France hands its future
To the millennials
Statue of Liberty beams across the pond
How to stem the tides of refugees?
Heal every home
Bury the hatchets
Sing with the trees.
Sunday, July 2, 2017
Saturday, June 24, 2017
Yes, we know about you, and
none of that matters.
Keep turning over rocks, opening doors.
I have no idea how it works,
no idea if the whole world sees us as kin.
How could she not?
Cut from the same cloth, you and me.
An afternoon breeze,
grateful for easy and what feels good.
Even in black and white,
just to marvel - EXACTLY Wow!
Yes, we know about that,
transforming day to day.
Our generation – once safely chrysalis,
intruding the verges with stray blossoms.
It’s an Aquarius light that breaks into morning,
pull us up into love. Maybe impossible
to plan or know what, or how to enter.
Make it up as we go. EXACTLY Wow!
Yes, we know about living,
how stumbling brings courage,
to feel takes more.
I have spun the same love deeply.
A dervish planet, and
my pendulum swings,
When waxing moons get involved,
what is so purely heartache,
rolls up her sleeves,
says less is more. EXACTLY, Wow!
Yes, we know about worry,
how it bounces back, indomitable,
ghost dance of swallowtails,
moonlight on the Mississippi!
The past, a sooty cobweb,
a bit of glisten,
sweetness on the tongue.
Yes, we know about longing,
our compass rose of sleepless nights,
the holy axis of happenstance.
We pitched the red tent ages ago,
now it billows in story.
I have and you have,
if I needed you,
beholding the same humble – same silly – same strength.
Our beautiful bellies – geodesic harbors,
from whence we follow the questions, find the shortcuts.
Hey Sky Woman, Sananda, Laksmi
LOOK, we got this, EXACTLY, Wow!
at 5:31 PM
Saturday, May 13, 2017
The old beech to the sky,
Roots to shoots, capillaries make rain.
Roland’s axe stood alone, rust along the blade,
left behind with the house and the woodpile.
The road is open, his legs only now tired.
Walking, he’s been walking so long, forgotten
where he’s going, gold braids on his shoulders,
melancholy, clueless. His belly, queasy.
Roots to shoots, capillaries whisper lament -
Wherein, what-for, the harbinger, a turtle dove,
Maybird sends it to comb the wilds, to be her eyes,
her herald. She sent word weeks ago.
Wherein, what-for, his diviner, the moon,
loves to vex his memory, spin webs, dark penumbras.
Each morning, his head rings in wood thrush,
anon he fingers frayed epaulets, a strand of her hair.
Shoots to roots, Maybird laces a cotton bodice.
Within the bones of her corset, rides a secret --
Roland was never hers, she never his.
One is shimmer, the other a bell.
Wherein, what-for, the vigil, a companion,
she shepherds a season, watches, waits,
as furrows of routine terrace his absence.
Crows mock her patience, she disagrees.
The moon grows fickle, Roland is restored.
This is an old, old tale. refugee returns for his bride,
he tucks a piece of bread in his pocket.
Back and forth - saplings, briers everywhere.
Shoots to roots, mycelium sip sunlight,
Roland recalls her scent, rosemary and rain,
bouquet to whet an axe's appetite,
a road to open, Maybird, his home.
A silver coin on the floor, something is shifted,
the cinders litter a long winter gone.
Once there were cake crumbs, then greedy sparrows.
Restless days overrated, and the door.
Wherein, what-for, Maybird's heart, a copperhead,
quiet in the leaves tasting the air.
His desire is a dragonfly, life in four parts.
They hunt together, every evening new.
Bless the beech who holds this story,
beware the moon, its greedy sparrow.
She's the shimmer, he's the bell,
an old axe, a dappled afternoon.
at 7:34 PM
When we are broadsided,
by really the most dreadful news,
moments that frighten breath, so it
tangles itself among ribs, pleading
don’t make me go out there,
red rain, rip tide!
Intrepid heart, storm dancer
gather a deep gasp. Let it pry loose
the diaphragm, push out the coward breath -
feckless guinea hen
diaspora of wasps. It can be sustenance of elsewhere.
diaspora of wasps. It can be sustenance of elsewhere.
And allow no anxious intruder
to hunker down,
taking premise that suffering
can homestead here – no rank chatter
to foul the bright pump-house,
banging about tongue and bellows.
This moment, married to eternity,
dances with glaciers, typhoons, diatoms, kudzu.
And death was never a stranger,
maybe alchemist, liberator, owl.
Even so we live on, and
again like the trees.
again like the trees.
at 5:22 PM
Sunday, January 8, 2017
Bring cash and coin,
they make money easy at the casino.
Jane Fonda could be there, Gary Farmer, Heidi HeitKamp.
Spirits in the camp are good, it’s an ultra-stellar colony,
Turtle Island, deep dreams of deep ecology.
The local currency: breath and backbone.
News from the front line: big storm forecast,
so are miles and miles of cars. This narrative spirals inward,
no second coming, see how the center holds.
Morton County’s finest blocked the bridge on the Cannonball.
they want to make the river a moat around their fortress,
but today she stands with her rabble of heroes.
Maybe we have seen nothing like this before;
but defense of the seventh generation,
number one promise for a long, long time.
at 12:20 PM
The day broke 10 degrees, iron-fisted.
Parking lot isn’t talking, its striped asphalt skinned in dingy ice,
arctic breezes pitch pins and needles at us.
The blue tarp over the payload is stiff and cranky,
I bang my knuckles tightening a line.
Supposed to warm up to 25 today.
This wind is pig-headed – wanahosni, some say here.
I throw on another sweater. Another sip of coffee.
Under my breath, I practice: Mni Wiconi, water is life
We’re driving north, White Buffalo Calf Woman way,
wondering how it is in winter camp.
Will we be stopped and fined a thousand dollars?
Water protectors already shouldered the perils,
protecting a prayer is their resistance.
Living legacy of indominable will - India to Morton County.
State Route 14 is no prayer.
It cuts through ribs of a sleeping prairie.
We follow the wound, its welts of barbed wire and fence posts.
My fingers clear a hole in the window fog.
I mimic Sky woman peering into a new world,
imagine loess hills as sleeping turtles.
The turtled hills in Tennessee, burial mounds.
I know now the ground rule of first nations:
keep the East open, let the ancestors in.
In the front seat, a casual cadence of gossip
ambles along easy rifts of reggae.
He’s so Lakota, here’s a picture of his grandfather.
Ahead another rise, three metal silos hunkered down.
Intersection, Route 14 and 63, a dark smudge in the distance
lifts its head, a stubby pony shivers off the snow.
Herefords are practiced at cracking through frozen rind,
they know the Cheyenne River keeps it belly open –
Cheyenne: French for dog – a world before horses.
On the radio, Bob Dylan says he won’t go to Stockholm.
I’ve been tangled up in his songs most of my life,
lyrical geography beside the Duck River and Sycamore.
Here songs thrum like the breath of heaven fingering miles of tumbleweed
snagged in rusty wire. The long poles of tipis resemble hands
in a mudra for meditation. They invite us in.
Rise with the sun to pray.
Pray alone. Pray often.
The Great Spirit will listen, if you only speak.
at 10:21 AM
Saturday, December 10, 2016
The music is defined by the silence between notes
The light, defined by shadow, I live in your story.
Wrapped in winter sky under that voluminous missionary,
it is told all are one.
Whole in its brilliant breathless hoop,
the sun kindles our need for closure.
For if we don’t shut the door, how can we open it again?
How can we unbury our heart of secrets,
turn the truth inside out?
All is one, all is one, all is one -
the bones of our existence exposed:
icy lip of river, murmurations of cirrus
deep miles of frozen tracks.
Here we find what truly supports us,
the muscle and sinew of our days -
revelation to transform rusted fender
into feathered wing, to transpose
painted canvas into anthem or dirge,
the mettle to welcome pause and shadow.
All is One, You and Me, Inevitable -
let’s breathe in this darkness,
and breathe out the coming song.
--(co-written with J.M. Hurt)
at 10:27 PM