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The Four Faced Wind

Poetry by Valeria Castellanos

Month

March 2021

The Glass Bead Game

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The Glass Bead Game – not my art

I awoke with the land folded in on itself.
A sky full of clouds,
With open mouths,
With tongues of sun,
And, eyes of wire,
Taunting the skies,
With spears of fire.

Wandering with fireflies,
What do you watch with moonlight eyes?
Are you lost, tonight, in moonlit nightshade?
In what darkness do you wade?
Do you dance with Belladonna?
Do you toast a toadstool moon?
Are you tossed about tonight,
By a hail storm’s tune?

The mist is mired, and maze inspired.
The labyrinth is spinning loud.
It sings in the opaque landscape’s light,
Behind the steel gray cloud.

Eat golden fire and scarlet weed,
Drink the tea of the dark datura seed.
Laughter, tears and heart aches feed,
Now, string another cold, glass bead.
Dust devils dance in warm swamp gas,
And, the Phoenix burns in the mermaid’s pass.
Jeweled thoughts roam outside my mind,
For the meek are weak and, the strong will shine.
It is always so, it will always be.
You must stand and fight or turn and flee.

Achieve and conquer,
Gain and grow.
Take the next glass bead,
Then turn and go.

With dragons are you dancing,
In the Hell-cat fires?
Did you pick a fight tonight,
With the tongue sharp liars?
Begonias, pink, boom in the shade,
With crooked sword and sharpened blade.
Is all this just for a cold, glass bead?
Does it fill your heart?
Does it make you bleed?
Is now the time to be afraid?
Are you ready to go? Was the piper paid?

Did you wish on the wishing star?
Do you know where you went? Did you travel far?
Did you know yourself. Do you know my name?
Do you think that you won the glass bead game?

1998

The Garden

We went into the garden,
To plant a seed,
And, watch it grow.
But, then I found,
That someone else,
Was walking in the garden.

Someone was there.
I could not see.
And, evil never dies.

There are voices in the garden now,
Voices without faces,
Voices whispering,
Whispering,
To the innocents,
Things it does not mean,
For us to know.

And, there is laughter in the garden,
Which is neither mine nor yours.
It is not the kind of laughter,
Which I like to hear.

This sound does not belong in the garden,
This dark sound,
Crawling behind the indigo, poison shadows.
This is not the humming of humming birds.

It is murmuring,
Dark and torpid murmuring,
Murmuring, from under the fountains,
And, from under the grayness, under the stairs.

This is not the sound of green or sun,
Or, the joy of praying mantis prayers.
I cannot understand the murmured whispers,
But, the children are laughing,

Laughing,
And, this is not the smell of flowers,
Or, bee hives filled with honey.

Something in the garden is calling,
Calling to the children,
Calling, calling gray and thin,
Like the the sound of chilling rain,

Calling, thin and hollow,
Calling the children to bring their souls,
And, to come into the garden.

Now, I am hearing songs in the garden,
Songs you and I have never sung.
The children are humming the songs,
Humming the songs,

Humming the gray and haunting refrains.
I fear that the children will think,
This is only a game.

I fear that the garden will lure them away,
And, they will be tricked,
Into training their souls for trinkets.

I do not remember another time,
Of so many spiders and spider webs.
So much seems strange, so much seems wrong,
And, there are so many whispers,

Whispering, whispering,
Thin and cold,
And, the garden is gray and unfamiliar.
I do not want to go into the garden.

The voices in the garden are gathering faces,
And, the whispering voices are speaking in tongues.
I hear their murmuring, whispering voices,
Laughing and humming the music I don’t understand.

The children are whispering now,
And, humming and laughing and singing the words.
And, the gates are singing, all of the gates,
The gates are singing and calling.

I hear them calling, calling.
There are so many gates in the garden now.
There are gates I never have seen before.
There are gates I can’t even imagine.

I do not want to go into the garden,
Where the voices are calling, whispering, humming,
I do not want to go out to the gates,
Gates that may open up anywhere,

Gates that lead to other places,
Gates that may lead to the other side.

I do not want to go into the garden,
With whispering voices,
With calling gates.

But, the garden is the whole world,
And so, I have to go.

1985

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