THE CLOCK IS TICKING, STILL HOPE!

THE CLOCK IS TICKING
by A. Mad Poet

ARMORED CARS PASS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
POLICE CLASH WITH THE HOMELESS
ALREADY STANDING IN BREADLINES BEFORE THE MORNING ARRIVES.

CLINK, CLANK, CLINK FOR CASH, SWISH SWOOSH ALL IN A FLASH
SIRENS BLOWING, GAMBLERS, FATE THROWING DICE.
MATTERS OF LATE ENTICE, ONES WE HATE
CAN'T WAIT TO GET AWAY FROM STORIES WE HAVE TO HEAR.

WE CAN'T STAND IT, BUT WE MUST, WHEN WILL WE LEARN?
HOW MANY HAVE TO DIE? HOW MANY WILL DIE?
WE'VE BEEN TOLD OVER AND OVER, FANNING THE GLOBE BY THE BUDDHA AND GANDHI, SRI AUROBINDA, THE MAN FROM GALILEE
MARTIN LUTHER KING, MALCOLM X, MASAKELA, MANDELA,
JOHN LENNON, TOO. WE ASSASSINATED SOME OF THEM SHOT THE OTHER TWO.
FOUR OF THEM NEARLY ELIMINATED OR DROWNED IN THE PUTRID STEWS
WE MADE FEUDING OVER MEAT WE NEVER PUT IN THE POT.
HOW CRUEL WE'VE BECOME
SUCH FOOLS ARE WE.
BIRDS WAY TOO FAR OUT ON A LIMB
WEIGHTED DOWN WITH OUR OWN GREED.

HOW LONG WILL THE TREE SUSTAIN US?
HOW LONG WILL THE MASTER FEED US?
HOW LONG WILL THE RIVER CARRY US
HOW LONG CAN THE SHEPHERD
CONTINUE TO GUARD HIS FLOCK?

THE CLOCK IS TICKING......THE CLOCK IS TICKING......
THE CLOCK IS TICKING.

The Joy of Healing (A Message to Those in Sorrow)
by White Eagle Speaking through TwoHawk

I woke up from another dream today
With a song on my lips.
"I've got feelings on my mind,
Healing's on the way."
"I've got healing on my mind,
Feeling is the way."
"I've got feelings on my mind,
Feeling love today."

People have so much to say about Healing
Yet rarely do they sing about it.
Everybody talks about it
Few are willing to stalk it.
Some sit, others balk.
Some get up and walk their talk
Others lose their bearing.

The ancient druids call this knowing The Motherwit.
Also known as The Motherboard
Where all the pieces fit,
The Crane, The Wren, The Little Twit
All sing of it.
Native people both in America and abroad speak of Her as Deep=throated Hummingbird
She too, sucks on Mother's tits.
Little flower nipples coated with honey and sugar
Only Her long beak reaches it first, with her tongue in her cheek
Deep down the throat she goes
As the sugary stamen sits.
The flittering little wings batter the air
While her heart beats so strong
She seems to go on and on, so fast she is.
Where did she get all that stamina?
How long will the sucking last?
Until her cup is empty
Until her thirst is quenched, she's finished her last.

I wonder if my cup will ever be empty
Will heaven's gate be wrenched free
From its hinges I'm so bent on securing
Hoping for My Own Salvation

And surely I failed to notice the scent that drew me to its sweet fields
Are lost in my intent.

Am I worthy of such sweetness?
Will I attract enough thirsty people to these Blessed Flowering Meadows
To feed upon this luxury
Elixirs you cannot rent, cannot buy, cannot be spent.

The Sacred Cup always fills up, no matter how great the need

No matter what tools you bring to aid The Great Gardener
Who wields The sword and sickle
That cuts no one's flowers.
That mows down no one's expensive anything, simply fields of clover
Where Sweetness starts first, then abounds forever, growing over and over and over
In the garden of The Divine Heart, The Heart-felt Lover.

Little Hummingbird and Wren, both symbols to the druids then
Are symbols of The God of Love, of Dancing Among Flowers itself, whose hair, whoes Stamen, whose beak, whose feet are washed daily
By everyone who reaches The Celestial Garden Meadow
The shampoo and the perfume Mary took to wash them with
For All the future children's sake
Brought no tears either to him or to her, except tears of joy.
They left no suds in the creek where they stood.
They weren't dirty, nor was She.
The washing was a service, not a need.

Do you think I'm just playing with words
Trying to find something clever to entertain you? I'm not.
Spirit is standing in the middle of the creek in my backyard
Not in the ocean of unbelief some have thought
Him To be standing.

So where does this 'washing' take place? Where does the creek go?
Where do my dreams go?
An old Cherokee rhyme Carl Sandberg collected
(Which I read many years ago),
Goes something like this:

"Down the stree--eam, Down the stree--eam,
All the leaves go.
Who can say--ay, Who can know,
Where the leaves go."

"Down the stree--eam, Down the stree--eam,
All My dree-eams go.
Who can say--ay, Who can know,
Where my dreams go."
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I feel so light now.
These simple words
Wash my weary feet,
My heart has been aligned.

Now I Listen to these Hopi words:

"My brother. Its not the eleventh hour. It's time.
Time to BE the healing
Time to bathe in the feeling.
Time to nurture your brother
Time to be one with Your Mother."

Not to take it all so personally
But universally, seriously.
To persevere gracefully
To build strong bridges.
Not to just stand there on the ridge alone.
A long time ago, we did this together
Bridging time
Touching The Soul
Teaching Brotherhood
Combining The Sublime with The Divine
Flowing through the fingers
Of outstretched palms
Receiving the human mind
Cradling all humans
Mending Fences

Lost sheep entwined
In the arms of the same Shepherd
Hearts that never sleep
Leaping like Cougar
Across canyons with Mountain Goat and Elk
Keeping The Sacred Fires burning
Until all Her Children
All Our Relations
Are safe and sound.

Circling our fears
That is what the Brotherhood of Sacred Wolf can do for us
Keeping our campground and medicine lodges safe for healing
Secure so that love abounds as far as they roam.

No enemies to seek
No prey to conquer
No danger from the deep
No longer a wall of pain
That once creeped into our lives.
To wonder but not to wander anymore.

Glowing embers flaming brightly
Thunder bolts and rain
Folding their hands together humbly
Allowing them to flame upwards into the air from whence they came.
With no one left to blame.

One day we will all turn to layers of loam
One day we will all turn to stone.
Let not your intentions
Sleep beneath volcanoes seething with anger
Thinking your soul will find its way home alone.

It won't!

What is this mound of knowledge white people speak of?
What remains does it cover?
It too, must be seething ground if it is found beneath
The Lover of Wisdom Without The Knowing
That hovers above the ground, not below it.
All the graves you found there belong to you.

Matter knows nothing a human heart cannot hold
If it has no joy and cannot cry,
Then The River that once flowed from it has gone dry.

O, The Ocean of Ancient Dreams
Floating branching moments
Emptying sacred streams
Turning to Rivers filled with lives
Leaves of empty books washed clean.

Lean on me The Good Shepherd Man once said.
Get thee to The Mountain, said The Man With The Shroud
'Though your wheeling wagons are still spinning in place
Spiritually covered in useless dust
Your Trails of Tears left to dry on my prairies
Rusting aimlessly in space. They continue to weep!
Many bloody ruts were etched at my feet, mocking My Sorrow, slapping My Face
Yet, I beg you: Lean on me, Brothers of Every Race.
What you have done to Me,
What you've done to My Children
Matters little anymore.

I offer You My Grace, The Father Mother Creator speaks.

My Forgiveness, My Strength, The Strength to feed My Hungry Children.
I Plead You, I beg you:
Erase no further tree, no flower, no weed from My Garden
Allow everyone to bend with the winds that come upon you.
Like the willow reeds in My bower
The Cedar and The Sage, The Sweetgrass and The Songs
Of all The Birds and Flowers, and the bark of The Wild Dog on the hill:
All belong to me and to you. Lean on Us All and you will be strong
Ready to face any onslaught, any storm you may have to conquer.

Follow The One Stream where every Leaf, every Dream goes
To reach The One Place You Can Trust:
My Out-stretched Arms, My heart, My Womb and My Ocean
Where The River of Your Life still flows undaunted, facing every obstacle.
You are Loved. You are missed. You are wanted back home!
Aho!