The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Visionquest 2

Heavy hung the fur fall 
on shoulders torn and bloodied
His heart heaving still
as the path drifted past his pace.

Spirit breath hovered 
hot like a lake mist at noonday;
heavy as a feather would
adorn a heart-fire pelt.

Sky shown as a white-fire ocean
Shattered as the trees danced between its waves
Their pine-tar musk quickened his straining stride,
Pulled his gaze beyond the eyes that stared at him.

The North wind blows with the elders’ chant;
Eagle descends from the misty peaks;
Bear rises to listen and lumbers away;
And the blood-fire’s last drop falls from gashed vein.

The Warrior’s weight finds him as each path stone
falls under hide-bound heel and the ancient descent
levels to familiar hills and the sound of water 
striding over their own pebble path.

He ascends the worn earth to a clearing and casts
his prey upon the flat of an old stump. 
This place he has known before, 
when his father and brothers left him for the hunt
and returned to clean their kills.

Now he has returned, though only the squirrels are there to notice.
The spirit strength has left him, he finds the stream and drinks;
The blood dried upon his chest, he washes with cool water;
He hears nothing, neither wind nor creature, just river-running.

He returns to camp, the sun no longer burns, 
the trees have turned away and the wind has gone between them.
He knows not why he has been left to his own ritual
as he folds the prey out and cleans away the organs
that are no longer needed.

He remembers the words his father taught him and
the careful steps needed to honor what has been given;
but they too refuse to stand witness or steady his hand
as he carves muscle from skin.

Hung upon sinew from a cedar nearby, he hangs his prey,
gathers kindling, and prepares a fire.
He strains to hear his father’s instructions or imagine his approval,
but neither word nor image speak to him.

He gathers a prize from his prey, muscle and liver, and
stakes it upon the fire, oily drips sputtering as it cooks.
Hunger grips the warrior’s heart, and the silent sun-heat
closes his eyes, his mind rises like flakes of embers 
struck from the fire, a beating in his chest begins
to dance within him, his head nods to the sacred rhythm,
his eyes fall back, and his hands twitch as if they had 
sacred sage to offer to the fire; and the scent of searing flesh 
rushes down his spine, his heart beating harder, his arms
spasming to beat his soul-drum, his groin enflamed, and legs
yearning to run on the warpath, on the hunt, to the kill.  

He is upon the path, treading up the mountain,
Upon the wind, his senses stab like soul-spears,
The drum beats, his veins throb, his feet strike the stones
and propel him into the..
Scent, the familiar musk he hunts, driven into a frenzy,
sweat is his cry into the clouds for prey; and in his lust, he 
forgets himself and to hear the fury of the steps around him -
Claw and finger, tooth and blade - raw and raging - locked
in a fight for life and blood: primal muscles tear open in a
gush, muscles strained to their end, bones caving 
under ferocious weight and will, fur and teeth conjured in 
the crucible of sweat and blood, eyes tearing, teeth cracking
against each other, blade lost in the hot rushing of a flesh wound,
teeth find their mark, crushing the warrior’s throat, 
arteries spurting out what’s left of life, the strength of limbs slips
away, jaw falls, and the blood rage clears to white clouds,
beckoning the warrior to continue now up the mountain, freed
from his blood weight.

The warrior opens his eyes, the meat is crisping before him, the 
fleshy smell now more of charcoal and earth.  He removes the spit
and retires to a tree to consume his unsung prize.
His heart still races, as his mind flashes between hungry bites
and his spirit still convulsing as it is consumed by his dream.

He no longer sits alone, for his prey-avatar sits with him,
wearing the secret shared upon their shoulders, a sacred mask
that reminds him that he only sits on this side of their spirit wall
because he was given what he wanted more.

And in the ruddy taste between his teeth, his tongue recoils
from the taste of gall and the knowledge of how easily one’s 
blood can flow out, quenching the too heady lust that placed his
blade where it could not prevail.  The taken remains ready to 
give relief to the frenzy that forgets the sacred hunt.

With that bite, he is sated, no longer hungry to see more or
chew deeper into the sinew of his kill.  He turns to gather 
the hunted, and he feels the wind upon the back of his neck,
hears Eagle cry and the rustle of the wilderness around him.

He returns to the trail, worn by his fathers, painted with their stories,
He whistles to the trees and carries himself home.
No longer a lone spirit, the rough bitterness still lingers like a 
cave painting in his mouth, telling the ever-story of the hunt,
of the warrior, humble and proud and free.
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©2014 Mark Daniel Milbocker  All rights reserved.