He leans up against packed adobe,
face turned up to a sun, eyes closed to feel it
and no obstruction for stories that ride
a simple waft of desert air.
Sky splits and turns itself inside out
At his loving command. A child,
barefoot with dry meat in its hands
waves it like a talking stick and stories
come rumbling out from a half-closed mouth
full of clenched –down nubbins
of teeth. He sucks on a stone and begins:
“Hopes have I put like little seeds
in a board-bound garden
and I carry water in bent buckets
to tease them awake. I am rain, I say,
singing an old rain song. I gave you worms
for friends, that will tickle you
until you drop your stiff covers and rise
above the well-plundered patch sod
thick and rich as if buffalo bones
road my hoe. I sing with fluted voice
like a charmer to coax you to rise
like slim head of the corn snake.”
Sun feeds the leather face and he rests
his head on the cool shadow of a mud wall
until the story has meaning for him.
“Water is a gift, I said, and tamped down
soil softly, my own version of a pre-rain
dance in white man’s moccasins. They heard it
although those soles spoke a foreign language,
and withered rather than face another long dry trail.”
Sucking in dry desert sand with every deep breath,
he offered himself up to an ordinary sun.
“Clouds stole my children from me
like childless couples want a pet
of a plant to nurture or a borrowed horse
to pull fine wagons. Harnessing broke
their spirit and they were put out to pasture
where they became wild. Listen, I can call them.”
He patted the cupped sharp bone of his knee
under faded blue denim and seemed startled
by a patch of dry skin trembling under a worn hole.
He drummed it like taut rawhide.
“Old bones do not forget how to pray things back.
watch sway of that spiky-topped pinion
when I touch hand to this leather. It knows
sounds of our prayers and wants to lean over to me.
That’s how they know to come; those children
swerving on cruel sidewalks in dusty cities.
If you were there, you’d see some of them
were not drunk on Whiteman’s water, they are dancing
another dream, one that would bring them home
if enough of us made right music.”
A grandchild came, with little brown hand,
led him back into cool of hut. He handed her his stone
and asked her to place it in the garden
where his turquoise spit would renew even one brown spiral.
He danced and old dance to his cot for his afternoon dream,
humming faith in new beginnings into his woven blanket.
Author notes
a poem for Noreen who thought I should write it. Here, my friend, a turquoise tune for you!
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 15 of 15
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I'm diggin those high-top moccasins...
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Beautiful Words Radiant as the Sun
you speak of the way of life, the love and hard work of my ancestors. Written in excellence. I enjoyed this very vivid read. Write on!...Aquene,ennovy
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Great
This is a brilliant poem. You have used some fantastic words there. I have lots of favourite lines here are a few " sucking in dry desert sand with every deep breath" and " he pattered the cupped sharp bone of his knee" I think you have used great Imagination there. such flow too. By the way I'm gem. Well done too you I look forward to seeing more of your poetry. Thank you -
Wonderful. The intention is admirable, the aplication epic and effective. Superb use of inner speech and thought, with word choice near perfect. Due to its length it does drag in some places, but remains a stunning piece. Thankyou for the pleasure,
All the best,
Ed
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ah, you have never sat at an elder's knee and had to lsiten to their stories...lol...one main point is circled around and around and sometimes it takes days for the message to sink in...lol..ty for your kidn comments.
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Memories
How beautiful to describe such beautiful dreams and memories that echos through the sands of time. Simple life and simple things, are filled with the stuffs of life. Thanks for sharing. Jules.
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thank you, Jules. This is a verytypical way for my elders to tell astory. I am glad you enjoyed it.
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My words will not match my feelings
you have touched me deeply ... I thank you
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One of these days we will do a cowrite....I like your writing as well...
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Your imagery is not only seen but felt. The warm sun and dry air are here as I read your wonderful poem. I particularly like the children with the wise older man (being wise and older). It is as it should be.
Jim
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yes, it was important to me to have the child lead the old man in...so traditional and so true to what life used to be about.
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Oh my soul sister you have done this pic justice. I knew it was one for you to get inspiration from. I loved this pic but knew I could not create the story that you could. Thank you so much for writing such a wonderful piece for such an honorable vision.
Soulful Woman
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thank you for the reason to be inspired and your belief in me, Nor...
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Why when I read your poetry do I always get lost in the visuals and images of your world. Probably because you are that damn good.
"they are dancing
another dream, one that would bring them home
if enough of us made right music.”
I absolutely love this part it is so profoundly etched.
Shadows -
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thank you pen firend. I am glad it touched you....our stories need to be told again and again, however we can tell them to prove we are still here..and still talking and teaching.
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