"Prana"








by Red Slider





Listen to your breath

forget the universe,



Hold onto the intimate

as the night holds the dream,

in the odors of old potted soil

spilled upon a wooden floor

where hunters once studied

the tracks of silent naked feet,

the brush

of a thousand spring dresses

spilling their lints and pollens

onto the powdery clays

of the ancient riverbed

on which you stand.



                The hunter dreams of sage.



Breathe in the incense

of a hundred meals past

layered and melded

where the oldest still lingers

where the mind has forgotten

a hearth of two rocks,

some char and some bone

baked in the desert sand.



                The clan chief dreams of gifts.



Speak the language of breath

in the bleaches and cleansers,

the paints and papers and soaps,

the vinegars of bitter memory,

the bouquets of lust-drawn ethers,

the dark clots of adrenalized fear

entering through pores

returning through vents

to become the breath

of sweat and desire

shaping itself into things unseen

by the work of ancestral hands.



                The crone dreams of baskets.



Watch yourself flow

through the breath of other beings,

hiding in the corridors of your body;

the detached images of former tenants

the perfect records of their work

and pleasures, their struggles and hates,

and loves and feedings and growings

and dyings that came long before

and yet still remain.



                The clown dreams of maidens.



Feel the heat as you tumble

into the soup of your body

to the forest floor, to the steamy swamp

of life and death flowing seamlessly

from the broth of ancient recipes

where we emerge as vapors

and condense as boiling rain.



                The shaman dreams of horses.



Release the image

that rises from primordial seas

and hauls itself through the slime

of muddy shores, lungs filled

with the amniotic fluid of dreams,

exhaling themselves onto sandy beaches

crowded with vistas

of ferns and mosses and conifers,

and cedars and scrubs and berries

and silent streams of shadow

where fallen trees have lain.



                The child dreams of riding



        across a big stream where

        Alligator tells how to slay

        the great antelope.



Enter forests filled with odors

of caves and kivas and cities,

of hunting and cultivating and synthesizing,

of the raw made cooked, and the totem eaten

and the taboo broken,

of glacial tears softening empty plains,

of murder stalking beast and machine,

of children playing in the ruins

of their parents’ skulls;



waiting these eons,

for the dreamer to awake.



            The child meets a white antelope

            upon a hill. The antelope offers

            powerful medicine if she will spare

            its life.



The warrior lies dreamless

on his cot counting winners

in last week’s Racing Form;



                On a dirty windowsill

                A plastic flower reclines.


















watercolor:


 "Poppy" by Vera A. Jones











A returned native of Tennessee, Vera A. Jones lived and traveled the country extensively before settling a decade ago in Jonesborough, the state's original capitol.  She is an award-winning artist with work in private and corporate collections throughout the United States.  From her Main Street studio Vera provides private tutoring and commission work, and teaches regular art classes.  Specializing in watercolor portraits and mixed media, Vera studied Fine Art at the University of Memphis, and with regionally known artist Urban Bird and nationally known artists Judi Betts, Jan Kunz, and Alex Powers. Selected for display over the years in various regional shows, her sculpture, paintings and drawing reflect the struggles of life in a love of form and startling design.  Visit her website at 

 Vera T. Jones Art Studio On-Line ; e-mail to 

Tracyvera@aol.com. 































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"Prana" ©Red Slider,


1998. All rights


reserved. 










Midi: Holy Night