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Ritual Is for The Mind

I steep in the mist of the gas in the cave,
Where the gods do chatter and to the brave they speak,
Where the images service the catalyst to the brave,
Where the I inside did climb up high to the forlorn peak,

As I sit on the three-legged steed of mind,
Where the brain goes flying beyond the grip of time,
Who knows what power I will find,
Who knows what words bleed in my rhyme,

To the blot where the sacrifice is given in kind,
To the older forms when man was trying to ride,
From the backs of boars that wander you to bind,
And the two ladies in the mist become a bride,

How deep we must go to find our glimpse,
Of the feeling given by the ritual in rite,
For we are a primate that broke away from the chimps,
Yet lighting candles we claim we reach to the height,

But can you not feel that voice in your dreams,
The singing of the old that music screams,
As drumming place mind into trance,
And the catalyst boils inside as you take a chance,


I wish I could transport to truly see,
Being back in an age where the distance had no seem,
When the banding of family and growing of need,
Meant more to them then the commodities we see,

Could I hold the scythe to the mistletoe?
Could I speak in tongues as the feeling overflows?
Could I be one throwing the bones?

What you feel might make some say,
Supernatural power could be gained,
Yet farce I see inside that mode,
What no one seems to tell is how after watching impressions grow,

For have you not sat in a church as the congregation sings?
And not felt that setting gives more beauty than the meaning,
Have you not stood on mountain side?
And realized the image makes more impact than its metric size,
Have you not danced as the festival pulsed?
When the feeling of inspiration broke through the noise,

Than ritual is not to create what is outside,
It is what it changes internally in your mind,
Why the passion plays and the golden ass,
Were solid portrayals of what internally manifests,



So be wary of sighted habitual display,
For into your mind its mechanisms play,
And the cults and the lies use the same routine,
That the greatest grasps of pure Sophia in ecstatic moment convey…

But I love gnosis and like gnostic never claim a name,
I sit in wonder like a Sufi but never claim his fame,
I seek truth like a yogi but never tie to one chain,
I speak toward tomorrow but have yesterday always in my brain,
I sit in altered state like shaman yet have no culture to claim,

I am modern wanderer…
I am the musician without a fan,
I am the poet that few have read,
I am the artist only seen once dead,
I am the force of creativity in life,
I am the seed of imagination sprouting from gnarled strife,

I am the volva directing the general’s feet,
Yet his choice is his own after we did speak…

I am the holder of the eyes of the past,
Or the delusion the modern will come to have…
I am the interpretation of digging into old,
I am the modernist burning what is long cold…



What feelings are brought on through ritual in which I find,
The future, the ideal, out of halls of shadow comes my mind…
Or am I simply sitting in a delusion of my own sick time,
I’ll never know unless I am silenced,
Then never,
Ever,
Will I bring sight back to those who are blind…
And even if given opportunity they will at best all sit at the fireside,
Holding to dancing shadow,
While in the moonlight I dance with feet to wake the people down below…
Like Odin I will wander wherever inspiration grows…





Sean Stutzman