THROUGH THESE HILLS

Through these hills I am walking
In search for my healing and
for guidance by God

Or anyone out there,
who please could just help me

Down these rivers I follow
The stream going upwards
Wading through sorrow
To wash my pain away

Oh, over these mountains
I carry this shipload, my burden

The burden of a thousand cultures
Destroyed by the misery of stones

Who else could please save me
And lead me to tomorrow
To reach down within me
And bless me with rain

These teardrops are falling
Through skin, bone and marrow

Make strings full of joyment
And laughter today

From my memoirs ‘TOBACCO – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness
By KiKi TOAO

Woman of Fetish

“I am a woman of many fetishes”, she spoke, “it takes an artist to please me.

I will, however, not submit to the artist’s impression of who I’m supposed to be.

I am myself, and my Self alone”.

By Kiki Toao

Mature before Love

Mature before Love was even invented,
The Beast was
High on speed 
and Ecstasy 
Befell Her

A wounded heart
Arising
Amidst the soil of a broken home
Shattered glass everywhere

On television a woman shouted:
“Murder! Death!
Fucking KUT Nazis!
Always spoiling good entertainment!”

I believe she was Dutch, or something,
and she looked awfully similar to me

So, so many

Particles and pieces
Broken glass to be mended
Shards from 
My broken heart

Oh
In the midst, however
Of this Holy Night and Wishful Moon
We expressed our deepest desires

And you said
You wanted to Learn
To Know 
What You Want

And The Beast spoke, lowering Her voice:

“Isn’t it anyone’s deepest desire
to express a lung full Spell
under the Shine of Darkness
of a Wishful Moon?”

From my memoirs ‘Tobacco – Curse & Blessing of a Shamaness
By KiKi TOAO

The Wind

I am waiting
I am waiting for the wind
To call me into action
Calling for the rain
To bless the land I tread on

Raindrops are the rhythm
Falling on my drum
Translating words of Spirit
Into poetry called Music

These herbs in front of me
Are my own very Being
Burning into ashes
Transforming into smoke
Traveling from Here to the Other

The woman in the mirror
Speaks of Wisdom and Truth
Demanding for Freedom

I myself am the smoke
Cloaking the mirror
The mirror my gateway

I am waiting
I am waiting for the wind
To blow away the smoke
The mirror into pieces

So I can become the wind

By Kiki Toao

DEATH AT THE TABLE

Death is sitting right in front of me, at the other side of the table. 
He answers my gaze while taking a huge puff from his tobacco pipe.
After long moments of silence he takes a deep breath and says:

“Why is it you humans have such a fixation on me?
To be honest, it bores me, deeply.
And it saddens me.
Kindly put, I pity you.
Isn’t Life simply enough?

Death is eternal, but not eternal as you imagine it to be.
Life is at stake here, for you to seize as we speak.
Treat it respectfully.

For I await you, at the other side of this table, this plane you call Time.
Be like the crops in the field, patiently waiting to be harvested, to return as seeds.

Do not fear me.”

By KiKi TOAO

The Old Ones

We are building
our own little place of wisdom
and let ourselves be guided
by the Old Ones along the way

Who are the Old Ones, 
you might ask

We just know that they are here
And no one has the right to say
they’re not

Maybe we ourselves will be, some day, 
the Wise Ones
We already carry the wisdom
we need along the way

It is our task to provide the path
for the Old Ones to walk among us
It may be slow but it will see 
the light of day
of our right to say

That all this time, we ourselves were the path 
alongside which
The Old Ones found their way

— By Kiki Toao

DESERT WOMAN

It is Time
For some good Ol’ Gypsy Spirit
Despair, bright and strong
Has moved us for ages
Driving us forward
As it has done for Aeons
Following the wind
In all directions
Where our Hearts long to Be

Desert Woman, be strong
Follow the sand
To the Promised Land
Where our Soul can sing
Its own Song
And we can join
In Peace.

Yalla.

By Kiki Toao

THE BEAST OF CREATiON

When the Beast of Creation wags its mastodonthic tail, what am I but a seed hair in the wind? And while it walks past, we’d do best by honoring it while we have the opportunity, because these moments are rare and we should cherish them while they last. We are sharing them here and now, in the midst of our living room in broad, screaming daylight.

For a couple of hours, everything screams C.E.R.E.M.O.N.Y.
How little it has to do with waving feathers and droning prayers.

I’m sitting here, gasping for air while my face is being pulled off.
I’m clawing at the air, watching the tips of my fingers being turned into pure frequency and becoming one with the leafs on the tree.

The Beast of Creation is walking past.
I look up at its terrifying beauty, blinded by its lightning presence, wishing it was dark but the light keeps crashing in. Every step the Beast’s paws take slams every moment into one massive archaic vision, every single one of them being the kind temples have been built for. Graphic, honey rated patterns, splashing into colourful Beings of all Times. Beings, – older, much much older -, than any living creature on this planet, are showing themselves to me in all their intrinsicness.

Archaic. Archaic. ARCHAIC.
The word keeps repeating itself into one gigantic, magnificent, excruciatingly vivid notion of What It Is.

One last slam of the Beast’s tail shakes me back to consciousness.
I’m sitting here, in this safe haven we created for ourselves, down on my knees.
It is not a posture of submission. I’m simply wondering how I could ever have thought I knew anything, anything at all, while the tears are running from my face. I am in pure awe, while I’m observing my knowledge being crumbled, torn apart as if it were a piece of knitting, and being rearranged.

I’m watching it happen, and the only thing I’m able to think of and say out loud is how I know it will change everything, if only I allow it to happen; just open my eyes and take it all in as a wordless teaching.
It changes the posture of my body, into a totally different attitude.
My hand loosely in front of my chest, I’m looking down in search of an expression for an emotion no word has been invented for, or it may have been forgotten and is longing to be reborn: The Sacred.
What I had so far been feeling writhing underneath, is now violently passing through me, obliterating all that I thought I knew.

Carnage.
Nourishment.
Initiation.

If only I were capable of capturing this very experience into one brief moment of sharing it with you, enabling you to see it, to feel it, experience it, here, all at once, right here and now, and condense it into this one, tiny seed hair in my hand, my task would be complete.

If only I could.

We would then set it forth on its path, together, by blowing it away and watch it being caught by the wind. While watching it move up high into the sky, we would know, from here, the cycle would start all over again.
From here, we would be forever longing for the opportunity to rise again; to relive this very moment, of experiencing it, together.

From my memoirs ‘Tobacco – Curse and Blessing of a Shamaness
By Kiki Toao

THE SEAMSTRESS

She wipes the sweat from her forehead, 
and shows me the blood on her finger.
The Seamstress speaks to me of courage,
and the necessity of taking risks:
“No beautiful gown has ever been made without the perception of the lady wearing it, and the secrets she holds inside.
The sacrifices are not in the suffering we are willing to endure, but in the love we dare to share.

If we don’t walk the path we were born on, 
how will we be able to choose?”

By Kiki Toao