Bora born
Under the spell of matter _
Shape changers, dust from mud to wheels on black
ribbon, his almond rhythmed body splits
the crisp winter air, solar powered, warmed
by the set of the sun on mangroved light.
Perfume creek on a flood tide, the moon so
near full it doesn't matter, bares its' face.
Women, once were young who knew him, call his
name in language, a birthday blessed no less.
They spoke of the blue moons race through last months
skies, the message written for all to see.
No terror looms here, old feelings still warm
bush incence centres, the circle is closed.
Small talk of Edens fate filters out, pressed
by time. What do the preachers say stalks here.
Packets of thought steeped in dogma, prick tease
tired minds, too obtuse to sus it all out.
Source has always been here, conscious in all
never cast off, this gathering knows this.
No judgment, so gracious, yet there's something
born of nothing about to show a way.
Thought settles within, a subtle nuance
finds the breath, the insight impressed glides through.
A veil lifts, subtle shift, the Murri man
through a haze of beer triggers the release.
The heart is pulled, emotions flood this place
on a ground where three circles shaped by people
tell a story that has never left us.
Omega's first and last gather round here.
Hearts so soft, always under threat, draw strength
through each other, the smells, language, the place
under a moon, on a footpath, near the
creek, on the way to town, time shifts in space.
- O -
© july 2007_ Nhawrr yirrpa
ribbon, his almond rhythmed body splits
the crisp winter air, solar powered, warmed
by the set of the sun on mangroved light.
Perfume creek on a flood tide, the moon so
near full it doesn't matter, bares its' face.
Women, once were young who knew him, call his
name in language, a birthday blessed no less.
They spoke of the blue moons race through last months
skies, the message written for all to see.
No terror looms here, old feelings still warm
bush incence centres, the circle is closed.
Small talk of Edens fate filters out, pressed
by time. What do the preachers say stalks here.
Packets of thought steeped in dogma, prick tease
tired minds, too obtuse to sus it all out.
Source has always been here, conscious in all
never cast off, this gathering knows this.
No judgment, so gracious, yet there's something
born of nothing about to show a way.
Thought settles within, a subtle nuance
finds the breath, the insight impressed glides through.
A veil lifts, subtle shift, the Murri man
through a haze of beer triggers the release.
The heart is pulled, emotions flood this place
on a ground where three circles shaped by people
tell a story that has never left us.
Omega's first and last gather round here.
Hearts so soft, always under threat, draw strength
through each other, the smells, language, the place
under a moon, on a footpath, near the
creek, on the way to town, time shifts in space.
- O -
© july 2007_ Nhawrr yirrpa
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Under the spell of matter _
Under the spell of matter _
