Tuesday, November 21, 2017

This time of year, the days are all downhill
And run together.
My soul is lightly tethered to the wind.
My mind begins to blow.
I'm amazed at various scenes,
And though I know
I've been here all along,
Like the leaves, I've fallen,
Scattered my memories about like ashes,
Seen flashes of truth from the future and the past,
And visions of things that might have been
Or still could be,
If I would only ask.


Monday, November 20, 2017

Progenitors these days pave the way
For us to learn all about our DNA
And all that it prescribes.
We sit alone in the doctor's chair,
Filling out the questionnaire.
We can say thanks
In all those places where it says
"Have you or anyone in your family ever had 'fill-in the blank.'"
We can also feel their doom,
Write our names up on their tombs with them,
For they feel the very same way,
If only their pride would let them say it.
If only ours would let us.
But the generation gap has closed,
And our children will be the ones
To let us know,
And that will get us
Right in the dignity.


We are genetically modifying ourselves.
Soon we will be barren and seedless,
Bigger, but not juicier,
More colorful, albeit, more plastic-ier looking,
Not good for anything but breathing up a lot more air.
And who, or what, will benefit from that?
Only the trees, whose plot this all may be anyway.

Sometimes truth doesn't set you free,
It just makes you old,
And in your ancient wisdom
You sit, with a cold reality,
A realization of yourself
As you truly are.

But in your humble brokenness,
A better reality breaks
Over your head, like an egg,
Into your mind, like morning's sweet day.
And in that beautiful, quiet moment,
A pearl is cast to you,
For you are no longer a swine,
Your heart's desire is known,
You've come fully around,
And then you see,
The Truth really has
Set you free after all.


Sunday, November 19, 2017

I have seen a warrior's face.
Warriors who go out for raids
And don't come back,
Or come back scathed
By what they've seen,
By what they've had to do.

And we had medicine for that,
The smoke, the stomp, the take-to-water for days
Until the heart was cleansed.
We had medicine for fear and shame,
Medicine to give you back your heart,
And help you live again.

But after that war,
Medicine stopped.
Rounded up, and no more talk
Of the Great Spirit, the principal people,
Our warriors were crippled
And so were we.
And now, you call it PTSD,
But then, it was living catastrophe,
And it lasts
Many generations
Without the Right Medicine.


Saturday, November 18, 2017

A little gray cat sat for two hours straight
And watched the faucet drip.
It tilted its head and continued to sit and stare.
Where do all those tiny drops of water come from?
Where do all those tiny droplets go?
A strange mystery.
But the cat is smart enough to know
That when it eventually wants a drink,
Curiosity will give way,
And trust will emerge
Right there in the sink.
It will quench its thirst
By means of this enigmatic machine
That it doesn't understand.

I gaze into a magic mirror
That magnifies the epithelials,
Every cell that makes my face,
And I can trace every line,
And every place where wrinkles will soon be.

I look at me,
And think
That every step
Along my way
I've changed.

I grew uncontrollably,
And never could adjust how tall or short I was,
How many hairs I had upon my head,
But I always recognized myself
And reckoned this state as
Better off than dead.

But someday maybe I will look
Into this mirror and see
An unrecognizable me,

And what then?