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Azteca (Part 3)

Poetry Poem

Fire and Ice

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It could be that I was birthed
by some Godly hand unseen
or by the astringency of water
blessed and not laden
with the mud of my forefathers
but virginal and receptive
like the bone dry reflections
of a distant blue sky
the canyon of memory and lost things
and the updraft of currents
that carry away those of us found
scrounging in the dirt
looking for gems and vegetables
or the viscous and volatile
remains of ancient dead things
those potent remnants of giants
tucked neatly beneath Gaia's skirts

the creator spoke from the mouth of a crab
and Gaia answered with babies
so on that first day I woke
and began the journey upward
the wombs have opened
and the percolation begun
we are drops in an ocean
relentless to breath
seeking that strata of clear understanding
our gathered gems determine
or to boil, boil, boil away
and return again another day
fresh and light and ready
to scrounge in the dirt
looking for gems and vegetables
or the viscous and volatile
remains of ancient dead things

the voice said that I could become golden
like the maize that appeared in our hands
 "... and this shall be thy food..."
were the words it spoke -
and I thought them to be my father's seed
and commenced to ascend rapidly
it is interesting to ponder
who I was at that time
for the darkness did not permit
the knowledge of such things
so from the crotch of Chicomoztoc
did I arrive, unadorned but slick
as do all things to this rocky crust -
message intact and corn in hand
but the voice grows fainter,
and the light - hot, thunderous and overwhelming,
laminates the fragile membranes that retained me
and all that basked in the narrow confines
of this delicate drapery
is now forever trapped in a fabric of memorabilia
I am alone, an artist in my own right
and so with this seed, give back to Gaia
the gift of the ancient ones
whose journey long ago
cut the path and drew the map
to that which I am about to explore



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Azteca (part 1)


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