Between each spoken word….
A sacredness resounds
It’s quivering motion turning in a
As the silence that glistens in a ravens eye….
Of what can never be spoken
Watching in its spirit voice
Toward our yearning….
Soft words that have never spoken
Inside the abandoned tennis shoe
Of a child….
On a Texas riverbank….
still warm imprint of Hotneh
from its track
The miraging rain….
torn white cloth of skin and fear
as a grey moth escaped from a torn nightmare
On concertina wire shining under a full moon….
We must begin the war drums
The dog soldier texts
Marina de Lesina
Stars untether the boneless night….
There is a room where outside its smiling windows
The shackled skeletons break free….
We have borne winters soliloquy as beggars
In a field of blinded goats…
Wandering the burnt landscape among
The names of charred
She is spinning the wheels of rainfall
in a dress of fallen names….
Placing them in a leather glove….
For the next one to wear….
*mistah – Cheyenne word for ghost or great horned owl
From the stronghold
Pierced the universe with the beak of a woodpecker
The warmth of its circumferring flowing through
The sage beneath me into the earths tremoring face….
Tasting its shadow in the shallow of a still river….
Knelt on my knees in the middle of a street…
Looking into the eye of a dead sparrow
The eye clouding in grey gathering ringclouds of farewell….
Held an eagle wing toward the enemies of the earth
Blowing from the wingtip the ashes
Carried the bones of Mistah….
The marrow of ghosts buried deep in its cavernous memory….
Of dog soldier prayers….
And Cheyenne fires that have no flame….
From the stronghold
16 May 19
Soft rain embraces the flowers with its silence
Night rings its ancient bells after
The lightening strikes….
All around light that has hidden in clouds
Opens its eyes….
Looking for you….
For our mothers
12 May 19
Remembering the inward dreams that don’t go away
The small silences of early morning….
The wanderer in me now
Among the warrior uncles of my youth….
The porch light of those summers in Oklahoma bathed in circling moths
Shimmering as heat over the wheat fields…
Shimmering in hard life and peyote moons….
A grey heron….
Standing on one leg
In the still spirited waters
Of twelve mile point…..
Diffused light…these hours before morning….
The silent room rings its loneliness ….
of a child’s toy bell….
Without you ….
Fingerprint on the balcony window
Your footsteps waiting in the hallway…
For dawn to bring me here…
The calumet poems
For my grandparents
Dawn disguised as sorrow
Stands before the wintered plain
A wolf track fills with snow….
Shaking its shimmering being
From the solitude of flight….
The badger watching….
Mahago domiutz ehiwoh
(Walking badger said this)
What has arrived out of this silence
Secretly kept….silence of tears…
Silence of years….
The one who has slept to waken to the shining you
A shining so pure so alone….
Standing now by an ancient road
Made of blood and stone….
This glass dream that sounds of rain falling….
This dim recognition
Where emptiness folds itself into everything…
Watching from a distance….
The first few flakes cascading
As small messages over the garden…
Having shapeshifted out of an Italian sky
From a swirling wind of tumultuous joy
The acidity of America still strong I’m my senses….
Now in this quiet
Transformations of sorrow and frozen rain
Passing through the window glass
To sit with me….
Shivadom maheo neh nameho….
On the frozen plains
28 November 2015
Gabors smoking room
“Creator pity my beloved”