Sunday Poetry

To Wahilla Enhotulle

Alexander Posey 1873 –1908

(To the South Wind)

O Wind, hast thou a sigh
   Robbed from her lips divine
Upon this sunbright day—
   A token or a sign?

Oh, take me, Wind, into
   Thy confidence, and tell
Me, whispering soft and low,
   The secrets of the dell.

Oh, teach me what it is
   The meadow flowers say
As to and fro they nod
   Thro’ all the golden day.

Oh, hear, Wind of the South,
   And whispering softer yet,
Unfold the story of
   The lone pine tree’s regret.

Oh, waft me echoes sweet
   That haunt the meadow glen—
The scent of new-mown hay,
   And songs of harvest men;

The coolness of the sea
   And forest dark and deep—
The soft reed notes of Pan,
   And bleat of straying sheep.

Oh, make me, Wind, to know
   The language of the bee—
The burden of the wild
   Bird’s rapturous melody;

The password of the leaves
   Upon the cottonwood;
And let me join them in
   Their mystic brotherhood.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on November 16, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.

More about this poem, and this poet here.

Poem-a-Day on Saturday

Joan of England in Bordeaux, 1348

Paisley Rekdal

Daughter of Edward III, Joan of England, traveled during the Black Death to meet her fiancée, Peter of Castille.

What name will he call her when they meet
in her embroidered skirts of silk and velvet?
It’s all that she can bear to wonder,
trapped on board this docked ship

in her embroidered skirts of silk and velvet,
fingering her betrothed’s enamel face.
Trapped on board this docked ship,
sea light ripples through the window,

fingering her betrothed’s enamel face.
No one’s come to greet her.
Sea light ripples through the window
and she is alone. She is never alone.

No one’s come to greet her,
neither courtier, supplicant, nor priest.
She is alone. She is never alone.
The sky outside is thick with smoke.

Where is the courtier, supplicant, or priest
to lead her to the prince her father promised?
The sky is thick with smoke
swirling in knots: a labyrinth of black roses

leading to the prince her father promised.
Her father, who laughed at her love of beauty—
her knotted silks, labyrinth of roses—
In his world, love means power;

he laughed at her love of beauty.
But now, outside, masked figures scurry
and she sees the only power left to her is beauty.
A hard knot rises at her throat.

Outside, masked figures scurry
as a scythe of birds swings over the road.
A hard knot rises at her throat.
This isn’t the kingdom she was promised,

its scythe of birds swinging over the road,
where the sea air smells of rotting roses,
ash from a kingdom she wasn’t promised.
Cold light tongues her betrothed’s face.

The sea air smells of ash and roses.
She’ll ride out soon to meet her husband,
cold light tonguing her face—
No world lasts forever. And she won’t live

without riding out to meet her husband,
smiling as his pale hands reach for her.
No world lasts forever. And she won’t live
a moment longer upon this cold, unmoving sea.

She smiles as pale hands reach for her.
What name will he call her when they meet
far from this cold, unmoving sea?
What dark road will they ride together?
It’s all that she can bear to wonder.

Copyright © 2024 by Paisley Rekdal. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 15, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets. More about this poem and this poet here.

Poem-a-Day: Miscarriage

Christine Stewart-Nuñez

Gauzy film between
evergreens is a web

of loss. Get closer. Reach
to touch the shimmering

gossamer and your finger
pushes through. Remember

filling that space with desire?
Someone else might grieve

the spider who abandoned
this home; others grow anxious

waiting for a deer’s walk
to wreck it. But you—

you grieve the net of thought
spun inside your own womb:

intricate and glossy and strong.

Copyright © 2024 by Christine Stewart-Nuñez. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 14, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.

More about this poet and this poem here.

Today in Good, almost Karmic, News

I am so tired of the lies about immigrants to please the maga bastards.

OK this is me just ranting before bed.  Sorry.  See I was an abused kid.  Most of you who come here already know and don’t need any extra help in that to show you how badly I was abused.  So I don’t need to show you more than my occasionally over the top ranting about my childhood abuse or the republicans claiming the republicans are stealing kids at the border … which is really what the republicans did.  They separated parents from children and then gave the children to Christian adoption agencies to sell for profit.  I wonder how their god feels about that.  But please let’s keep talking about how Biden lost all these kids … who were never lost.  Does any one else mind they are doing this?????   Because as a human trafficked sexually abused and traded person … I fucking sure DO!   Hugs.

https://apnews.com/article/fact-check-misinformation-migrant-children-missing-7ab0cea2fd2238346197429e952baa8b

https://www.usnews.com/news/us/articles/2024-10-02/fact-focus-claims-that-more-than-300-000-migrant-children-are-missing-lack-context

I am so very very tired and sorry if I hurt anyone tonight.  It just hurts what the republicans are doing and keep doing.   They hurt adults … They hurt kids.  They care for no one.

I wrote this post days ago and fell asleep before I could publish it.  Hugs

Legacy

Ted Kooser 1939 –

I have spent seventy years trying to persuade you,
to manipulate you with the poems I’ve written,
to remember my people as if they’d been yours—
to flesh out in evocative detail my parents,
my grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts—
knowing that one day I’ll be gone, and without me
to remember them, the poems I’ve written
will have to go it alone. I owe my people
so much, and I want them to enjoy—if not
immortality—a few more good years in the light,
my grandfather patching a tire for a quarter,
his brother weaving a rag rug on his sun porch,
my mother at her humming sewing machine,
my father un-thumping a bolt of brocade,
measuring for new draperies. Perhaps they were
for you, to draw open and see on your lawn
Cousin Eunice Morarend playing her accordion.

Copyright © 2024 by Ted Kooser. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 13, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.

More from this poet here

The Warrior’s Plume

Bertrand N. O. Walker 1870 – 1927

On the plains and in the vales of Oklahoma,
     Grew a flower of the Tyrian hue,
The color that is loved by the Redman,
      That tells him light and life,
               And love are true.

Long ago it flamed in beauty on the prairies,
      Lighting reaching vistas with its glow;
Ere advent of the whiteman and his fences,
      Told the care-free, roving hunter
               He must go.

The throng, the herd, and greed have madly trampled
      Prairie, woodland, valley, and the height;
Crushed the feath’ry flower and rudely blighted
      Its pride and life and beauty,
              And its light.

Today ’tis found in silent glades and meadows
      Where by twos and threes it greets the May.
Like the scattered braves who loved its color,
      It has passed, been trodden out
               Along the way.

As the oriflamme it flaunted through past ages
      Went to gladden the fairness of the earth;
So the greatness of the Indian will linger
      In the land that loves them both
               And gave them birth.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on November 10, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.

More from and about this poet on the page.

FACT FOCUS: Claims that more than 300,000 migrant children are missing lack context

https://apnews.com/article/fact-check-misinformation-migrant-children-missing-7ab0cea2fd2238346197429e952baa8b

I am so tired of this stupid lie.  The right  / republicans keep using it because the children they stole from parents at the border back during tRump’s term have never been found and returned to their parents.   That is what this asshole false claim is about.  Here are the facts.   Hugs

Image

Let’s talk about China wanting peaceful coexistence with Trump….

Belle talks about how tRump and his supporters build his fake image of being a superpower in the world.  They take stuff that tRump had nothing to do with and claim it only happened because of him.   They depend on people not knowing the subject they are talking about.    Hugs

𐓷𐓘𐓻𐓘𐓻𐓟/Wahzhazhe/Osage

Elise Paschen

Wa-zha’-zhe, name of the Osage tribe . . . who came from the stars.
—“The Osage and the Invisible World: From the Works of Francis LaFlesche”


                                                   The first language

𐓷𐓘𐓻𐓘𐓻𐓟 which Eliza,

                                                                              her grandmother, spoke.

                                           I try to learn

              the words 𐓣𐓟

                                                     from a book, a dictionary.

What was my mother taught

                                                                              as a young girl sitting

                                          on the front stoop

              of her grandma’s house

                                                      inhabited by half-brothers

she revered. Her favorite,

                                                                             Hunky, hand outstretched,

                                           showed her how to catch

             the wild horse

                                                       𐓤𐓘𐓷𐓘 𐓷𐓘𐓲𐓟𐓸𐓣

unbridled in the pasture.

                                                                              She knotted a paisley

                                            bandana around her

             neck. This language

                                                    for throat 𐓰𐓪𐓲𐓟

and tongue 𐓵𐓟𐓺𐓟 –

                                                                                words she learns

                                            to speak but then

               forgets. She loosens

                                                     𐓷𐓟𐓵𐓣͘ the rope

from the horse’s crest. 


 


The Osage orthography

𐓏𐒰𐓓𐒰𐓓𐒷 Osage
𐒻𐒷 words
𐒼𐒰𐓏𐒰 𐓏𐒰𐓊𐒷𐓐𐒻 wild horse
𐓈𐓂𐓊𐒷 throat
𐓍𐒷𐓒𐒷 tongue
𐓏𐒷𐓍𐒻͘ rope

Copyright © 2024 by Elise Paschen. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 12, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.

More about this poet on the page at https://poets.org/poem/wahzhazheosag