(for my grandchildren)

They are falling away now, reddened and gold
from the tall maple California immigrant
that has put down roots outside my southern window.
Helplessly, we shudder, awaiting our time,
fearing for those staying behind…
praying those gone ahead (breaking the trail of mystery),
will bring a silent comfort to our questioning.
The finality of dead; a high price to pay
for the short breath we take here…
Our grandchildren want to know
why we must go--and where,
we tell them the stories we were told.
Every journey proceeds to a destination,
every knot can be untied.
With each step, each meal,
each night of dream-filled sleep,
each high tide and moon drenched sky
that bails the waves away to pink sunrise--
the knot of grief unravels…
we are released to live again.
Until we follow wide-eyed into death,
the knot of grief will tie us now and then--
do not be disheartened little ones.
In dust and blood and spirit we were born
to step toward star strewn paths
that lead to glad reunions,
where the fire needs no tending
and knots of grief
are never tied.

Storytellers

Where the small river bends

in thicket of willow,

cottonwoods pretending to be clouds

drop snowflakes in a late spring breeze.

Early stars swim to their places

as yellow-eyed flame flickers,

excited to see

the children gathering.

Grandpa limps to his cushion-

smoke lying flat on the coals

crickets rattling a softer rhythm

in anticipation...

Now!

Hollow throat, roof of mouth, tongue and teeth,

strike the chord together

and voice ripens the story

to hang in the air...

spirit berries staining lips

with the red oral juice of our past.

Hands move,

features crease and smooth

become the drama of

fire, smoke, breeze, and sky

shadow, shape, sound and sigh

coughing, crying, and laughter

catch us in life's web...

Generation to generation

shoulder to shoulder

storytellers mold us…

until each face shines

polished with knowing

we belong together.

Contentment

I know you don't believe me
when I say
it's okay 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 a 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…

The Ladder

Climb, climb, climb

that progress ladder.

Don't look down at rotting rungs,

have faith in those above

building new ones from the technology

of exploitation.

They tell us

if we keep climbing 

we'll reach so high

we won't need this ladder...

Today's lie is tomorrow’s textbook,

rewrite the past

and trust in progress.

Doesn't make sense to me.

I wanna climb back down

but the ladder's filled,

other's pushing me

where I don't want to go.

Last year, my nephew jumped.

A lot of us do.

We're always getting splinters

cause they build too fast,

counting on the sacrifice of

endless hands

to smooth the wood.

It's a lonely climb,

can't see where we're going,

where we've been.

Leaders pretend someday

we'll sprout wings

but if we don't,

if we must climb down--

I hope the ground's

still there…

 Cinnamon Toast Medicine

Achafa (one)

My nightmares are afraid of cinnamon toast.

Buttering brown bread, sprinkling brown magic

Grandma said, "its the sweet with the spice".

She hustled us from damp sheets,

young and shivering pale, running from spirits...

I got older, and roused myself--

to find her warming skirts by woodstove coals,

drinking coffee, smelling of cinnamon.

She won't admit to bad dreams, but cries for her father,

who was part horse and died in an automobile fight.

I didn't know him in this world, yet hear his voice from the next.

He tells me not to fear and to put the cinnamon on thick--

whispers that “poverty is passing for Indins,

while the color of our world is nut brown bleaching to latte'--

and what will be left in another seven generations

only the wind knows.”

Tuklo (two)

At 56, I don't need cinnamon toast too often,

except on the Rez

or when I read Owens and Alexie.

Their work, a poultice for drawing poisons--

push and prod me toward cliff's edge,

urging me to jump: for fear, for anger, for grief.

Mixed-bloods should be able to sit above it.

We don't reflect in the fullblood mirror

that charges a scalper's price for Native Dreams.

But Life provides no discount for suffering

as generations shuffle in endless sacrifice--

dancing in this Earth-Round-House.

So I stand at the door, neither fully in nor out,

nodding my head to the drum,

shifting from foot to foot,

smelling of cinnamon.

Terminal

Trading her bright skirts

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.

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.

This enemy

doesn't bugle its charge to finish us.

It grows unseen,

a tiny flowering throb

that blooms into unbearable.

She presses the button 

to pump that angel of relief

into her flattened vein.

All my poems of peace and passing

can not salve the fester of these hours.

We hold hands, sing for release,

balance our grief on a teetering faith

and wait for suffering's end.

Today, at sunrise, she welcomed peace.

Her face smoothed at the change of worlds.

I stayed behind, feeling the weight,

but stars did not wink out

nor birds forget their song.