The Gift of the Bokor

Under A Hunters Moon

I Ran With The Old Ones
After A While I Heard The Rush Of Great Wings
I Mounted The Eagle
We Ascended Far Above The Mountain Clouds
There Was Freedom There
And Finally
Peace




The Gift Of The Bokor



He walked down the street, drawn as he always was by the music that flowed out of the nightclubs in the French Quarter. He stopped at "Homeboys" bowing his head in unconscious reverence at the haunting sound flowing from the nightclub. It was the sound of wisdom and pain, suffering and loss, lust and love and epitomized the deepest spiritual strength that lay beneath the surface of the character of the men and women who survived to create this music.

The humidity was a formidable force to some, but to the Bokor, it only served to remind him of the home of his birth in Africa and the Caribbean island he had been take to later as a slave. He paused to light a cigarette in the warm night air reflexively touching the amulet he wore around his neck. And although it was well past midnight, for the Bokor, the evening was just beginning. As spellbound as he was by the harrowing beauty of the music, there was much to be done. there was a ceremony to be performed and an elaborate one at that. The pouch that hung at his side contained herbs that had taken him weeks to locate once he had arrive on Louisiana soil.


There were others here like himself, bound by the singular continuity that only mutual suffering creates, these people found each other and in the process, began to find themselves. They were men and women from all over West Africa and the Caribbean. They met in secret, sharing their grief and fear and their hopes and dreams and a belief in a common mythology. Here Fela was a respected man. He was a man to be feared and above all, a man not to be crossed. Here the people were under the protection of and guidance of the Bokor. For The Bokor, the role he played gave him more than a sense of purpose. It gave him balance, poise and a confidence that he could never have achieved any other way.


Leaving the French Quarter, he headed for a particular cemetery he knew was not far from there. As he quickened his pace, a cool wind begin to blow, bringing with it the fragrant scent of moist bark. Suddenly, he felt the presence of the Loa around him. He prayed for guidance and protection. He appealed to Papa Legba to open the way, to remove all obstacles in his path, and for Ogun to guard him from his enemies. He had no idea how long he had been walking, for time, to the Bokor had ceased to exist, so it was no surprise to him when he suddenly found himself at the entrance to the cemetery. Passing through the gates, he paused. Looking through the trees at the Louisiana sky, he wondered if Oloddumare himself, in one grand cosmic gesture, had not flung a handful of jewels across the heavens. He continued on past the burial plots of aristocrats and beggars alike, the disparity they had known in life now transcended by the common bond of the grave, an irony not lost on the Bokor. A fog had followed the Bokor into the graveyard covering the crypts in a pale gray curtain that seemed to have neither a beginning nor an end.


The Bokor had not walked far when he found what he was looking for. The grave site of Antoine Boudroux was as inconspicuous as Boudroux had been notorious. Boudroux's keen instincts and fierce nature had been exceeded only by his predilection for cruelty. When face to face with a man of Boudroux's character, one is immediately confronted with the sad truth that a sense of humor, integrity and moral virtue are poor surrogates for the anger one feels that a man of such evil dimension is allowed by a seemingly arbitrary higher power to walk the earth here among us with all the cavalier gait of a man going to a nearby store to buy an evening paper. It was here at this dubious site that Fela paused. The graveyard dirt of a Bokor as powerful as Boudroux was strong juju indeed.

copyright 2014 by Kevin Casey Murphy

Blood Dance

Blood Dance [for Clive Barker, in gratitude for reinventing the form that is still the standard today and to Poppy Z Brite for inspiration ]



The sound of the stiletto heels echoed along the pavement beating a rhythm as steady and as inexorable as the mission she was on. She was hungry, she would feed tonight, of that she was certain. The wind blew discarded newspapers down the street as she walked on. It had begun to rain some time ago, the intensity increasing with every passing moment, but she hardly noticed, so absorbed was she in the task at hand. The streetlights overhead provided scant vision or solace for those unlucky enough to be on the streets at this time of night, however, she could see just fine. The cobblestones reflected the lamplight as she strode on purposefully. A fine mist gathered around her as she emerged from the mouth of the alley. It clung to her like a second skin. She smiled as she considered the metaphor, indeed she knew quite a bit about "second skins." A host of scenes ran through her mind, most of them visions from a forgotten age. And as she walked on, the rain continued to beat steadily against her face. She had agreed to meet him at the usual time, right at midnight. The ads she had run in the personal column since her arrival had made it easy for her to meet her victims.

When she had spoke to the man on the phone, he had sounded like almost all the others, desperate and lonely, which made them particularly vulnerable. She stepped through the shortcut in the fence she had come to know so well and headed for the familiar spot, striding across the rubble strewn landscape with all the eager anticipation of a newlywed, kicking aside beer cans and other garbage alike in her excitement. She sensed him before she saw him, the intensity of his sexual urges giving off a kind of heat, that to Zahava, were like thermo-nuclear vibes. He came into full view as she stepped into the mouth of the alley, swaying back and forth and talking to himself like an idiot. Perfect she thought. She dropped the cigarette she had been smoking and without looking downward, crushed it underfoot. She quickly looked around, she would brook no interruptions once she had begun the ritual. Seeing no one, she was galvanized into action. She immediately started forward. She could feel her sex vibrating like a tuning fork as her incisors began to unsheath
copyright 2010 by Kevin Casey Murphy

Mei-Ling The Courtesan

Outside the Inn Of The Golden Dragon
Wu-Ti gazes at Mei-Ling the courtesan
Her figure, embraced by the moonlight
is a stolen silhouette
on a narrow bridge
under which flows
the River Huang




Mei-Ling rose from her divan as the sun began its inexorable descent into the Huang river. She gazed abstractedly at her reflection in the mirror. The mirror was of ornate design. Jade dragons played along its golden radius which tapered to an ivory handle intended to replicate a willow tree, the dragons cavorting in the branches above. The mirror was a gift from a Kalmuck chieftain. She smiled at the memory. It was a bitter sweet smile. The Mongol had proven in Mei-Lings eyes to be quite formidable, as he was one of only two men she had not been able to tame, to bend to her will, and of course as with any woman, this fascinated her.


In the chamber of Mei-Ling the courtesan lay many treasures, most of them gifts from suitors past and present. There were diamonds from an African prince, rubies from a Hindu raja, but none were as valuable as the Mongol chieftains love, after all what treasure is as precious as the one you cannot possess?! As the river began to swallow the golden orb, Mei-Ling began the many duties that comprised the maintenance of the Inn Of The Golden Dragon.

She could hear the evening rain so common at this time of year beginning its gentle dance. She opened the doors that led out to the narrow bridge that traversed the river and walked out to greet the night. She stopped halfway along the bridge and gazed out onto the river and the countryside beyond. She could feel the the southern wind blowing softly jasmine scented petals. They caressed the courtesans face gently through the rain. The rain mingling with her tears allowed her a sanctuary her pride would otherwise not permit. The child, a boy child, taken from her against her will, she will never see again. She had been standing on this very bridge yesterday as she watched the ox cart carry her son into a future she no longer had a part in, the Mandarin had seen to that. Wo-man had played his role perfectly, the cache of opium already en route to the western province of Szechuan before the dust of the cart wheels had settled on the road, the illicit cargo one more profitable business deal in a history etched in shame and perfidy.


The cherry blossoms fall gracefully to the ground
and as they do
one looks up at barren branches that once held so much promise
and reflects on the coming of winter

copyright 2014 by Kevin Casey Murphy

Temple Of The Jaguar

Temple Of The Jaguar

In the higher regions there dwell the gods there.
A few priveleged mortals make their way by rite of ascent.

He who ascends the steps of the sanctuary by way of the ritual ladder that leads to sky, ceases to be a man.

The wheel of time turns
foretells the future
tells the past

Turns in the sun
and in the shadow
Turns through the long night

Counts off the days
and the years
and all the epochs

gives us the signs
the ones to live by
and those to die by

Carries us up the nine fold path
shows us the nine precious gifts
brings us face to face with the Gods

guides us in our perilous journeys
teaches us of demons
who preside over the darkness

Bring us to the awesome
 reckoning with the rose
on whose petals are inscribed

the book of years
the eternal turning
towards our ends

From the Sacred Books of the Chilam Balam




                              XILBA sat crosslegged in the entrance of the temple waiting. Incense wafted up from the Censer as the wind blew across the Temple courtyard. It flowed inexorably up the steps of the Temple Of The Jaguar as if the God QUETZALCOATL himself had just gently exhaled.

The stars overhead sparkled in the night sky adorning the heavens like a necklace for the Gods themselves. XILBA knew it couldnt be long now, for all the signs had been favorable

Suddenly the moonlight illuminating the Plaza seemed to part, highlighting a solitary figure. The jaguar god had arrived. Its entrance onto the courtyard always presaged the beginning of  long awaited journey. XILBA reflexively braced himself for what was coming next.

A Tale Told By A Djinn

                              

                                         A Tale Told By A Djinn

I am Salah the thief.  Sit brothers and sisters and listen to a tale I have kept to my bosom all these years for verily I am feeling all those years and I would be heard my children. This is a tale told to me by the king of all the Djinn, the might Effrite ........Forsooth, by the beard of the Prophet; on whom may many blessings descend, may this tale be a true one!

It came to pass in Basra that a son was born to Abdullah Ahmed Ibn, Son Farouk,  who would surpass in valor honor and even deeds the exploits of his honorable father.  He seemed to pass quickly from the boy to the man, more quickly in fact than I can ever recall in these fifty and twenty years. Now I have said I have a tale to tell and tell it I shall.

It was a beautiful day in Basra, the sky was clear and blue, a magic carpet fit for the Prophet himself. The sun was shining overhead as Abdullah stroke through the Suk, the ancient marketplace that has pervaded our cities and towns since time immemorial. His sandaled feet kicked up pebbles that splattered the urns and jugs the merchants had painstakingly laid out in anticipation of sales that day. Their morning chatter filled the marketplace like the voices of so many mockingbirds.

The Holy men had gathered together to ponder aloud the Mysteries of the Quran, as they have always done. The pungent smell of hashish wafted through the marketplace, furrowing the brows of the Muslim clerics. The Caliph, who was rumored himself to take a pipe now and then, had hitherto turned a blind eye to the proceedings, but now felt compelled to police the Suk periodically, lest he otherwise incur the wrath of the powerful Mullahs.

It was in the Wazzerine, the most dangerous part of the Suk that the Palace guards had to patrol most carefully. In that part of the Wazzerine, anything could happen. All manner of thuggery skullduggery, thievery and yes my children, even murder, could and WOULD eventually occur.

Malik, the money lender was purported to be the overseer of most of this infamy. A tall and ebony giant whose quick and violent temper were well known throughout  the city, he ruled this quarter with an iron hand; his trusted advisor and bodyguard, Selim the Perisan ever at his side, his skill with sword and dagger as legendary as his Masters temper.

copyright by K.C. Murphy 2016

Liberation

                                       
           
 
                                            Liberation


Shake the sighs of a dying world as you rise from your slumber
remember sacred dream-selves that tumbled down your pillow as you slept away the night
Lay softly holding on to your pillow as you hold tightly to your dreams
Beware of assassins cloaked in the form of desire, prowling the corridors of your past lives they would lay claim to your future thus robbing you of sanctuary
Death when it comes is merely a messenger dressed in what at first appears to be unfamiliar garments,
 its only upon closer inspection that one begins to recognize the face as one's own
No longer tyrannized by the sands of time or the craven entreaties of a false prophet who would hide your true face from you,
embracing death as your friend you are finally free from fates unyielding hand
Gazing from that land the living God awaits

CHOLO

Cholo

Part I The Babalawo


The shadow of the Babalawo on the wall was projected by candlelight; dancing images formed a mystic pantomime as the Bataa drums played their ancient rhythm. The Babalawo shook the sacred rattle calling forth from the infinite which gave all men birth, the spirits of the dead. The invocation, long and sonorous, recalled from the abyss, those that had preceded them.

The Babalawo now sang to the guardian Orisha, the "Grand Cabeza"the master of his "head"Cholo watched and listened from the waiting room in silent admiration not unmixed with awe. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the lights from the candles began to flicker and change in hue, shape and color. And then finally there was a moan from under the winding sheet. A chill rapidly spread down Cholo's spine.


Part II : Early Days In Culiacan
"El Momento De La Verdad"
                                                          PIPINO'S Boxing Gym

The sound of the heavy bag resonated throughout the gym, compelling the men to pause in their daily regimen and marvel at the speed, power and sheer ferocity of the man pummeling it. Above the heavy bag, written in Spanish, was an old sign that said "Tell me what you boast of and I'll tell you what you lack."

Everyday before beginning his workout the young man presently engaged in this task, would stop and gaze at the sign reflecting on what it meant to him while simultaneously touching his elekele, whose beads represented Shango, the young man's patron saint Orisha. This young man was one Wilfredo Guerrero, "Cholo" as he was called by the others.

Cholo was the son of a Mexican sailor and a Panamanian Indian woman. He was 17 years old. His thick hair was jet black and as thick as the mist that descended each morning at daybreak in the village of his mothers people and left before the morning chores were done.

 He was a handsome man by any standards. The nose was long and straight, the nostrils fairing slightly. The cheekbones were high and broad and as sharp as obsidian. The lips were full. It was the sensitive face of an artist.

It was the eyes however that forbade one to take liberties with the mans apparent vulnerability. The eyes were black as night and burned with an inner elemental fire that tended to make people uncomfortable whenever those eyes were focused on them for any period of time.

Copyright 2014 by Kevin Casey Murphy