Newest poetry
raw and mostly unedited
 

Languages Of the Land

Grandpa pointed all directions
before telling us,
"the wind is multilingual,
each natural place has its own words--
formed from dirt, rock, shrub, tree,
human, rain, snow, and sun.
Each understands the other,
the mortality of generations
does not unravel the
twists that tie the earth in harmony.

But this new civilized,
covering the world,
has steel honed sharp to sever these bonds,
and everywhere
the earth lives confused.
Transplanted voices bring no comfort to
relatives forgotten
and the wind blows,
a wild interpreter,
rudely speaking jibberish
into the ears of the land.

He reminds us,
as we walk on paths of dust, gravel,
grass, or blacktop,
each place has a language root.
We should dig for it gently, keeping the words close.
The Old Trees will guarantee their shade,
and Water, though hidden from the eye,
will never let us thirst.
 
 

NDN Power

He yelled at me
in an angry whisper
because the older women
made him feel uncomfortable
laughing and looking his way

I brought him here
to record our sing
but he got cold
standing around the little fire
and asked to go inside

"They're not making fun of you", I said,
"They think you're cute.
The oldest said
she knew you could keep her warm
On the coldest desert nights."

My friend blushed the color
of tonight's sunset
"I think I'll go back outside."
We left the women frying bread,
giggling.

Standing around the fire
he whistled and stomped his feet
"It's freezing! Are all the men outside?"
"Yup", I answered,
"now you know why."
 
 

One Universe, One Spirit

Where the small river bends
in a thicket of willow
cottonwoods pretend to be clouds
dropping snowflakes in a late spring breeze
Early stars swim to their places
in the moonless blue ocean
as yellow-eyed flame crouches,
excited to see
the gathering children
Grandpa limps to his cushion
Smoke lying flat on the coals
even the crickets rattle to a softer rhythm
in anticipation
hollow throat, tongue and teeth, roof of mouth,
strike the chord together
and voice leaps carrying creation's spirit
to hang in the air...
ripe berries
dropping into the hands of our youth
ready to stain their lips
with the red oral juice of our past.
Hands move energetically,
features crease and smooth with
anger, sorrow, joy and contentment
wistful imagining, humor, and mysterious magic
caught in the web of life...
fire, smoke, breeze, and sky
shadow, shape, sound and sigh
coughing, crying, giggle, and laughter.
Generation to generation
storytellers mold us,
bind our hearts
until each individual face shines
 belonging
to the whole everything.
 
 

Remember to Breathe

Some mornings
I forget to smell.
Mind busily distracted
from birdsong and breeze
I give in to an uncivilized desire
part inherited, part learned--
to be organizing every detail.

But then my blood objects,
remembering to breathe
a great weight jumps from my shoulders
and I walk again
waist high in green plains grass,
as great bucks silently forage forests
or kneel in village corn plots,
maize ears glistening gold
squash cuddling beans
where time is not told in ticking
but in lifetimes.

This is no vision of worlds past
as modern man makes meaning of
contrived mirage.
Life continues for the earth
and smells still matter
when hearts are not encircled
by concrete and steel.
 
 

Find Your Own Way

They want me
to teach them to sweat,
send them to the mountain,
dance the night away,
offer me money, tell me about
their indin great grandmother--
don't like my answer...
"I'm not authorized to teach you."

I'm no medicine man,
carry no power or songs for strangers,
cannot represent any people.
What was given,
was given to my children and their children.
It's not for treasure seekers
looking for wisdom
in ceremony that
drips only from family veins.
I say,
"Look somewhere else. Go to
those desolate poverty places
crammed with violence and suicide,
the real teachers are still there--
they haven't left for more comfortable surroundings
or the affection of indin groupies."

There are those who want to taste of fame--
pretending to serve,
they wallow in "being holy".
Don't look to me.
This european-looking Skin
can't wait to shed it,
a lifetime of standing outside
looking in, reveling in shadows...
You can't buy
Spirit, can't borrow
Culture.
Find your own Way.
 
 
 

The Right Type

Powwow beat echos across the grounds
bells of dancers jingle as they hurry to make Grand Entry
already sweating in an early evening swelter
I'm in the stands with two grandchildren
one, brown as the earth
another, blond as a sun-bleached bone--
waiting for satikchi to bring the folding chairs.
"Here they come", I point with my chin
as the Color Guard straightbacks their way in.
Two have grown since they
wore those uniforms for real, seams bursting
with a warrior's pride--plus a few pounds.
Two white couples, looking for a place to sit
spot me
and head straight for us.
I sigh in a loud way.
"What's wrong Amafo?", sappoktek older asks.
"I been spotted", I reply.
After 53 years, you'd think I'd expect it,
but sometimes, on the Rez,
I forget the mirror's tale.
They nod and sit down,
Now I'm included with them, wave of white
in a sea of brown.
Before long I'm learning their history,
great great grandmother Indin they never met, culture
they never loved, spirit they never understood
but wannabe.
And I'm dragged, kicking and screaming
back to my youth--
the only light face in the crowd,
not the
right
type.
 
 
 

The Universe Eats

Our Sun gobbles
a thousand generations of hydrogen
in a single mouthful.
Stars explode, galaxies collapse,
even light is sucked into oblivion.
Every moment, somewhere
the price for life is asked
and paid.
No free lunch.
Meaning is derived from consequence.
Loss follows gain--an inseperable dog.
Which is pet, which is master?
No apathy allowed.
Every atom,
created from similar particles,
demands
the force of creation and dissolution
be bound by a glue of magic.
That magic requires our faith,
our attention, our resolution to courage.
Accept mortality.
Swim at the crest of the tsunami.
Triumphantly welcome it all into the
fire of the blood.
Loss is the balance
that scents the honeysuckle,
colors the sunset,
warms the hugs of children...
We set the table for this feast,
gratefully lie down
and are eaten.
 
 
 
 

 Newer Poetry
 
 

The Meaning Of My Dreams
 
 

Sometimes I walk with Grandfather
to where our horses
cut dry trail in the long grass
down to waters edge.
He sits on his heels
singing a lullaby for four hooves
never raising his head
washing tiny stones to see their true color
sniffing the odor of wet…
Our feet are bare
so we don't crush the chamomile flowers
he'll gather under
tomorrow night's moon
for soothing tea
Grandma’s stomach needs
after too much town time
working for things
earth no longer provides.
Then I wake, sweating
wondering what he thinks of me
converting my children to modern myth
creating cages they cannot open…
Trapped
on an aimless road
I sleep too late and sit too much
to show them the land
so Grandpa doesn't talk to me
he soothes the horses
in another world
and
I have lost
the meaning of my dreams