Medicine Bag
From the time christened warrior,
‘round his neck, tied by thong.
It like a talisman, mysterious,
the buckskin pouch hung.
As if retaining a secret,
captive, within leather bond.
The warrior cherished the satchel deeply,
for it never left his charge.
Should he ever become troubled,
sought vision of council and wisdom.
With his pouch held to the heavens,
called forth his Spirit Guide.
The warrior gazed into blue skies,
chanting loud his quandary.
Seeking guidance to reveal,
and light the trail to truth.
What magic was held captive,
within that mysterious sack?
He bequeathed upon me earned confidence,
held open that buckskin parcel.
I saw bits of stone, colored beads,
some feathers small.
An arrowhead with broken shaft,
a rifle’s ball stained dark.
He sensed my unasked question,
and spoke with almost reverent tone.
“Each item I have collected,
bears a portion of my life.
To you they may mean naught,
to me each a message.
Sent by my Spirit Leader,
that my time is yet to come.
As long as I carry my Medicine Bag,
life’s battles I shall survive.
Through its magic, should I need,
to speak with my Spirit Leader I may.”
From behind, ominous rattles I heard.
I was sure, my time had come.
I heard the swish of the warrior’s blade.
The rattling at once ceased.
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poem by Kurt Hearth
Added by Poetry Lover
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