Category Archives: Spirit

Where Can We Go To Mend?

When the fireworks sound like bombs dropping on this land and the shouts are like the screaming of our red skinned brethren being torn away from home, when 13,000 years get swept under the red and white carpet, we are banging on drums and linking up arms to say don’t forget we were here and we still exist. You can’t bandage these ancestral wounds. What you are doing to the others that came here from afar, we still carry that scar. They all have a place to seek refuge in our home and Native land, but where can we go to mend?

Who will protect us from our government? It’s a true testament of the Aboriginal spirit that this heart knows it’s own truth no matter how deep you try to bury it.

 

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Control, Alt, Delete

You are born in ethereal light, funereal flow through vessel of heart, where  room holds caskets, bassinets, tourniquets, places to sleep, to dream, to waken. On the day of your departure from veins, warmth of crimson, rush of celebration, permeates receptor cells, life the mournful fall, death the joyful rise, pulling coins from your eyes, toll for the boatman, an atheist bent on sinking, cargo of karmic, a vessicle of rebirth, bursting forth, dissolving the old self and its former memories, dreams, hopes, and procreation. Reversal of ego, the fluidity of self. They give you a name, a place, a face, a position between two poles, a selective offering of chromosomes, and then they take it all away, leave you as a blank slate, you the great author, illiterate, inarticulate, mouthing desires, forming fears. Before you get here you are complete, experience erases data-
control, alt delete.

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Filed under creative, Death, Disenchantment, Displacement, Evolution, Identity, Illusion, Journey, Life, Loss, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Soul, Spirit, Time, travel, writing

Women of the waters that are never still

The missing and murdered indigenous women all gathered together at the lost city of Atlantis.

“No one believes we are real,” said one to the other, “they will never try to find us here.”

“If they never believe then we are free. If they start to remember is when we have to worry.” Said another.

“Yes the great spirit has made an ocean of oblivion and in all their crossings they forget..

They think their cities are real and ours is a myth.”

“Yes.” spoke the chief.
“We are safe here.”

They are distracted by the stars. The stars that died centuries ago.
The apocalypse has happened already. They just don’t know it yet.

They are all dancing together in a Matrix of dreams.

They wake up with new scars and wonder how those wounds ever healed.

“Sometimes they forget to hurt when we touch them,” spoke the child of agile deer, “and they mistake this pain for pleasure.”

The turtle will rise once more. When the time is right.

“The time is close,” spoke the hungry hawk girl. I see rust over the towers of progress, it stains their rivers and kills their fish. The white men in their polished houses laugh louder now. They laugh with terrorist eyes. And all the world is quiet in disbelief.

We are safe for now, but it won’t last. This time when they come dressed as brothers we will know the truth in that horse’s eyes.

We won’t drink the fire.

We won’t accept their dirty blankets.

We know how to keep warm. We are the keepers of the fire. We must never forget who we are, even if they have. They have all fallen asleep. When the sun rises it will be too late.

“It has already come to be,” spoke the ominous owl. It has already been written. They will burn the treaties. There is no honour in sickly pacts. They are a lost tribe.

“We have already been found what is there to search for now?” The sad squaw pleaded.

We must find ourselves here. We must honour our mother and father and give our respects to our grandfathers. One day all our relations will come together and they will lose their blindness.

Only when they have regained this vision can we be one again.

“One tribe under one sky” spoke the eager eagle.

So it is has been spoken.

They passed the peace pipe from hand to hand as they gathered around the roaring fire and danced.

You could hear the echo of their drums in the lost world where the rhythm of life was mute, their voices carried in the cries of the wild.

The forgotten ones were there and they remembered. Some of them had wolf eyes that lit a path through the dark.

You could never go hungry if you followed them.

But the eyes of the others were a deep abyss surrounding an ancient island, where they held a sacred vigil in honour of our fallen sisters

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Lost

I awake to my breath in a ghostly cloud above my head.
This white clarity blinds the city.
Unable to rest, unable to dream.
He said our people, the Anishinaabe were possibly the lost citizens of Atlantis, true Atlanteans crossing the Atlantic. Thousands of years ago the Mediterranean was more like a lake and less like an ocean. The land mass of Atlantis formed a bridge from North America to Athens Greece. My kin, the Algonquins migrated to the ancient city and throughout parts of Europe, including Britain and the East. Is it possible the whites were decendants of us? Is it possible an old seed buried deep split open and released a very ancient desire to reclaim itself? He speaks of Sakimay as a place where our people originated. This was the land of my ancestors. He speaks of the seven fires prophecy and the crystal energy our people harnessed, which led to their own downfall, the sinking of our island, the melting of the glaciers, the light that flooded in like razors on our skin and stained us with the red ink of Indians. The turtle island that sank and swam down again, lost in the reaches of time. Oh Turtle, teach us of the truth sewn in hand with the ilk of our ancient medicine, until then we are lost like a city under the sea.

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A language for what we speak

They set dynamite and explosives , a fine copper, a chiseled lead and the trigger at my finger said; dead, the bullet shrapnel dread of thought. Where I was fullness of earth and sun burning red, I became that other thing instead. White, Black, dissipating into pure, crystalline, granular dust. This karmic rust, this mind shed. Now I am no thought. I am no heart. No body. Your hand as it reaches for me becomes open cut, becomes decomposed mass, of unrecognizable. I am dancing with your skeleton out here in the dark before I’ve learned how to see. I am blind and hungry. I am empty. I am empty before the rise of day, the soft petal of your last word now blows off the tongues of green. This cool morning mist, the singing crickets, the shuffle as we make our way towards the end of what we are. Each dying star reminds me of the day I buried my entire life as a seed, it didn’t matter how it grew, what mattered was the thought which kept it hydrated.

Look she said and I agreed;
“they don’t have a language for what we speak.”

The small child smiled. The sun rose. She pointed to something indiscernable, a flower, is what they told her it was, but that was only the word they used to describe their understanding of it. It was a word that carried across the earth in a thousand unbreakable dialects. She pulled it from the soil, another voice said “it cannot be reversed now.”

We cannot dance clockwise or tie up our binds before the fire in the hopes of clarity. This sprig of coniferous wonder will soon perish with the bitter season, leaving in its wake a painful pining, pins and needles under this white reckoning of a frozen soul.

Out here your howl is my music, it is the wet of your palm in mine, granular, warm. It is sand into fire. Bone into flesh again.

It is bird now. They call it migrant. It rises beyond and lands here.

The girl holds flower over grave.

Over the land we inherit. Ash.
Ash palace,
Volcanic temple on pulse, aligning spine. Stem. Brain stem. Thorn.

Home in which we’re born. Cave into grave…

where the smile fades.

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Filed under Silence, Soul, Spirit, travel, Upheaval, writing

Yucca

Petals of many colours, you lure others with, and the yucca is unresponsive, only one type of flower for one type of moth and so many flowers are cut, but this flower is cut for her. Lines are rigid, pollen astringent, if the yucca flower could speak, it’s lurid voice would frighten away a meadow full of butterflies, saying don’t and won’t, can’t, only nourish me then fly away, I’m not meant for your hands to hold.

image

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Filed under poetry, Spirit, travel, Unwanted, writing