Living the Dream

You, who’s every breath becomes tragedy
who has lost the color of the day
and air is a shadow you slowly suck on,
I know how you burn, slow as cedar cinder
in an untended pit.  Red and glowing
warning that it is but a moment until you flare.

You know in the bowl of your gut
what you have been fed; sticks, sweetgrass,
tobacco and an ocean of water to put you out.
But you simmer and I see the wave of it
seep up to the moon as she pulls you home.

Once, your flames lit the sentinels,
broiled the moose and crackled the fish,
cleared the way and burned the hand
laid upon you.  Yes, laid upon you.
Charcoaled and burnt that meat
but still, you rallied to meet the sun.

Once, women fed you good wood,
sat beside you and shared their stories,
tended you like a child and honored you.
It was futile to think you could blaze alone
after they went to bed to be warmed
by the back of a loose spine.

Simmer, smudge, send the scent of you
into the camp and the chaos
and I shall stir you so your orange feathers
leap to the deep throb of the drum
and we shall dance together
until our anger leaps to catch the stars.

Tags: Poems by Shewolf
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Rise up and go out of earth
and into moonless midnight,
to the sea, where moonnight calls you
to entertain the stars nodding
in deepnight skies.
The womb of night waits for you
to churn in the waters
of your beginnings.

Wrap the cotton rectangle
around your opulent hips,
step into your beach sandals
feel your way down the wooden steps
to the crusted shore of broken shells
that wait for your soft footfall.

Witness the froth of ancient kin
lift and spew the bones of kin
against your feet.  Bend and gather
the shells of those who called you.
Heart-sensed heaven knows the need
of connecting to the Universe
in such a way.  Let the waters
full of salt and sinew swallow you
baptize you so you might start again.

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After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul,
and you learn that
love doesn’t mean leaning
and company doesn’t mean security,
and you begin to learn
that kisses aren’t contracts
and presents aren’t promises,
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up
and your eyes ahead,
with the grace of a woman,
not the grief of a child,
and you learn to build all of your roads
on today because tomorrow’s ground
is too uncertain for plans,
and futures have a way of
falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn that
even sunshine burns
if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul,
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.
And you learn that
you really can endure…
That you really do have worth.
And you learn and you learn…
With every goodbye you learn.
by  Veronica A. Shoffstall

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Morning Star, when did you take the name,
dye your hair, a flame, flying
from the crown of your head,
with wild locks licking your shoulders?

Left we walk, right we walk
along the path of our ancestor’s
milked and leaking from the pitcher
of the Universe lying on its side.

Suns and moons moved to shed light
so we could find each other’s footsteps
Join hands and hearts in hallowed ways:
A soulful sisterhood of sorrows.

Alone, you will walk, yearning
Following an unmarked daylight
Seeking and yearning
For the few weeks sojourn.

Those men we drew to us, dark
as coal, dark eyes brooding
under heavy brows and heavy hands
rubbing the celestial off our skin.

Morning Star, he is your night
star, mercury, lover you long for,
How near to sun you are
So far from me in your sad time.

Look, sister, we are left alone,
our bright hopes pinned
to gray grievous shrouds
that hold us for these days.

You are Venus and he leaves you
still glowing after the nights risings
all acts of love and pleasure spent
shimmering on your bright skin.

We say, “Oh, my God, he is wonderful
in his worship of me, when he is sobered
by the need of change and delight in us.”
But, then he leaves, always goes, away.

The white moon amongst the stars envy you,
sorrows at your fading, as I do.
Earth sister, I am your Aphrodite
and Etuscan Turan relative.

Pin your hair against the skull of sadness.
I shall place this starred necklace
against the throb of my heart
and wish you here to hold.

 

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Sister comes to me, crying, again
another heartache, another bone chilling event
stripped the sinew from her back
and left her bent in on herself,
arms giving her the hold she needs.
It is not that she is weak, she is wrestled
to the ground with her sorrow.

Sister comes, eyes bright as hawks,
feathers in her hair, rings on her fingers
and a red bandana on her brow.
She says,  “ I am up and at war.”
I follow her to her trenches
knowing every earring on every ear,
and the same man, different eyes,
skitters against her heart
for the night, and maybe a day.

Sister comes around to this, always,
she is too strong to stay down
but to weak to pick good men.
I have grown accustomed
to wrapping a quilt on her sobbing frame
and letting her lie it off.

Sister, come, you are awful in your quiet.
I need your stage and rage
for my bones are brittled here
hanging out the midnight door
waiting for the beer or cheer
to bring you home where you belong.

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