hyperzoid

I was reading for my Native American literature course on Tuesday night and one of the poems I read made me think of Dave. Well, him and a few other Stephen King fans, but mainly Dave, as the only reason I know them, or that they are fans is because of him. Anyway, the poem is called Turtle. It's by Peter Blue Cloud. It goes as follows:

The winds are dark passages amonth the stars,

leading to whirling void pockets

encirciled by seeds of thought,

life force of the Creation.

I am turtle,

and slowly, my great flippers move

propelling my body through space,

and starflowers scatter crystals

which fall as mist upon my lidded eyes.

I am turtle,

and the ocean of my life swim

is a single chant in the Creation,

as I pass others of my kind,

my own, unborn, and those,

the holy ancients of my childhood.

My swim is steady and untiring

for great is the burden given me,

the praise and privilege of my eternity

rests upon my back as a single seed

to which I am guardian and giver.

I am turtle,

and my tribes forever remain countless,

from the day I first raised my head

to gaze back upon the horn of my body,

and my head was a sun,

and Creation breathed life upon the seed

and four times, and again four times,

I wept for joy the birthing of my tribes,

and chanted Creations the glory

of all these wondrous days.

The wrinkles and cracks upon this ancient shell

are the natural contours created

by the feel and request of burdened rock

and soil, blood and sustenance to

clans within clans,

I am turtle,

and the earth I carry is but

a particle in the greater Creation,

my mountains, plains and oceans,

mere reflections in a vaster sea.

Turtle, I am called,

and breathe clouds of rain,

and turn slowly my body to seasons

in cycle with my grandchild, Eagle,

whose wings enfold thungder pulses,

back to back, and

seldom meeting in time.

Patience was given me by Creation,

ancient song on tomorrow's wind,

this chant that was taught my tribes

is now unsung by many clans

of a single tribe,

and truly

such pains that exist for this moment,

which slay so many of the innocent

cannot but end in pain repeated

as all are reflected twins to self.

I am turtle,

and await the council of my tribes

clan into clan, the merging thought

that evil was never the star path, and

then the chant to the four directions,

I am turtle,

and death is not yet my robe,

for drums still throb the many

centers of my tribes, and a young

child smiles me of tomorrow,

"and grandparent,"

another child whispers, "please,

tell again my clan's beginning."

Now, I don't really know much about Stephen King. I've seen the made for TV movie, or mini series, or whatever you want to call it "Rose Red" and I saw half of the "Nightmares and Dreamscapes" when they were put on TV. Then there's the little bits of things that I've picked up from Dave talking about the Dark Tower series with other people. So, from what I can gather, this poem kind of goes along with the whole turtle with the world on its back thing... I think.

hyperzoid

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