Post by goldenmyst on Jul 13, 2021 19:47:40 GMT -6
While Eva’s Hearth Gently Heats
A Mexican Madonna takes her baby son all the way across the border from Mexico to America. There she hitchhikes to the Acoma pueblo where she hears immigrants can find asylum. Since the Indian Reservations are sovereign states they will be safe there.
Upon arrival a flock of women circles her in a Mandala that taps the earth in deeply rooted organic fusion.
So she stands at the cliffs of the pueblo looking out at the sunset while holding her infant son. For the first time in her life, she feels secure. The scent of baked bread is a sign of hope for sustenance for her and her little one for whom she sacrificed what little there was all these years. Now he gets proper nutrition and care that she couldn’t provide back in Mexico. The clouds form a symbol of the dove for peace.
Eva puts a Beatles LP on the turntable just before putting the bread in to bake. It is twilight, a soft glow from the pueblo oven is almost like an embered campfire, with stars starting to twinkle to the East...
When the Beowulf and Canterbury Tales were being written the pueblo in this picture was built atop a 400-foot mesa. But when they serenaded lovers young and old, leaving moccasin prints on the dust of ages past, they had already played their duet for countless lifetimes. His wife was an Indian Eva and he was her Adán.
Adán’s matriarchal lover kept him too busy photographing petroglyphs on megaliths for the pueblo museum to even do art with his paint set much less compete in the Native American art competition in Albuquerque which she said he could once the documentation of pictographs was complete.
She, his stepson, and Adán sat by the mission church at sunset while she harmonized with his melody played on a reed-flute in a duet whose timbre was as haunting as canyon wrens at sundown.
Impressions of the family fern whose fronds are their past lives are seen through the lens of cities both ancient and modern.
On this Pueblo night, Adán remembered that hers was that voice which took him down the Camino de Santiago of Galicia on their pilgrimage where romance was the language of love when the songs for a friend were her sound potion that kept Adán spellbound by mystic vibrations while he breathed crimson laced clouds of music from the flute.
She sang whispered yearnings like a lover deep in mystic fervor. Her jade inflection ignited into a fiery necklace of a song. Her voice was a fragrant, come hither. Galician lady of the night, she poured burgundy love lilt into his thirsty heart.
That night her son lies in his cradle while the sacred moments slip like beads through her trembling fingers while the coyotes howl the wind closer.
The next day the sky is a snakeskin of textured turquoise. Eva’s son is in the care of the woman who calls her sister. Adán sits on the kiva wall playing flute music that she dances to. Her body slithers like a snake in a serpentine motion. Each note brings on a ripple effect in her mortal coil. She opens her mouth wide with her teeth gaping and she wails but melodically in a way not distressed but rather a prayer to the Great Spirit.
She rides Adán’s flute music with her warbling that sails into the sky like a falcon cry from on high. Then she sits like a wise woman on the ground where rest comes. Adán climbs down ever mindful of the holiness of the circle. Adán holds her to his chest and she gazes into his eyes with the thirst of a wife who dances naked in the kiva until rain pours from the parched sky but whose magic earns her nude frolic respect for having bathed the earth with moist caresses of sky-water.
A Mexican Madonna takes her baby son all the way across the border from Mexico to America. There she hitchhikes to the Acoma pueblo where she hears immigrants can find asylum. Since the Indian Reservations are sovereign states they will be safe there.
Upon arrival a flock of women circles her in a Mandala that taps the earth in deeply rooted organic fusion.
So she stands at the cliffs of the pueblo looking out at the sunset while holding her infant son. For the first time in her life, she feels secure. The scent of baked bread is a sign of hope for sustenance for her and her little one for whom she sacrificed what little there was all these years. Now he gets proper nutrition and care that she couldn’t provide back in Mexico. The clouds form a symbol of the dove for peace.
Eva puts a Beatles LP on the turntable just before putting the bread in to bake. It is twilight, a soft glow from the pueblo oven is almost like an embered campfire, with stars starting to twinkle to the East...
When the Beowulf and Canterbury Tales were being written the pueblo in this picture was built atop a 400-foot mesa. But when they serenaded lovers young and old, leaving moccasin prints on the dust of ages past, they had already played their duet for countless lifetimes. His wife was an Indian Eva and he was her Adán.
Adán’s matriarchal lover kept him too busy photographing petroglyphs on megaliths for the pueblo museum to even do art with his paint set much less compete in the Native American art competition in Albuquerque which she said he could once the documentation of pictographs was complete.
She, his stepson, and Adán sat by the mission church at sunset while she harmonized with his melody played on a reed-flute in a duet whose timbre was as haunting as canyon wrens at sundown.
Impressions of the family fern whose fronds are their past lives are seen through the lens of cities both ancient and modern.
On this Pueblo night, Adán remembered that hers was that voice which took him down the Camino de Santiago of Galicia on their pilgrimage where romance was the language of love when the songs for a friend were her sound potion that kept Adán spellbound by mystic vibrations while he breathed crimson laced clouds of music from the flute.
She sang whispered yearnings like a lover deep in mystic fervor. Her jade inflection ignited into a fiery necklace of a song. Her voice was a fragrant, come hither. Galician lady of the night, she poured burgundy love lilt into his thirsty heart.
That night her son lies in his cradle while the sacred moments slip like beads through her trembling fingers while the coyotes howl the wind closer.
The next day the sky is a snakeskin of textured turquoise. Eva’s son is in the care of the woman who calls her sister. Adán sits on the kiva wall playing flute music that she dances to. Her body slithers like a snake in a serpentine motion. Each note brings on a ripple effect in her mortal coil. She opens her mouth wide with her teeth gaping and she wails but melodically in a way not distressed but rather a prayer to the Great Spirit.
She rides Adán’s flute music with her warbling that sails into the sky like a falcon cry from on high. Then she sits like a wise woman on the ground where rest comes. Adán climbs down ever mindful of the holiness of the circle. Adán holds her to his chest and she gazes into his eyes with the thirst of a wife who dances naked in the kiva until rain pours from the parched sky but whose magic earns her nude frolic respect for having bathed the earth with moist caresses of sky-water.
