I to I
this uncaulked memory
bone bare and thin
your eyes are there
a child’s eye full of caution
a young woman’s eye of concern
a grandmother’s eye full of compassion
watching me through the chinks
you knew me
long before the knowing
was cross-breathed
waited for me
weakened with despair
you drew me
critically eyed me
through my stumbling youthhood
watched me sidestep
through my own mothering
forgot me in your elder vision
this bare beamed memory
wishes you to see
what I have dared to do
amid the falling down
life you envisioned for me
Last Lingerings
Flesh and bones of it
fetally curled against your back
I count the vertebrae
memorize each dimple, mole and mark
turn to me, let me trace your face
my fingertips have memory
touch eyelids, fluttering lashes
trace the bridge of your nose
move my hand to your cheeks
test the high bones
tip to lips, chuck the chin
palm to chest, to feel the thump
we are old and age would hollow us
have us move to the far side
of a bent bed
but not I, who traces and braces
well enough to hold me
for a long eternity
should tonight’s touch
be the last love left
Mind Chilling
Winter can not make up its mind
It’s cold, it’s warm, it’s a game
Snow sinking down into nests
It has made for itself in the bushes.
The lake shudders and shoves the ice
One clear plate after another
Over and under until it cracks
And water takes over again with a sly chuckle.
Not a moan of a loon, a hoot of an owl
Not a bird chirps nor flits as all wait
Frozen silent and stunned
Expecting only the worst.
False starts and stops our world
As we huddle between thin slats
Covers tucked around us against the chill
And the night cold wins the silent battle.
Clutching
Curving into you
blue, am I
against your yearning
tear against the pane
painting on the quilt
I clutch
Sister Moon, your wan and wane
tonight against the tender touch
of strobing stars
appealing for your loosen grasp
on your own midnight wrap
you clutch.
Awakened by an angst
I see your struggle there
reflects my own
restlessness in trying
giving birth to something new of us
we clutch.
Plea For Being
How I wish I were blind
allow touch to tell
pictures in tender print
would tell of its bigness.
Hands stroke bark
wrinkled like a wise old woman
hands, that have held stories
scribed for the sightless.
How I wish I were deaf
for I would feel the drum
and hum of Mother Earth
against my fingertips.
Each ripple would lead me
to the next, and the next
rise and fall of each crest
dip of the furrows would define her.
No sight would sway me
from tracing her picture
on the palm of my hand
and the ear of my heart.
Season’d Soul
Once, shouldered by a wrestling world
I faced down upon the dust
filthy in my struggles, but more,
‘twas worn by age and rust.
I’d seen the hungry children
fed stale bread and water.
I met my sisters on the streets,
had lost a wayward daughter.
While there upon the dew-moist ground
I spied a single blade of green,
delicate in vein and stem
kissed by mid-morning’s gleam.
Beside it still, another blade,
edges brittle, bent, and brown
but next to dirt a sheltered place
it wore new and skirted crown.
I realized, in falling down,
I was merely bent to see.
And though I felt at lowest point,
there was something more of me.
Creator shed a warmth
against my bent and furrowed face.
I raised my eyes to see full light
and found my rightful place.
Fear not the tumble down and fall
for there we spy our reasons.
Survey the down and up of it:
The soul has many seasons.
Cradleboard Caution
The shush of the leaves sing a song to you,
to you they sing of slumber.
Rock well, my child, on a bold birch branch,
while I gather the roots and the plunder.
Swing softly.
Sing softly.
The shush of the leaves and a sigh of wind
brush your face and your soul with peace.
Sway to the hum of the birds and the bees
who come to your cradleboard fleece.
Swing softly.
Sing softly.
The shush of the leaves and a touch of a shadow
hide you well, up high in your loft.
Child of the sun and the sky, float lightly,
simple as a feather, you waft.
Swing softly.
Sing softly.
The shush of the leaves is a sign of their love,
held dear in the warmth of the sun.
This night you shall lay at my milkened breast
while I sing of the days to come.
Swing softly.
Sing softly.
Come, My Drum
come, my drum, sing songs of hope
gather the people to the pulse of your own
dream them a vision of valor in vermilion
let them dress in the finery of feathers and fire
send out the echo of welcome and warning
to each hardened home in a wrenching world weary
bid them to follow the footsteps of old
fall into the harmony of heaven on earth
waken dark hearts with a call so serene
that bids them a circle of hope
when toe step soft fall on full forest floor
where nature warm wraps them in wonder renewed
come, my drum, set hearts all attune
lead us to follow you to peace and prosperity
where common is Man in a curious place
with a spiral of sustenance our spirit awaits
Season’s Assureties
Snowdrifts shrink at the glare
ice rots and caves in upon itself
sin’s of season lay stark and shredded
brittle stalks shiver in their death throes
forest takes a moment’s sunny measure
wind loses its ability to arc an ache
sky pouts at pink fingers grasping
to tear away the gunwale gray
a simple chilling sigh is all
a robin perches on a waiting willow
outside the window blotched with soot
reminding me to wait and worry not
soon spring will etch the last deep drifts
with green and grinning sprigs
brave blades beacon at their break-through
a parade of petals soon to come
this is not farewell to season
but tryst that tells of time to wait
faith in futures and in frailty
renewable in life’s constant change.
Campfire Caress
Prodding with my fresh birch branch
a fire left unattended
sifting the ash around the edge
to allow for new flame
leaps the well-known warrior
painted and preened in fiery finery
orange and yellow feathers fluster
licking at my hand
earth pulsing at the prodding
embarrassed by the light
spews a waft of ashes
to cover evidence of error
a larger lodge pine piece
to feed the need and needed
engulfing sparks take wing
to give birth to light and heat
rocks hum at the borders
sucking at the warmth
purest pleasure in harmony
the fire, the earth, the stone
and I, heated at the front
turn away from the ferocity
to capture cool dark forest
yet to be plundered.
The Crow and the Raven
Crow preened and plundered,
plundered and preened on his frozen fence post,
much to the animals’ dismay.
Raven sat on his tall Lodge Pine,
tall on the Lodge Pine,
all winter he would cautiously stay.
Said Crow to Raven one winter’s day
one winter’s day said he,
“I’ll share a meal one day.”
Said the Raven to the Crow with much distain
with much distain, quoth he,
“And how much shall I pay?”
“A fresh butchered mouse,
a mouse and his slaughtered spouse,
here, where the buffalo play.”
“Ah, ha!” sneered the Raven,
Raven with a sneer, swooped down to Mouse,
“Did you hear what Crow had to say?”
“Oh, yes, wise Raven,
wise Raven, I did,
I would love to join the fray!”
So the wee little mouse,
wee mouse and his spouse,
scampered to their hole to pray.
Come spring, there they sat,
they sat on their poles,
the raven an crow to wait out their prey.
Never they came,
came they never,
the Crow died of hunger that day.
Raven waxed thin,
waxed thin for his wait,
began to waffle and sway.
And weak Raven called the mice,
the mice called to weak Raven,
and ate Crow that had wasted away.
The moral of the story
the story has a moral,
best to eat mice than crow, I say.
Between the Canvas and the Cuff
Between the canvas and the cuff
secrets a sweet desire
for days of yore
made easier and modern
yet hold the heart agasp
with simplicity and sensory
time and place for pause.
Winter finds the denning in
dear and desired
for famine or feast
of time to delve deeply
into the gray-lined smudge
weaving upwards in a prayer.
Spring’s crisp shudder
startles the slumberer
into submitting to the cold
to gather bits of brittle berries
enough to stew into a brew
to contemplate the sour and the sweet.
Summer shoulders off the wraps
skirts lifted for the breeze
fresh pine, bright in its newness
relines the floor for night
cool and calm requires little
other than the jolting joy
that renews hope and heartfulness.
Fall finds the butterfly flaps
smoke returns to shelter
a rawness in resisting change
but heaven’s harvest
takes its toll
in preparing patience
for the long haul ahead.
Square corners, sharp and serious
rectangular doors, dirty doorsteps
do not invest in invitation
the futile furnace in the floor
heaves to humble seasons’ series
glass panes give us points to ponder
and places else to go.
Tanning
hair tufts tangle in the curved handle
scraping does not end it all
sharp against the dead skin
flies ballistic in their need
snap their jaws against exposed flesh
my hands, speckled with rot
talons dipped in browned blood
grip the wooden handle
erasing anything that might thrive
or give truth that it once was
stung by smoke
meant to keep the bugs away
supposed to smudge the sour
leaves its stain on beaten hide
my eyes, burn from within
feet planted against the spongy earth
give weight to push and pull
body arch and tuck and rock
rhythm balanced on monotony
strike and ease and strike and ease
against, apart, drag and draw
canvas covering flaps in time
a shadow for the heat of day
a den to crawl within
layered thick with upside down branches
to burrow into when night folds
against the work I have bent in to
brown desk tops and pencil crayon
scratch tracks in foreign fields
hair twisted in effort to comprehend
how hard we erase what once was real
we’re scraped and beaten
bled and broken spirits drawn
until we become exposed and toughened
tanned but not traditional
buckskin, dyed, glass beads
sewn by needled hand
cows meant to look like moose
and, I, the teacher, spin the tales
sell the wares and steal the thunder
in order for the led and bled
to sense a moment prior to bloodletting
when hair danced on the wind
when hands beat the drum
when feet moved to the soft thump
before being trapped and flayed
until we no longer hold a hair of truth
of what and who it all was.
Death Lodge
Bone flint and arrow sharp
tied to the tether at the tensed line
painted pony, prints known by heart
she paints the canvas
from east to south
to west to north where wisdom
will catch the portrayal of the vision
scraping the hung hide
hair whisked away by and edge
gray against the faded horizon
blended and bent to her work
dip and swirl the circle of four
hooves pranced against
like shadows of thoughts
she had before they came
tight lipped and tired
travois spirits thundered ahead
her last willow’d stroke
a passionate place
for this to be home
for more than a gathering season
for more than a feasted fall
for more than a worrying winter
for more than a silent spring
slipping the thongs
into the hoops
she stepped inside to shadows
above the sun
below the earth
within the circle
a fire to curl against
backboard stiff against the skirt
she tucked tobacco in her pipe
gave scent of sage to offer
clutched the deer hide cover
allowed herself to leave
the way the smoke would yet escape
death lodge secrets
do not unfold unnecessarily
but wind, quietly,
to meld with air and high
until life’s etchings
on dry brown skin
become the vision
of goodbyes.
I Write
I Write
When old woman claws
at the back of my throat
nails screeching for voice
to a million emotions
thus tucked in a tenderized
place of deception
I write!
When old owl night
heightens my perception
covers my canvas
with phrase and pause
I write!
When morning sun stuns
eyes hurt to open
to any new nuance
sadly in submission
I write!
When something cracks
against the sideways sense
my talons grip tentacles
inked with despair
I write!
When I fill with a fury
pure caution aside
dip feather to dye
to scroll and to scribe
I write!
When love turns a glance
stun of stealth on tiptoe
ripped from my breast
in delight and in dread
I write!
Take This Love
Take this bloom
pull off petals
pink by pitiful pink
pried and packed
in crystal bottle
if you remember
long after brown bronzes
days, months, years
cork-lifted waft
swirls through the air
and you remember
not the thorn
nor the trials of trying
to nurture the sweetest
nor those things dropped
in a puddle of compost
best not to remember
‘tis the thrill
of sensory stimulation
sifted through to rawness
of mere fragments of feelings
filtered over time
and religiously remembered
take this bloom
bronze it
brace it against any storm
bottle and bury it
press it to some soft place
and remember.
Coffee Coincidence
Every town has its Chinese Restaurant
but not every one has The Old Man.
The sign says, “Today Choice
dry rib or deep-dried shrimps-
Coffee included.”
He sees things
That make his eyes run red.
Perhaps, having to beg
for one more free coffee.
I have seen him already have two.
This time he is clean
and his fly is done up.
There is no wet spot on his front.
He is begging, though,
if not by mouth
by eyes.
It is his eyes
that have always captured me,
created a rustling.
Is there something,
or someone in there,
that I am supposed to know?
What am I to learn from you?
I am put off by you, Old Man,
and yet, inevitably drawn to you.
Often have I pushed a toony
across the table
to the owner
without you knowing.
You, waiting for the bar to open
across the drift pile, next door.
I have kept you from being
kicked out for loitering
into the crusty cold
with one more, one more,
and one more cup of coffee.
Aversion and attraction
in your few bristles
on a crooked cheek.
It is not that you missed
a belt loop nor that your drool
dries against dry lip edges.
You pick me to watch.
I have refused, a dozen times,
your broken quest for money.
You have stopped asking,
sit and sip, warily,
knowing something I do not.
We meet here,
Chinese food and all,
all too often
for this to be coffee coincidence.
For A Friend, Flying Free
No garment rending
no ash upon forehead
no cutting off
of little finger,
hair, nor slash of nose.
I turned inside out,
shut myself away
in a quiet place
watched your gallant goodbye.
Friendship feather
in my left hand
against my heart.
With my right,
against your chest,
I felt the fragile thump
promise no tomorrows.
Paralyzed by self-preservation,
I mimed minutes of myself
Until there was less of me
With you in it.
*For Eric Chief
The Gift
I know how the vessel feels
once the potter’s hands
are removed.
Its beauty if left, untouched
except empty and bereft
of the Master’s hands.
Come, My Grandparents, Come
Come, my grandparents, dance
Make the sky your arbor
Spin and gyrate
Swoop and swerve
In your fancy shawls
And buckskin pants
Owl Dance across my darkness.
Touch the treetops’ hands
For a moment
Lay a shawl of color
Against the grass
Dip to caress the lake
Wash your regalia
In its still surface.
Hum the sacred tune
That comes deeply
From the soul of all
Harmonize my world
Remind me of my heart
That beats the drum
So you may dance your dance
For me.
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