Waiting for Bags of Bones to Sing

To whom do old bones sing?
The burlap bag found half-buried in woods
chock full of dog bones, cow bones, and, yes,
bones from pigs and humans including several women?
Do they sing to the crows and the ravens?
Do they sing to seagulls and eagles?
Do they sing to the whales from ghosts of long-ago canoes?

This bag is enormous!
Extends deep into the earth, it does.
Up come bones of fish and birds, of otter and bear,
and bones of snakes.
“There, there! Look!” I shouted after I spied
bones of orcas and dolphins in disarray
with all clatter muted by clay and charcoal
within this old burlap bag matted tight with mud and ash.

She arises from among the ferns and tall grass
to slip out beyond rings of mushrooms
so as to peer into the ancient bag.
The bag is older than burlap, her body declares
as she traces woven fibers with long, slender fingers.
This old bag of bones was recovered from
a bog long since gone to peat and moss, and
made of sinew and rat-tails entwined with innards of rabbits,
all bound together with shaggy strips of redcedar bark
peeled from Grandmother Goddess trees.
Bags are not supposed to be made of such things.

Who is this naked girl of moss and mushrooms?
She answers only in incomprehensible prehistoric dialects
from glowing, honeycombed caverns
down in those faraway worlds deep beneath our feet.

As she stands erect,
I see she is neither a girl nor human.
She is indeed a grown woman,
as small as a girl in first grader,
and older than all of my long-dead grandmothers.

Some things have no answers.
So I dance beneath the Full Moon
as Luna rolls across the sky outside.
Winter grips those mountains in ice and snow
as cold winds blow down from the stars.
Only ten days since Solstice passed into Yule,
and already this faerie-elf seeks to dance upon me
as if I was some foolish, naked giant.

I dance happy and alone with sprites of lights.
We wait for an old bag of bones to sing.
The ash and mud are as silent as whispers from a bottle.
The question remains an on-going echo without answer,
a predicament without any resolution,
But for whom do old bones sing?

Do they seek to clothe themselves in your flesh?
Or to find and hold tight your soul?
I keep on dancing and laughing
all naked and cold.
The darkest bowels may hold the foulest evil,
Yet a happy person dances anyway,
loose in their surrender.

She smears on ash as she rubs her skin with charcoal
and slathers on mud from near the water.
So tiny, she slips back into tomorrow’s past
as she glides past mushrooms and clusters of ferns,
and turns back to grin at me.
Her mandibles reveal ivory teeth
as razor sharp as
shattered glass hiding in grass,
glass as sharp as ancient wine bottles from Persia
dashed next door upon the stones of Enki and Enlil
and spilled across the bones of men and women and children
liberated from Abraham and Moses
by Inanna Ishtar Isis and the Amazons.

I fling the last of my clothes into the midnight void,
and dance, dance, dance
beneath rising Luna as full and swollen
as my cock beneath her stars.
Kosmic gears shift our world into a new long-count.
Lust as hot as blood and love as deep as volcanos erupt
to break open Endarkenment with storms of light.
Our hearts beat us forward,
Mine beneath your chest
and yours within my ribs.

There. I hear it now. Yes, there!
I hear the bones sing.
The bag of matted hair and bark is silent.
The bones grate and grind.
They clatter and groan.
These old bones drum upon mud and ash and wood.
They drum the forest into song,
the Song of Life,
Those sounds we all make with garbled joy
as we the Living feed upon Death.
Life is forever.

Do you hear?
Do you hear those old bones sing?
Do you really?

Humans sweat between endless wars and Sun
as they excavate memories of animals and harvests
among the buried temples of Göbekli Tepe
potbellied North of Sumer and Akkad.
They dig up long-forgotten terrors of giants and gods,
horrid fears of beings from other worlds deeper than the Sky.
The bones sing to warn today of these beings’ return.
The Black Knight sails in silence around our Earth
as it waits for henges of half-buried menhirs to rise up
and focus rays of Sun into pyramids of light
to burn away alien ships falling to Earth from the Stars.

I cannot turn them off,
these singing bones.
I cannot make them stop,
These now many bags of bones.
I keep on dancing clad by stars and moon.
Come, join with me.
Let’s love the Ancient Ones back into their interstellar graves.

Another Buddha shall rise and sit
to teach us presence and to liberate ourselves from suffering.
Another Christ shall rise from the dead
to teach us to forgive one another and to love each other.
The Last Prophet stands upon the Rock once more
to declare true peace comes only after we generate the courage
to lay down all weapons, every single one.
Blue Ra returns already to remind us
All is One and One is All and to serve each other and All.
Gaia Inanna Shiva Ishtar Isis Diana Aphrodite Venus
to teach us to celebrate body and soul
and revel in sex as communion.

We humans have one more chance now.
We begin to engineer and anchor growing networks
of new communities of Earth and Beyond
with hearts opened wide by the fires of Love.

So, what, really, do bags of old bones sing about, and for whom?
Does anyone truly listen amidst all the cacophony we hear?


William Dudley Bass
Sunday 31 December 2017
SeaTac/Seattle, WA
Cascadia, Earth


Copyright 2017 © by William Dudley Bass. All Rights Reserved until we humans establish our Earth and Solarian Commons. Thank you.






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