A Poem on Friday

How Some of Us Survived Cuando El Mundo Did Not Want Us

(Find out more about this poem and this poet by clicking above.)

In the shadows of city lights, we dwelled,
untold stories, almas olvidadas,
enduring streets where dreams were bought and sold.

Corazones—like broken glass,
reflecting pain, the sting of scorn,
searching for love en la oscuridad.

Walking the piers—our runway, steps unsure,
inocencia pérdida seeking solace, grace,
amidst the chaos, makeshift homes.

Voices silenced, cries ignored,
por un mundo that turned a blind eye,
yet we found familia in our souls.

Remember these legends,
children marked by endless strife,
love soaring entre el odio.

In this lucha, there was truth,
in this love, there was vida,
in this survival, there was hope.

Poetry: “A Cuban Modernist in Miami”

Adrian Castro

Transcendental poses are fractured by migration
In Rafael Soriano’s chimeras
dreams transpire through the electric human
A body can pitch several lingams—
there is only one home
as it returns from another journey
a new sunrise
an orange memory
hand pointing the indigo way inward
A conjurer throws a fistful of lips
five teeth tell the sunburst story . . .

When we search for an object
there is only finding the quest
it is after all
like that—
you merge you speak
there is art
& you find your way home
inside the infinite

Nov. 30’s Poem On Sunday

A Cry from an Indian Wife Emily Pauline Johnson

Please click through to read more about this poet, and her poem (especially in light of some terms she used in her work. It is fine history.)

My Forest Brave, my Red-skin love, farewell;
We may not meet to-morrow; who can tell
What mighty ills befall our little band,
Or what you’ll suffer from the white man’s hand?
Here is your knife! I thought ’twas sheathed for aye.
No roaming bison calls for it to-day;
No hide of prairie cattle will it maim;
The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game:
’Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host.
Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost.
Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack,
Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling pack
Of white-faced warriors, marching West to quell
Our fallen tribe that rises to rebel.
They all are young and beautiful and good;
Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood.
Curse to the fate that brought them from the East
To be our chiefs—to make our nation least
That breathes the air of this vast continent.
Still their new rule and council is well meant.
They but forget we Indians owned the land
From ocean unto ocean; that they stand
Upon a soil that centuries agone
Was our sole kingdom and our right alone.
They never think how they would feel to-day,
If some great nation came from far away,
Wresting their country from their hapless braves,
Giving what they gave us—but wars and graves.
Then go and strike for liberty and life,
And bring back honour to your Indian wife.
Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me?
Who pities my poor love and agony?
What white-robed priest prays for your safety here,
As prayer is said for every volunteer
That swells the ranks that Canada sends out?
Who prays for vict’ry for the Indian scout?
Who prays for our poor nation lying low?
None—therefore take your tomahawk and go.
My heart may break and burn into its core,
But I am strong to bid you go to war.
Yet stay, my heart is not the only one
That grieves the loss of husband and of son;
Think of the mothers o’er the inland seas;
Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees;
One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced child
That marches on toward the North-West wild.
The other prays to shield her love form harm,
To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm.
Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think,
Your tomahawk his life’s best blood will drink.
She never thinks of my wild aching breast,
Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crest
Endangered by a thousand rifle balls,
My heart the target if my warrior falls.
O! coward self I hesitate no more;
Go forth, and win the glories of the war.
Go forth, nor bend to greed of white men’s hands,
By right, by birth we Indians own these lands,
Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low . . .
Perhaps the white man’s God has willed it so.

2Fer Poetry on Saturday

Click on the titles to read more about each poet, and their poem.

Wooden Window Frames Luci Tapahonso

The morning sun streams through the little kitchen’s
wooden panes; its luminescence tempts me to forego coffee.
But I don’t. The dark coffee scent melds with the birds’
chirping along the hidden acacia. Then, a small bird
alights on the cross of the wooden clothesline.
Its tiny head turns from side to side, then as if sensing me,
it gazes at me through a window square.
We ponder each other, then remember our manners,
and it flies off into the clean, cold air.

My Kiowa friends say a visit from a bird
is the spirit of a departed loved one.
I think again of Marie, my friend, my comadre –
the many feast days, powwows, and trips we shared.
We cruised down Taos’s one main street,
and rushed to Smith’s grocery for last-minute necessities,
or Walmart for the white cylinder candles for wakes.
We hauled huge, bulging bags to the town dump.

Oh, sister, this entire town brims with memories
of our long sisterhood, since our early twenties
when we were young mothers,
but that was in the last century.

This quiet casita is surrounded by tall stands
of elm and cottonwood trees, their bare, brown
branches stark against the deep, blue sky.

Every other week, snow falls in thin waves
onto the flat ochre houses
that seem anchored to the ground.
Outside of these thick adobe walls, a stillness settles upon everything.
As memories drift all around, I gather ingredients for a stew,
scents of coffee and toast linger around the arched doorway,
and the warm air in the kitchen lightens the chopping of vegetables.
Soon, the windowpanes are damp from the simmering stew.

All there is now, is to wait, sip coffee, and watch the snow
fall in layers on the roofs, trees, fences, and cars.

I am in a serene cocoon of memories.
All our conversations and laughter are silent now.
Somewhere north of here, dogs bark playfully,
probably romping in the fresh snow.
Just up the road at the pueblo, your family gathers.
They replenish the fire, stir pots of red chile
and place potato salad and platters
of sliced oven bread on the table.

Untitled Lance Henson

Here is a place where nothing can die
Darkness that lives beneath the leaves

We bring our nights there without knowing
We bring our fear there before the singing begins
We bring our silent names there hoping we are forgiven

We bring our hands there scented of a river

We bring our prayers that hide and watch us
The landscape where we have held the loose feathers
Of a fallen bird

And awakened in the land of the unseen

Here is a place where nothing can die …

Poetry: Meetings

Elizabeth Woody

Twice on other travels a wolf stood on the periphery of lamplight.
Our eyes intensified in the silent distance between sanctity.
There is one who appreciates secondhand revelations of wolves.

Sparrow hawk waves fast hinges of small capture in its apex of watch.
Where are the absent coyotes of Willamina?
Winter-sleepy mice are slow.

The salmon pass the fishers’ drift into deadline.
The count is a button pushed in the rapture of instinctual homing.
An eye squint records the shrapnel glimpses of Chinook.

Our river’s low, as manly winds blur the edges of inland clouds.
Aspiring rain is a sleepy feminine whisper.
Grasses sweep patterns of mock celestial visitations.

Otter pelts feel soothingly moist in the rich depth of velvety pelage
Small bare edged ears are symbolic of ocean’s chill.
One secret otter strip is owned for future weaving.

Otter woven into a ¹Ravenstail robe is royal and tide riddled.
The otter dances on prominent lineage hidden through survival.
Copper light resumes ceremony from absence to embrace our shoulders.

^{1. Tlingit weaving and a form that nearly died out.}

A Poem for Wednesday

The Home of the Sacred Ofelia Zepeda

^{Sublime landscapes were those rare places on earth where one had more chance than elsewhere to glimpse the face of God. —“The Trouble with Wilderness; or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature,” by William Cronon}

The “sublime landscape” is not a place to catch a glimpse.
These places are where the creators, Gods, deities and powerful beings live.
At Waw Giwulig I’itoi’s home is found.
O’odham climb the peak to be in the goodness of the Creator.
At Mauna Kea the Goddess Pele resides.
Hawaiians climb a volcano and humble themselves there.
At San Francisco Peaks near Flagstaff Kachinas and Ye’ii Bi Cheii
spirits live.
They climb down the mountain blessed with songs and prayers
when Navajo and Hopi call them.
In the Grand Canyon many Gods, deities, and
powerful beings stay in these rock walls and cliffs
holding vigil for their people.
In this powerful place are all the sacred beings.
The Hualapai, Havasupai, Zuni, Hopi, Navajo and others know they
are there. The people simply don’t “catch a glimpse” of holy beings
they sing them; they pray them in these places.

See (and hear!) more about this poet, and this poem on this page.

“Delayza’s Necklace” by Max Early

(Tuesday’s poem.)

We enter to sounds of bells.
The hall’s warmth evokes
an imprint of my small self
standing by my grandparents.
Their presence I sense
in drums and singers’ voices.

Collective breath of all colors
hovers above the leaping herd.
Eagle and hawk feathers adorn
the deer dance’s rhythmic scent—
forest evergreen, damp earth.

Delayza puts her hand in mine.
The seated crowd hinders her view.
I lift her above the masses—
a butterfly beyond reach.

Her irises bloom to the choir
and drumbeats rumbling
nearby snowflakes.

I set her among the gold straw flecks
glistening on the mud plastered floor.
Her body sways back and forth,
she stands on tiptoe
to see over the crowd.

A charcoal faced hunter
in camouflage shirt and jeans
trots towards the small child.
He places a coral bead necklace
over her head as she smiles
at her new delight.

Saturday Poem

I was built by inherited hungers. This is not a poem that names them.

Kimberly Blaeser

i.
As a body politic we take up space in their ledgers.
Yes, my relatives are the salvage bodies of history.

We have ways they do not approve of.
How we feed ourselves for one:

I have been taught where to find the winter cache of squirrels—
and how to walk away.

As we walk, my brother quiets me:
you cannot tell stories until you visit the places where they make their homes.

Father said the garden song calls the pollinators—
and we must sing in tune.

Nimaamaa said leave some for the spirits and the little people
(and what she meant was we are small in the green frayed body of belonging).

We learn from makwa, from maa’ingan—sometimes, even from Nanaboozhoo.

By this I mean not everything tattered is ruined.

ii.
They believe I was built of equations for gain.
(This poem is not an anthem.)

We still follow picto-spirits,
animal tracks, and seed paths:

Not all of our tools have price tags.

Not all of our safeguards are weapons

You will not find wild game in our lexicon.

Ask yourself—are we the meat they covet?

Find out more about this poem, and this poet.

Friday Poem

As Girl

Annie Wenstrup

At six being a girl meant Tinkerbell
nail polish and pointed, pink Barbie shoes.
Sequined fairy wands and slippers that fell
off my feet when I ran. Outside the blue
sky a backdrop for green grass, the sweet
gum tree that was home base. Everything caught
my eye and sparkled. Rain-freshened earthworms,
armored rollie-pollies, and firefly dots.
At night the television played the news.
Its cyclopean eye returned my stare.
The goat-like pupil reflected a parade
of women and girls like ewes. Fair
and lovely. I thought they were adored.
Later, I was not a girl anymore.¹

^{1. Stardate 2373, Earthdate 12.25.2021: I watch the crew stand on deck and chart a course around
the asteroid. I want Roddenberrian optimism, but I worry that one of us misunderstands a
time-paradox. I worry one of us misunderstands humanoids.}

^{The rerun ends and another documentary begins. Onscreen
a model James Webb unfolds its mirrors}

^{like petals}

A Poem For Thursday

Ars Poetica

Kenyatta Rogers

^{After Amiri Baraka and Stefania Gomez}

Poems are bullshit unless they are broken
like a horse, like a dog kicked in the ribs,
Like your favorite toy that’s missing an arm.

Love can make you feel used.
I want the poem that limps back to me.
Poems should hurt like love,
like ice water on your teeth
like a massage to smooth out a cramped muscle.

Give me the poem that’s like leather.
Give me the poem that smells like gasoline.
I want a poem that is a warning,
a poem that makes me check to see
if I left the shotgun by the door,
a poem that’s a runny nose, a sneeze, a poem
that’s the moment the sky turns green.

I hope you check out more about this poem, and the poet.