The Four Faced Wind

Poetry by Valeria Castellanos


July 2015



This afternoon the ravens have invaded the world
They are everywhere and they know more than I do
They know when the jaguar watches
And, when the hawk begins to hunt
They know when owl’s eyes open
When coyote’s on the prowl
They know where the treasures are buried
They know when the clouds will arrive
They know how soon the wandering moon
Will rise into the skies

The ravens even know how to sing
But, you will not understand their songs
Besides, today, they are too busy
With battle plans and strategies
Painting their faces blue
And, poking about
In the ashes of the fire pit
Seeking the burned bodies of beetles
To add to potions
And, sticks
As straight as bones
To use as wands in future ceremonies

They are hoping we don’t know what they are up to
They are hoping we will think they are just a parade of clowns
Foolishly dancing, prancing, up and down
Calling to clouds, too far away to understand
Cawing to rainbows, on the other side of the world
Clawing at the wind, demanding their will be done

But, I know their feathers are iridescent
Because they are filled
With powers darker than occult mysteries
I know they are naguals
Sizing up which side I am on
They are shaman warriors
Every one
Dedicated to the snake, the smoke, the sun
Worshipers of pyramids
Trees and roads and rainbows
Maybe even stars
They are magicians
Romping, stomping, in disguise
Bewitching through steel flashes in their eyes


What are their ways?
What is their why?
Watching the sky
They turn and fly
I know they go from here to there
I know that they are everywhere
I know not what
They’re committed to
And, they know more than I do


The clouds are settling in the twilight’s glow
My sharpened knife sits by the open window

I am carefully watching the seeds the ravens planted
To see the direction in which they will grow

Valeria Castellanos – June 2015

My Sybil


I remember the Muses lived once,
In another age, in the long ago,
In the far-away, by the wine dark sea,
Where the purple waves broke merrily,
On the edge of a once-upon-a-time land,
Where the waves washed up on the Grecian sand.

I would have liked, to have been in that land,
To have stood in the sand, by the Sybil’s caves,
To have put my kisses on soft Euturpe’s cheek,
To have tiptoed, meek, to Polymnia, by the waves.

If I never cut my hair again,
After my hair has grown out, long,
My God may come to taste my flesh.
And, if he finds it sweet with song,
I may find myself, in line for visions.

Visions of the Future,
Visions of the Past,
Sunrise, sunsets, Judgement Day,
Life’s vibrations, vast.

Visions universal,
Visions complex and complete.
Visions cataclysmic,
Chaotic, compact, twisted, neat.
Visions of the Big Bang,
The beginnings and the end.
Visions of the breath of Brahma,
Cosmic light and wind.

Visions of our private missions,
Spiral visions of transitions.
Visions without breadth or time,
Beyond both harmony and rhyme.
Visions which are rife with strife,
Which might explain myself, and life.

Sudden flash!
Without a warning,
Visions are everywhere in my head.
My Sybil has woken up, and said:

This is the farthest side of real.
This is the end,
Of the many-layered,
Zone of words and consciousness.
This is the world of rarefied matter.
This is infinity’s center.
This is the far edge of time.

This is the Age of Illusions.
This is as far as I see,
As far as I go,
As far as I know,
And, what I have found is,
Your world has fallen completely apart,
And, everyone in the end times,
Has gone completely insane.

There is something in me,
Happy to hear it.
Now, it all makes sense.

Valeria Castellanos

White Flowers


It is April and the whisteria’s flowers are almost gone
Only a few, lacey, lavender, old maids remain
Watching the azaleas fade away
Sighing as the dogwood’s petals are floating down
Settling onto the ground
Now is the time of the white flowers
Magnolia’s thick, cool, flesh is wet
Filigreed hydrangea shadows cast on the breeze
Star studded jasmine, spilling sweet perfume
Ringing the garden
Merging with a single note of pure, unending sound
Reverberations of medieval resonance
And, gothic grace

Out of the cold, still-wind of non-existence
Stirred by frozen, invisible rainbows
Without breath
Immovable halos
Rippling auras
Generated by memories of emotions
And, missing heartbeats
The ghosts who have shed their shrouds
And, tread a weary way
To here from yesterday
Are returning to see
If they are still remembered

April 2015

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