"Sitting
By His Bones"
Ist
printing May 1999
copyright
J. BlueWolf
reprinted
with permission
Earthen
Vessel Productions
From
"Haunted
Hearts and Indin Parts"
Our
Zombies
c 2000
j bluewolf
When
Grandpa was young
Saturday
nights were for drinking.
No
Thunderbird
for him though,
he
always
saved for "Gordon's Ticker Starter",
Wild
Turkey gobbling in his stomach.
Come
Monday morning,
Grandma
would pack him off to work
with
a bottle of aspirin and looks that could fry meat.
Eventually
he gave it up,
when
too many relatives died drunk in car crashes
coming
back from town,
or
froze
to death passed out in snow banks.
Now
he points to drinkers, says
"there
goes one of our zombies"
but
says it affectionately, with regret,
sad
that he was a role model
for
their dependency.
He
does
his best to
encourage
grandchildren to walk on sober legs.
"The
bottle drinks you" is his favorite line.
Now he talks of a time when being Indin
will mean more than softball tournaments
casinos
and new trucks;
will speaker louder than tribal council lawyers
per
capita, and powwow microphones;
will taste sweeter than sugared coffee,
and
soda pop
will hurt less than cigarettes and alcoholic relatives preaching
abstinence
to
their
cranked up cousins;
will feel as good as a twostep,grassdance,fancydance,jingledress,
fancyshawl,stompdance,snakedance,
corndance,
Beardance,Ghostdance,Bighead,49er,Sundance,
indin-time-to-give-us-back-our-land,
feetdon'tfailmenowthebuffaloareback
whereindinboysloveindingirlsandviceversa
foreverandeverandeverwepray...
Love Poem (for Bernie)
c 2000 j bluewolf
"Aren't poets 'sposed to
write
about Love?"
Was a time my lyrics sang
no other tune,
before we raised five
children.
Wa-a-ay back, when Oklahoma
rivers ran red easy--
and Shiprock sailed from
Four
Corners
bringing me dreams of soft
lips and earthy skin.
When Thunderbird wine soured
my mouth,
baseball seemed a way of
life,
and the Road opened her legs
wide to our adventuring.
More than one pretty face
drew sap from my pen
to flood a sticky page with
Love.
But, while I remember them
all,
only one offered me her
Spirit
and her youth.
I took it from her, like
Americans
stealing our land--
without reservation.
After twenty-five years of
her strong heart
we live at the end of the
road--
with only occasional
nightmares.
I write, from a crack
between
worlds, of darker themes
that draw blood, fester and
seep.
Freed from alcohol, but a
slave to sugar,
I am both conqueror and
victim,
wishing I were one, or
neither.
She won't let me dwell on
it ,
comforts me, drawing down
on the end of my life;
listens, face pressed tight
to my rib, feeling the drum of my heart.
We twostep to that
throbbing,
side by side.
Faces softened by rain,
kneaded
by experience
baked by a ruby red sun--
two pieces of human
frybread,
praying to be eaten--
together.
Two Faces (Of Death)
c1999
j bluewolf
Old
Man
dying
sings
highpitched
and wavering...
but
just before his tiny bird soul
lifts
from knarled body branch
whispers,
in English.
"Civilized
whimper at dark words,
see
their dying end cold,
their
"Guide"-- hooded and skeletal.
Conquerors
afraid, masquerade;
cheapen
life, leeching planets
while the weak cower in elephant tusk towers,
sweat
in insulated shadow.
Some
fantasize blowing out their brains
too
cowardly to load the gun.
White
knuckles pull up covers, shut tight eyelids tremble
fearing
final void, eternal fire.
But
for
us, walking South on a fragrant path,
only
joy.
Our
Guardian
wears
headdress of golden feathers,
has
stars for eyes, and lips that lullaby fear.
Her
Winged touch bestows
a
fresh
exultant yearning
to see
beyond blind mystery and understand...
Give
me your hand,
I
want only to comfort you.
Generations
gather on both sides
eager
to be born, content to die
knowing
this wonderous vision
never
ends."
His
stillness
belies first footsteps toward the next world.
We
cry for our separation, the feel of mortality,
as the
sunrise of a thousand generations
pools in his eyes.
But
that calm on his lips,
and
a momentary hand
still
holding mine,
is
evidence--
eternal.
Terminal
c 2000
j bluewolf
Feeble
fingers tugged at mine...
"Promise
you won't let me suffer."
She
accepted my lie easily,
knowing
that this trail
through
these mountains--
is all
about pain.
Trading
her brightly ribboned skirt and fancy shawl
for
a thin no-back hospital gown
was
hard enough
but
to feel her full black braids
thin
to balding
broke
her heart.
This
enemy doesn't bugle its charge to finish us,
but
creeps in through uneasy throb
that
blooms into unbearable.
Now
she presses the button often
to
pump
that angel of relief into her flattened vein.
I
can't
find words to soothe her,
she's
too far down the path.
We
sing
together, for release.
I made
a giveaway for her, all our most favorite things,
but
it was no comfort.
All
my poems of peace and passing
are
no salve for the fester of these hours.
Still
we lovingly hold hands, speak of Creator's promise,
balance
our grief on a teetering faith
to
dream
of suffering's end.
Today,
at sunrise, she finally welcomed peace.
Her
face smoothed at the change of worlds.
I
stayed
behind to pray, feeling the weight.
But
stars did not wink out,
nor
birds forget their song.
From
"Sitting By His Bones"
c1999 j bluewolf
doesn't
it hurt?
"doesn't it hurt to
fail?"
Young Boy worries
Old Man cautions
"everybody tumbles."
"doesn't it hurt to
love?"
Young Boy frowns
Old Man comforts
"everybody breaks."
"doesn't it hurt to
pierce?"
Young Boy demands
Old Man admonishes
"everybody bleeds."
"doesn't it hurt to
die?"
Young Boy weeps
Old Man smiles
"everyone is freed!"
We
Don't
Say Goodbye
Grandpa
went to work the high steel
Told
Grandma, "feed him Indin'
Meaning
deer and frybread
Which
she did for a few days
Until
we got hungry for fried chicken
And
hamburgers.
She'd
bake a whole pie just for me
Watch
me eat until I hurt
Then
giggle at my moaning
Making
piggy sounds.
I
caught fireflies
She
put 'em in a jar beside my bed
To
remind me of the stars.
We
walked to ruins
played
on broken walls
She
brought apples
Showed
me how to get the sticky off
rubbing
my hands in the red earth.
We
watched a neighbor killing starlings
She
shook her head and turned away
Later
she laughed at the way Tonto spoke
To
the Lone Ranger
But
admired the horses.
When
it was time for me to leave
She
walked me to bus
we
stopped to skip stones
and
sniff honeysuckle.
Her
hands were strong
When
we hugged -my back cracked.
She
crooked a finger to my lips
"We
don't say goodbye!"
Forty
years ...
I
still don't.
