People are essences —
essences that come in
and parade around as two-leggeds.
resplendent warm guardians
humble and pure
healing flames sustaining others.
cold serrated sorcerers
calculating, conniving finaglers
pondering the existence of others
as a means of getting what they want.
bent-light wavering sombra
parched, hungry shadows
unconscious how they enter a room
and feed off people.
They drink from the well
of other people’s souls
rather than their own
the way they’re supposed to.
If you're not careful with this last one,
they will leave you depleted, empty,
as if some dark wind sucked
all the sweet fragrance
out of your well-planned garden.
Here’s a little poet-curandero medicine
to hang around your neck.
Ask yourself in the presence of another:
Are we equal in spirit,
or am I an eventual meal for a viper?
Here’s a little curandera-poet medicine
to wrap over your shoulders like a shawl.
When you depart the radiating atmospheric-aura
of ‘so-and-so' and 'such-and-such', do you feel:
To quote the whispered words
of one Traveler now gone:
(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com