his knowledge of ancient ceremonies and medicines.  I have been remembering all the things he taught me, and how he taught me.  His counsel and care was as ancient as those cave drawings we find, now and again, in surprising places.  

I cut out shapes of a woman, some background shapes and a cave entry from deli papers I had used as palette.

I painted the background blue and then used a baby wipe over a stencil to get some textured background.  

I used a circular sponge to make more marks on the background over top of the texture I already had. 

 

  I used matte medium to glue the shapes on to the painted page.  Next, I used a charcoal stick to darken the edges of the woman and the cave.

I am moving through this last night of my private wake of four nights honoring and acknowledged that I had been touched by a very wise, soulful, compassionate soul.

©Carol Desjarlais 4.28.20

https://allpoetry.com/poem/15069481-Cave-Drawings-by-CarolDesjarlais