Sometimes, you never know where these things comes from. Thing is though...when it comes, you must write it down or lose it forever. If I were still the drinking kind, I might have written this one in a stupor or something, but I'm not, and that's not the case. This just came, and I wrote it down, and I do hope you enjoy it.
THIS GORGEOUS PRINT, OF THE APTLY TITLED "THE SHAMAN", IS USED BY PERMISSION OF THE ARTIST, MR. DENTON LUND. For more of his splendid artistry, check in to his web site;
DENTON and SANDRA LUND
THE GREAT ONE REFILLS THE CLOUDS
© 10/99 All Rights Reserved * David Kelley
This story's told, and told for fact..the tale I'll tell to you.
Its merit here for you to weigh, to test the tale for true.
The rain had failed, the story goes, 'twas strange around those parts.
Lizards licked their eyes for drink, and riverbeds were parched.
The church folk set about to pray, and incense filled the sky.
Still, the bleakness cracked and seared and everything was dry.
A call went out to all the land, dire portent was in reach,
Without the nurturing gift of rain, death stood in the breech.
When, in their midst, a Shaman came, from whence they wouldn't find.
Footmen left and right, and a silver stallion close behind.
Deerskin robes that drug the ground formed a stately hallowed frame.
A reverence not demanded, somehow granted all the same.
English was unknown to them but the Shaman made it clear
With graceful dance of aged hands, told the rain was why he's here.
His eyes were sad, though full of life, generations lay therein,
Wisdom in his furrowed brow, rusty hue in leathered skin.
Rain was cast in stone, said he, 'twas at his beck and call.
The price for such a service would be costly to them all.
A bag of beads and a mirror, would not this tariff pay.
You will pay the toll within, said the Shaman on that day.
To live in peace and harmony with the trees and hills and grass,
Honor to all men, white or red, no matter rank or class.
City fathers lied and said his charges were fair and true.
Knowledge throughout the land of the witch doctors contract grew.
Conditions met, the Shaman set about his puzzling chore.
The silence on a hill nearby was as a thunderous roar.
He simply sat in stillness, falling deeply in a trance.
His footmen left and right, beheld the Shamans' spirit dance.
As morning beckoned the clouds from West across the sea,
Amid the cries of townsfolk, the rain spattered cold and free.
The Shaman..still attended on his left and on his right
Remained in seeming prayer, soaking wet into the night,
And in the morning sun, 'twas seen, the Shaman's life was gone.
The look about his footmen, one of fear in the light of dawn.
They told a story fraught with dread and both the men then cried.
They said the spell was n'er reversed before the Shaman died
So the rain would fall forever, the legend now is told,
Until the coming of the Great One declared in tales of old.
It's said that's why the great Northwest is pummeled now by rain,
Summoned by an old Shaman in deerskin free from stain.
The rain comes down slowly from the heavens in sheets and shrouds,
Halting only briefly while the Great One refills the clouds.
This story's told, and told for fact..the tale I've told to you.
Its merit here for you to weigh to test the tale for true.
