Poetry
The Borderline
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 clothes
line 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 is draped over a chair
On it are a moose, deer
An eagle overhead. On a clear blue lake cries the loon
I am back in the North Lakes, woods region
I hear a faint background of seventies music
Bob Dylan, Maria Muldaur, Gordon Lightfoot
Buffy Sainte Marie, Johnny Cash
Our waitress keeps pouring refills while
My husband is making travel arrangements
On his smart phone
I think back to waking up an early morning
At the cabin in Northern Minnesota
Sitting at the dock with a cup of hot chocolate
Reading second-hand, ear-marked, paper backs
While hearing the loon in the far off distance
After a morning dip
A late teen, care-free dreamer
I'd wonder often 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 was 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 that care-free teen at the lake?
The woman across the aisle
Stood up and put her jacket on
The jacket with the moose, deer, eagle and loon
At the lake
She turned and gave me a familiar smile
And walked away.
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 of the page; the one about Second Chances?
Or 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 will read the back page while in the long
check-out line then fold it in half and leave it at the bottom
of the cart to later bring outside and let blow in the wind
With all the other lists we write. 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
later I hear
his gentle sleep
cigarette smoke wafting
out of the bathroom vent
toilets flushing
showers running from
the communal washroom
across the hall
water drips throughout
the day night
voices and whispers
in foreign languages
not sure what time it is
it's just night
faint background noises
of traffic and sirens from the
north side of the building
hotel soap, rug shampoo
cigarette smoke
new york smells
mixed with my daughter's
lily of the valley
hand lotion which
I put on before I left
her tiny room
on w. 21st Street
earlier yesterday
I walked over to her
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
while 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 heard 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 see it
again saying:
hey, you over there
yeah you,
come over here and
give me a hug
I went up to it
and ran my finger
over the small figurine
I saw up close
the mortal wounds and
the sadness of face
the crown of thorns
best not to see things up too
close
before 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.
The Visit
Lying under four Populus trees
on a Persian tapestry
in Hiroshima Nagasaki Park
in Köln, Germany
with my daughter
on a warm afternoon
late May.
She found love
but not an occupation
nor is she in the right location
for finding one.
A breeze runs through her tears
a dust of blossoms
spin and swirl
as we lie together and look up.
The petals fly and swoon around us
these are blossoms not bombs
a blessing.
I lay down tobacco
at the base of each tree
my way of speaking
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 to me 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 when they go away.
Medicine
My son's affection
is like no other, it's
not like my husband's
or my daughter's.
He can comfort me
like no other. I never want
to misuse or try and need it.
It's just a beautiful thing
to know that it is there.
It's like finding fresh cedar
on folded white linens in a
drawer you never go in to.