Poem by Ron Dawson
Standing by the smoldering fire with outstretched arms, the mysterious medicine man prays to his ancestral spirits to carry on his peoples flight.
Seeking guidance from his world of gods and demons, he plays his music with his drum and rattles as he chants over the dim light.
Gone are the buffalo!
American Indians call him shaman for he was a healer for their tribe.
This mystic Indian would cast spells on his enemies as he stood over the sacred fire. Balms, potions, and tonics mixed with herbs were often used to cast out evil spirits. The Mystic then threw the mixture into the mire.
Gone are the Plains Indians!
Dressed in his buffalo robe, beaded buckskins, and a head dress of bird feathers, he looked like a Man of Mystery! His skin was painted with hues of red, white and black. He often prayed through the night for the people of his tribe. Now the Shaman is history.
Gone is the Mystic!
Comments about The Mystic by Ron Dawson
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.