Prophets of Peace
A wounded world rotates upon the Universal Pedestal
and fire escapes the jagged tears of time; such massacre
upon the fragile frail human that resides upon a promise.
Dear Presidents and Leaders, lead us to the Sacred Tree,
upon the Sacred Mountain that takes us close
and compassionately to the Omnipresent Eye
that knows and needs our stumbled pleas
to be forgiven…to be forgiven…
Forgiveness for the scratch and scramble claws
pattering hard against an almost hated place
to own and invest our earthly angst in endeavors
that leads us to the loss of that which we abuse
so calculated and cruelly that, should she turn on us,
that woman’s rage will shudder us from her breasts
to leave us stranded on an empty place.
Forgive me…forgive me..
Would that I replace my soul’s desire and desperation
with need to make you take notice, like nipple-biting child
too long succored and spoiled on the rich sweet milk.
I need you to set down your greed and control,
your guns and glee in such. I need you to gather, today,
for reasons to find Peace without control.
Come draw us as gentle fathers, to the lap of your care and counsel.
I forgive you. I forgive you.
Wabasca Winter
Tucked into the folds
of three tried winters
lies the heart of it
pulsing strong
beneath the pressure
of a thousand thousand storms
sky pinned by birch
clouds tight like sinew
wrung dry and desperate
a drum to pound
this stick of pain upon
soft sigh of brittled green
rasp of robbed brown
snow, a curled beast
braced beneath skirt
ready to spring
Unspoken Truce
The ice broke this morning
it folded over itself
curved a wave upon it
drew it under
coyote caught on a thin shard
loped from edge to edge
gathering his bravery
clutching the thin ice
clawing to gain foothold
testing the width and breadth
trembling with trauma
silence is over
anger, squashed itself
pushed to a safe place
under the flutter
thin slices of words
fray life from end to end
gathering velocity
clutching my throat
clawing across my tongue
tasting bitterness withheld
quivering with the quiet
Poetry Is A Dreamcatcher
Poetry is a dreamcatcher
thoughts spiraling out from a central theme
words woven, knotted, phrase upon phrase
symbols of wisdom silver and gold
beaded upon the web
bound by hide, strung and wound
hung on a high branch
soft winds strum a sigh
dreams are released, dreams are kept
held like feathers, on the frame
fragile yet firmly held for future reference
words weaving soul’s sacredness
Tree of Life
If she were a part of nature
she would be a rough-barked tree
roots firmly planted
in soil she succumbed to
leaves fluttering in soft breezes
would be her hands that tatted
crocheted dainty doilies
blankets for the grandchildren
branches would be her arms
reaching out to enfold each child
she bore from knots upon her trunk
umbilical cord arms to hold us
traced upon her the lines of living,
crevices, for rain to run freely when they died
surely to soft soil to feed
her reason to stand taller, stronger
winds would have bowed her
trembled and shook the very sod
she clung to with roots deep and dear
fed her, held her firm, against all seasons
a tree, climbed upon and tested
unbending in her faith to reach for sky
I would caress the toughness
carve my name upon her.
Fish Scale Moments
Caribou swirls, moose-hair tufting, fish scales
these things, new to me, were work to you
I feel you near, threading the needle
pulling the hide taut against the point
I capture the bristles of hair, twist, stitch
feel you put your fingertip to hold
wild strands that attempt to stray
I am, a errant child, in need of schooling
This delicate tuft, waiting to be controlled
trimmed after the center holding thread
becomes a delicate button in the shaping
as I shall, when I perfect this, beneath your gaze
hooking the fish with rubbered mitten
scraping rasp up against the head
scales spill slimy and clump in pail
to wait their baptism and my scrub
each wild and native thing I do
I feel your hand against my cheek
turning my head to learn your craft
moments to be close to you
Prairied Plots
I have watched, with autumn eyes wilting,
her desperate denial
love lost and loaned too late
a feeble crawl through cocklebur
prairie hay and chaff
I have seen her stand at the edges
Bringing her bravery
Like some anxious virgin
Brings body to bed
Wanting and yet wary
A patch of straw
Blunt cut and bled
Becomes a fresh hair cut
The spot she stretches on
His broad chest
“Who was he
whose hands hammered
plank upon plank
caulked the chinks
and hayed the field?
Who was she
That hung the rug
Beat it until it unraveled
Let it sag the line
And beckon her come?
All things age with angst
The stooping barn
The crippled house
The sagging line
The limp love.
Today, she gives her body
To the prairied pain
For a moment young, and full
Curved instead of bent
Above the plot he would bury her in.
Colors of Conquest
Yellow was the glinted stone that brought
blue suits to the red people who refused to sell
to white eyed people, the land of their Grandfathers
orange burned the fires of the villages
black was the Kettle of kin who sought peace
white was the flag of surrender
as they camped at Sand Creek
pale was the paper on which was written
“Extinction”, silver guns flickered
as they bounced along the saged hills, browned
to a gathering of tan tipis waving white flag of peace
pounded gray by cannon and rifle fire
when lifted, showed sand
drinking the blood of the scalped
trees pink with the splatter of babies’ brains
pleased with their pillage and plunder
they rode to the timbered fort
pubic hair badges black with age
on deep purple curtained stage
wildfire the anger and resolve
silver anniversary would pass
before “peace” could be printed
black lice on white paper of red peace
that is neither black nor white
but soaked red blood of a ruined red nation.
Left Legacy
Within the tattered pages
are a thousand thousand truths
treading smartly across straight lines
scribbled sensibly on plain white
slabs and stabs at who I truly am
where I have been and when
how I have lived
you know me not, none of you
not my birthed children
my grandchildren, my lovers,
my friends, my parents
unless you have breathed in
the words and wisdoms I have spilled
within these loose lesson books
hidden in drawers, lying on tables,
shelved between books,
bound in coils, ready to spring
at your eyes, your hearts,
to carve my name upon your souls,
read what has touched me, tortured me,
tenderized me, and gave me reason
to be so far away from you, yet tracing
memories of you in languid lines,
lusty lines, lines full of love and leaving
cruel sheets held too dear
to share with you, until now
when I am not here to listen
to your critiques and casual care
and if you care, begin your own
legacies of love to leave dusted
against the heart of every matter
that woes you away
from what you most desire
to gain words worthy of your being here
like mine: stored songs of a seared soul.
Bruised Believer
payment in kind for passion spent
unfolded my innocence
pried petals pitiful by morning
spent youth on a branch
sweet bloom and gone
rose stained cheeks
pale in comparison
at the loss of one beautiful glance
bruised and bent to one’s knees
grasping a broken stem
with faint memory holding still
against a solitary cheek
Learning Lost Things
Bringing the bannock in upon itself,
she used her hands, like a claw
to fold and mold, flour and soda
like a child, stretched and patted
it gave to her plying.
Pushing the needle through tough hide
delicately dipping into the tobacco can lid
she strung a single bead
puckered the thread around it
she guided it into its place.
Leaning against the light of a lantern
she traced the desires of her heart
printed and wrote rhymes
no one would ever see
unless she died before burning them.
Scraping hide to ready for tanning
she swiped the black flies from her face
dreamed of things she’d make
come winter’s drawn curtains
night’s long enough to know rest.
Walking through the forest
eyes sharp with inspection
she tucked her apron front
between her legs as she stooped
to pinch off a fine bit of herb.
Kneeling at the knoll of some high hill
she prayed for such as we
to remember what she taught us
about doing things for ourselves
like searching for lost letters.
One Last Evening For The Flowers
If I could choose one night with my mother,
it would have to be
that last Christmas Eve with you.
Tucked into your hospital bed
crocheting pretend afghans
in the night light.
Soft Christmas Carols
played in the background nursing station
through the door, I saw reflections of the tree.
Christmas Poinsettia perched
on your bedside table
rather than the inevitable sickbed mums.
I sat, my head on the bedside
until a great need to nestle
drew me to your side.
I stretched out and held you
like a mother should hold a child
whose spirit is wandering away.
I felt your heartbeat flutter
as I whispered love against your hair
and knew your spirit knew my farewell.
Such sacred moments
hold you soft against me, now,
that the room is empty. Flowers dead.
Wanton Woods
Dull green, dusted bough
undressed skeleton, for now
beaten, surely, by wind’s whip
standing stumped upon your slip
of dirtied snow and slivered trim
and aching thought of Winter’s whim.
Uncovered bone and weary wand
Spring has come to post your bond
will drape you with new corsets green
fluff your tresses to be seen
all modesty of a season, so
wind can ruffle you as you clothe.
Wanton woods weave and dance
hard pretence at another chance
to redeem yourselves in Nature’s court
though redemption be ever short
before you cast your leafy drape
to reveal, again, season’s half-stoned shape.
The Belly Of The Beast
The road out is a gray brown snake,
forest trimmed like a bad haircut
to form the barrows stitched with grit.
Garbage flutters like malicious moths,
dead and dying edges
crusted with salt and sand.
It slithers a groove
for me to follow.
The road out is a tried trail
no animal would trace.
Instead, they leap two lanes and off,
breath held by fists of fate,
in a multi-beamed hypnotist.
The snake would strike at will
to swallow flesh in unselective slabs.
Bare bones for borrowing beasts.
The road out will lead me surely,
to the place it most desires.
Tires hissing the hurried and harried
as I scale this dry dark path
to escape, like Jonah jostled,
spewed surely in some safe sage
or patch of brush-cut lawn
where mower beheads the beast.
Forest Fathers
The forest is no more
than casual clutches of friends
and an occasional isolated tree:
a menagerie of mumbling old men
with frilly feminine fronded bunches
waving silly leaves like young green girls.
I am not considerably concerned
about the gathering gossiping group
nor about the martyred-looking minions
or patriarchal pines pinned to sky
as much as those leaning elders
with none tall enough to brace them.
Alone in their high heaven
missed in madmen’s sawn selections,
it is inevitably used to being one
in a stand of stuttering upstarts
lone beacon pointed the way
bent on believing its own benevolence.
Stories escape us, elude us
of chainsaw chaos commissioned,
about broodingly braving belligerent seasons
to be stuck so
with rings of rampant saps
huddling, deaf and dumb, against their knees.
Silly city of sentinel barricades
twining in a tender dance,
shivering in a desperate strand,
take note of the tall forest fathers
daring the world to take them
from this poignant pining potential.
Fine Frond Feelings
Crumpled in a ferny place
deep within the forest dell
sun arching and throwing
lacy net of shadows
trapped beneath the pine
I, away from angst filled throb,
lie down close enough to see
filigreed needles, softened by dew
moss soaked in misted morning
mold into an afternoon’s respite
One crinkled frond, so perfect
satiated with shade, shudders
at one shallow breath escaping
at the delicate unfurling flag
tender against my touch
Small blue moth meanders
until finding this exact place
to fold its wings in quotation marks
an eyelash blink away
sacred in its own embrace
Grasses waltz in one spot
twigs drum soft against themselves
bee choirs hum in harmony
breeze flutes the bush branch
earth sighs at simple symphonies.
Wrappings
warm blankets of quilted shadows so black
shrouding the earth into slumber so deep
gray-black and heavy like magic spells cast
as shawls of purple
midnight descends within dark, sunken vales
the cradle of night draws me into an abyss
quiet remnants of day may echo yet under
the last of her sorrow
the heaviness of spirit lingers on
the cradle of night gently rocks
as the night begins to sing
while wrapped in silent love
I Am Here
1.
Strange how I can weave a dream catcher
one knot entwined by one knot
fingers folding sinew and hide
circling, tying, turn, tie
a bead, a feather, a tear,
fitting and unfitting even spaces
like I was born to it
you thought I was white?
‘tis but an outward blemish
to test if you feel souls
to see if you untangle heritage
from the auburn hair and green eyes
my father bequeathed me
before he rowed away
before the nurses, in their wisdom
flew me out beyond
my designed destiny in dense forest
to gather gifts of other kinds
before I circled back
to trace the treacherous tale
of my journey there
there I learned to cook and sew
paint white pickets and pull weeds
jostled on the edge of reason
for a place to be, a sameness
alluding to my father’s weakness
for women with white skin
with rules and religion to keep them safe
resonance of reason
led me to woods and writings
of the ones called savage sorts
to feel the words drum against my heart
rhythm known and nestled
in an echo blood alone could know
sinew, bone, and gut-deep drumming
the song I sing as I ply my trade
comes from the Wolf inside
dredged in the sins and sorrows
of a captured child in care
who now trades fences for the forest
silent in my secret of deep dark things
I have always known.
2.
Winding a journey home
along half paths, bumpy trails
acquaintances, long dead
native to this cold and barren land
tamed by the windows of my life
I have not succumbed
to the wild wind’s whip
but surrendered to the guides
that drew me back
like needle pulls sinew
applies beads to bark
feathers to leather
tenderly I have waited
until the time was ripe
trail known by heart
became less clouded
with future’s friction
stepped into the campfire light
allowed my past to burn
one step upon one step
following my own trail of tears
I have stumbled upon a known knoll
seen the tan banners of truth
held by the lodge pine poles
heart deep and soul surrendering
I sink to my knees at your door
By and By
Willows weep upon the still-shot shore
leaves shudder in brittle winds
shores surrender to lapping surge
stones tumble in the river’s rush
Women wait upon high hilltops
men worry at wrenching birth beds
children cringe at cresting voices
babies squall in bitterness
Sky waits for pink fingers
grass thirsts for morning dew
flowers ache for sunlit kiss
trees turn to peer for dawn
Earth spins in tightening circles
stars strobe the midnight hours
moon slumps against the clouds
God answers, by and by.
Birthing Blessings Begged
Wash me; take me in your wake
baptize me; wrap me in your waves
surrender me, to the swirl of senses
cleanse me, in the rasp of sand and surf
Amniotic anemone awake with fury
rock me; ancient remembrance curls me
sooth me; arrest the angst that urges
embrace me; against the touch of today
Kiss me; seal my mouth in silence
forgive me; plunging against the need
unleash me; send me sailing to new shores
release me; the world has need of me
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