late 2003
rough poetry
Creator's Joke
"I don't wanna insult you", under shaggy brows
his brown eyes searched mine, "but you ain't no indin."
I've learned when to shut my mouth.
"You don't wake up brown. You walk unnoticed by suits.
Store security don't follow you.
Cops don't stop your old truck like they do mine."
I nodded, noiselessly.
"I'm sorry, you just remind me of the ones took our land,
and now some wicked twist of fate made you one of us."
"So what do I do? I can't be one of them",
my pursed lips pointed at the waves of white faces
watching the dancers pound the dust.
He shook his head, side to side. "I didn't mean for you to go,
just wanted to say how I feel."
There was nothing to say. Wisdom requires no dispute of truth
and the mirror at my morning washing--
reflects.
The European in my blood pushes me around
agressive, loud, demanding--I know him well, he's no ghost.
A full-blood wife makes our differences clear.
I accept this lightskinned Indin heart
with reservations, knowing my limitations.
Race has memory. Blood, identity.
So I don't argue anymore.
At 54, I know my European.
My Indin giggles at Creator's joke
and
Coyote
smiles.
Promises, Promises
"Only the good die young"
out of a broken radio's mouth,
we nod in agreement
crossing fingers behind our backs
praying not to have been that good!
Preachers say, "reap what you sow"
everyone fearfully remembering
television images of starving babies,
straining to imagine their sins.
"What goes around come around"
was a phrase we started
before Nam ended and photo journalists
celebrated their Pulitzers, witnessing the burnt offerings
of our anticommunist pruning.
Life is an equal opportunity destroyer.
A nature of creation demands volcanos
but softens the aftermath with flowers.
I've seen loving people suffer grief until it seems
the entire Universe could hold no more tears
but it's not about events, just moments--
hummingbird wings fluttering too fast for sight.
Each favorite song, movie, and sweet embrace
attach to the shell of us.
No one knows if they'll travel,
wrapped in spirit where we go
but here,
in a world where everything has a price,
some pay a little, some pay a lot.
If we don't expect rewards and roll with the big waves
maybe we"ll finish head up in the surf
walking that beach toward the next world,
earth's spray sparkling behind us--
eyes open,
unafraid.
Ignore This Poem
We were into sharing what we'd read
but the earth and a bright morning sun
distracted us with greens and browns...
the smell of another summer gone.
How can we talk of books
with so many mildewing downstairs,
dreams sold for 49 cents at a dollar store?
What will books never read
tell us about what it means to be alive?
All that we gather here will be swept away,
dry leaves on Creation's patio.
Yet, there are pages I have turned
that gave me hope
scented with honesty or
offered a catchy phrase explaining something
twisted on my tongue.
I never could stop
turning pages...
If you've a similar disfunction,
ignore this poem... .
Mildred
She was the kind of Elder
we needed.
As Mother and Grandmother
she held to the best of life,
a pure heart and love for all--
but locked in her most personal place
she kept the pain of her People's tragedy
fresh.
Like a spring overflowing
it would well up and spill,
touching our modern hearts
with the shadow of the past...
but
it was always a gentle remembering.
Wiping the wet corners of her eyes,
her trembling voice spoke truth
without cowardice or vengeful spirit.
When she smiled at me, I knew she meant it.
Where others give me the mandatory nod,
she let me share in her experience
and allowed me my loud and wordy way.
Her family will miss her most,
the priceless memories that time allows.
Her son will continue in his purpose
knowing that her pride and support
did not diminish,
even when the final door was opened,
she waited to walk through
to share in the completion of the ceremony
that purified the island,
releasing the bound spirits of those she mourned
so she could take her first eternal steps
in peace.
Contentment
I know you don't believe me
when I say
it's Ok to die.
Your lips tighten and your eyes get
hard
when we speak of letting go,
of love forgotten,
of being remembered in snapshots or,
in a few generations,
not at all.
You are hurt that no one will know
your mother loved you for loud mouth
and brash way,
or that your father understood
you hated being alone.
The squirrels that have died beneath
your wheels
will forgive you
but the world,
intent on changing her face,
won't realize you've gone.
Let me whisper this...
In a thousand years, the essence of you
will still be here.
Though skin sloughs away
the perfume of being does not fade,
and bones of life reform
to help the Universe expand.
All these tiny molecules
surrender us to Creation
and we become immortal.
'S just one thing worth remembering
when you're immortal--
no worries.
God's Eyes
(for Peter Lik)
It may have been the seagulls laughing
at the tourists
or maybe the hotdog stand
where I knew satikchi wanted to eat
after passing up all the sitdown
restaurants on the wharf.
It might have been the eye candy
postershop
with two women in their underwear
gently kissing in their bed, (a San
Francisco manifesto)
or the fudge shop across from where
the bad comedian/juggler
dropped his props in a stiff bay
breeze.
No matter, I was ready.
Now I don't do advertisements
but I can't count the times I've
wasted words
trying to show people the Earth,
driven to convince them that she makes
worthwhile
all this pain, tragedy and suffering.
Those photographs relieved me
of the burden of writing about it
forever,
making such lovers of light and color
that the earth is shown to be
permanently pregnant
with beauty.
As we flounder to understand our
dull reality, desperately wondering
where the rainbow touches us,
his sorcerers hands
offer the proofs to shatter
every brittle cynic's shell.
The myth of ugly explodes in
blue of mountain mist, purple flower
blankets,
clouds of water, red sun-sand twins,
and green growing chlorophyl...
if God has eyes
Peter
sees through them.
(Peter
Lik's photography is known worldwide)