Poetry II
The Borderland
As we zig zag the
US and Canada border
from Maine to Seattle
and into Alaska
We travel through Native lands
families and friends separated
long lines of cars and trucks
on land and bridges
close communities
divided
Passports to be shown
sunglasses off
those with a DUI
cannot cross over
even as passengers
or ever again
I heard it said
Sometimes it's a long trek
other times not
Reservations and Reserves
two separate lands
on one border
or another
Veteran Elders come
to participate
at Eagle Staff gatherings
some well into their 90's
Regalia and bundles
inside the car
the border patrol
depending who you get
know better now
to not go through them
Officers with good training
have learned to respect
the ways and traditions
different from theirs
Indigenous men
women and children
come to participate
in a pow wow
a celebration
a sacred circle
on the other side
First Nations go south
Native Americans go north
First Alaskans go east
Northern First Nations go west
To participate and celebrate
to give thanks for each other
the earth
the land and waters
animals and trees
stories from another time
Everything done in a circle
intricately sewn regalia
headdresses, jingle dresses
made with feathers, beads
and the hide of buffalo
caribou, deer, and seal
Songs and traditions
from long ago
to say we are one
in a circle
with no borders
Verses not written
I think of the verses
I tried to recite but they flew off
my tongue and got carried away
by some wild wind,
into the night like a firefly
who knows what "jar" means.
One summer, I retrieved a poem
I had imagined months earlier and
found it hanging on the clothesline
basking under the sun
with the sheets and towels
it knew what "paper" meant.
I let it be. So many good ones
have gotten away from me.
The Dream Catcher Restaurant
Sault Ste Marie, Michigan
July 2019
an elder woman seated across the aisle from us
having brunch with a girlfriend
her jacket draped over a chair
on it are a moose, deer and eagle overhead
on a clear blue lake cries the loon
I am back in the North Lakes Woods region
I hear faint background of seventies music
Bob Dylan, Maria Muldaur, Gordon Lightfoot
Buffy Sainte Marie, Johnny Cash
our waitress pours refills while
my husband makes travel arrangements
on his smart phone
I think back to waking up
at the cabin in northern Minnesota
sitting at the dock with a cup of hot chocolate
reading second-hand ear-marked paper backs
while listening to the loon
after a morning swim
a late teen, care-free dreamer
I wondered about that big world out there
of infinite possibilities
will I go to college, what will I study
where will I live, will I get married and have children
will I be a drifter?
the road of my childhood, not a straight line
my studies and jobs took me far from the lake
to places of no return
I was brave and foolish then
it is a small miracle, I am not dead
what happened to the care-free teen at the lake?
the elder across the aisle
stood up and put her jacket on
the jacket with the moose deer eagle and loon
she turned and gave me a familiar smile
and walked away
I Knew a Man at Twenty
I knew a man at twenty
and now he is sixty
his life is like an old LP
On the first track
there is a groove where
the needle gets stuck
He doesn't bother
to lift the needle
to hear the other tracks
he plays the same song
over and over again
up to that point.
It's best to let it be at that
and blame it on the track
He Brings My Poems to the Grocery Store
Before he gets out of the car will he look over the
grocery list and notice my attempted poem on the
back page, the one about Second Chances.
Will he spot it in the produce section while
turning the page to see if I had written strawberries
to then discover the poem. Will he take pause,
read it and smile, or will he look at it as scrap
paper, being used wisely, turning it quickly over
not to lose frame of thought, or be discovered.
Maybe he'll read the back page while in the long
check-out line, fold it in half, leave at the bottom
of the cart which he'll leave outside, and let blow in the wind
with all the other lists we make, or perhaps he'll unfold it
read it twice, and put it in his shirt pocket close to his heart.
The Crucifix
on 332 West 23rd Street
room 311
in a single bed
hotel room
on west 23rd street
monday
doors slam into the night
a muzzled conversation
on a phone from
the room next door
our beds between a
thin wall
I hear his
gentle breathing
cigarette smoke wafting
out of the bathroom vent
toilets flushing
showers running from
a communal washroom
across the hall
water drips
voices and whispers
in foreign languages
in night
faint background noises
traffic and sirens
hotel soap rug shampoo
cigarette smoke
New York smells
mixed with my daughter's
lily of the valley
hand lotion
I put on before I left
her tiny room
on w. 21st Street
yesterday
I walked over to her tiny
apartment in room 4c
to help her pack up
before graduation
for the final move
it all was nice and neat
until it came out of
the drawers
and onto the bed
it was like
a tsunami hit
we sorted her things
marked what went in
all the different boxes
what to keep
what to discard
reading in bed
I look over and
see an ordinary crucifix
on the wall across
from me
arms stretched out wide
head tilted to the side
I hear it say
in a New York accent:
hey you over there
yeah you
come over here
and give me a hug
it made me smile
then laugh
I went back to sleep
the next morning
I woke up to hear it
saying:
hey you over there
yeah you
come over here and
give me a hug
I went to it
gently ran my finger
over
the figurine
with the mortal wounds
sadness of face
crown of thorns
best not to see
things up close
leaving room 311
on west 23rd street
Across The Creek, There
In between the pines is a creek
I should not yearn to be there
when I am here
In between the pines is a creek
I should not yearn to be here
when I am there
I'll be there soon enough
On Foreign Ground
Lying under four Poplar trees
on a Persian tapestry
in Hiroshima, Nagasaki Park
in Köln, Germany
with my daughter
on a warm afternoon
late May
She found love here
but not an occupation
nor is she in the right location
for finding one
A breeze runs through her tears
as we lie together and look up
pink and white petals
swirl and swoon around us
these are blossoms not bombs
a blessing
In silence I pray
to our Grandmothers
Thank you, Miigwetch
Danke, Merci
We open our mouths to
the rain
The Stink Bug
what a bad rap
a silent and slow
crawler
not known
for its speed or
flying capabilities
when killed
it stinks and it
carries a heavy weight
it opened up about
the holocaust
slavery
the American Indian
immigrants
dandelions and
buffalos
and told me
he was just the
same and that
his name had
saved him
Neighbors
our neighbors travel far and wide
to see their friends and loved ones
their friends and loved ones travel far
and wide to see our neighbors
and to think we see them every day
except for when they go away
Medicine
my son's affection
is like no other
it's not like my husband's
or daughter's
he can comfort me
like no other
I never want
to misuse or need it
it's a beautiful thing
to know that it is there
like finding fresh cedar
on folded white linens in a
drawer you never go in to
all poems © P. LeBon Herb