Poetry: Wounded Knee

Wounded Knee- A Message

Do not think the dead
are voiceless

I have heard the women
wailing in the breeze. 

Even the rocks sing
and the drumming of wings
is there if you listen.

There is a rattle
through the long grass
speaking

We are still here. 

If you have come to 
bury our names, go.
Do not return

until you can hear
the heartbeat in the echo
of the grave- 

until you can see
the amazing grace
of sunset 
through the trees. 

@AmericanIndian8 on Twitter

Poetry: Variant

 Variant

There are things more contagious
than Omicron 

like laughter

or words.

Scatter these like a thousand
seeds of clover 
on a forest floor.

See what happens.

Or take a gesture of kindness- 
just one
and then another.

Toss it into a crowded room
or offer it 
to a stranger on the highway.

Either way it will begin to spread- 
into homes and offices
restaurants and malls- 

carried along
breath by breath
droplets of aliveness

until the world is surging with poems- 

our spirits
exponentially rising.

Poetry: Mystics

There is a reason these old mystics 

shook bellies full of laughter

their eyes sparkling 

and alive

full of all they have seen:

children and flowers.

The aftermath

of war. 

We are drawn to them 

like forgiveness-

their presence 

an oasis of joy

in the desert of lament-

 the divine’s 

absurd pleasure- 

    the ridiculous 

insistence of 

Breath.

Poetry: Softness

Everything is hard now like stone walls or bricks

impermeable granite

Droplets well up there

in puddles.

Keep pouring and you might end up 

a drowned rat.

You say there are places 

where kindness

seeps in through the cracks

slipped between crevices

in rocks.

I have seen this too at a bar once or twice-

But today I hear the rain on the hard cement

crashing and think of life

buried bulbs in November

the seeds of good intent.

Softness needs sandstone or lime- 

ground yielding to rain.

It needs the receptive earth

To bloom.

Poetry: Mountain

Mountain

The first thing to do is rise early.

There isn’t much use in spinning
the merry-go-round of the mind;

You have to get off the ride.

Come, pilgrims, leave your temples

your mosques

your cathedrals

behind-

There's an ocean up here,

a tidal wave of air

Breathe in!

Look around!

Climb!

Poetry: Peace

 

The day after Christmas brings peace. 

Expectations have been released-

like wrapping paper and bows

crumbled and discarded-

the presents opened,

gifts undressed

now piled under the tree. 

There are just these unpackaged things-

a book, a record, pomegranates and chocolates. 

Bare. Free of their fancy sparkle 

like kindness

simple 

unadorned

There is today an openness 

that comes in through the window-

the cold air outside breathing

Peace. Just peace. 

I could sit here by the window

sipping my cup of dark roast

writing poems

listening

and feeling 

that peace

tor a long long time. 

Poetry: New Year

 New Year

I am running backward into my life

away from resolutions 

and the future,

and into the past

in search of
scattered pieces-

a letter- a poem- a friend-

fragments 

of a great mosaic

dusty in closet corners

unread clippings 

of long ago dreams

left behind.

A constellation

of what may be. 

Poetry: Snow

Outside the world is a blank page

I do not like to disturb 

the perfect sheets of white

otherwise known as snow. 

But grown-up cat is curious.

She stares out the window

and howls deep from her belly

some primal cry 

I open the balcony door to let her outside.

She does not hesitate 

to imprint her five-toed signature there-

a tiny thing next to the scribble 

of winter sparrow 

I am certain below, at the feeder, 

I might find a whole tome  

of criss-crossed scrawlings - 

squirrel and turkey, 

the stamp of deer-

the Book of Members

who have written their names

on pages 

making their pledge of belonging

to the messy scroll of life.

Poetry: Hope

Hope 

"Active Hope is waking up to the beauty of life on whose behalf we can act"- Joanna Macy

What if nothing gets better? What if the world is just as we find it- beautiful and broken? 

You could notice either, I suppose, how the cracks in the ice let in the light. How the tall trees, now barren of leaves, become shelter for squirrels. How the eagle builds her nest there too. 

But I will tell you this.  They were once almost gone, these bald-headed friends, until someone decided otherwise. 

The river is rising, of this we are sure. Too much has been lost beneath. 

On the edge we gather to grieve beneath a dance of resilient wings

Poetry: Returning

 Returning

When it’s all you can do to stay grounded

 one foot in front of the other, 

 while you wander the overgrown path 

there might be an angel-

set free 

visiting your dreams-

offering not prophecy 

but a compass-

There is another way home. 

Poetry: Annunciation

 Annunciation

I imagine when the writer says frightened

that she is speaking of this:

the cold night air, the openness of that sky,

like the drive home on Solstice night

when the heavens are suddenly brilliant

and orange 

and wide

wheels it seems

like seraphim

could fly into the sun.

It’s not the slaughter of innocents-

but the possibility of change-

that petrifies.

Shepherds know how to stave

off an attack-

a wolf or a thief. 

It’s what they’re there for. 

But 

the light that calls from the sky

that tells you to Go-

fieldwork in fields

charts and maps

behind-

this is the thing 

that turns keepers of flocks

to a monument of stones.

Poetry: Epiphany

 

Epiphany

Gifts will come from unexpected places. 

It’s not always whole choirs of angels

singing in exultation

Sometimes it’s just a glimmer of light through the trees.

Not the full crescendo of revelation, 

but the promise of a single star, 

burning and fading

because all stars are really, 

in some galaxy or other

It’s all sparks and smoke -

    this universe -

birthing and dying, everywhere 

and at once

But this particular star here

 is on fire, 

ablaze with attention.

Maybe even hope.

Follow that star. See where it leads.