Better Than Integers

I am supposed to be studying for a placement test regarding math of which I have always been poor at and so therefore I distracted myself with my photos from some years ago and slung some Photoshop on them. Now back to work.

Low Tide Sunrise

Posting Seagulls

Mudfish

Sunrise

Stingray

The Unnamed Storm

The Unnamed Storm

Perhaps             to name you

was to                           know you.

Your gradual                            approach

allowed                                                the denial.

…as if preparations were

unnecessary            or            not            to            be            rushed…

maybe your landfall would be soft

            in the middle of the night as

I slept,                                                  unknowing.

Oh but that doesn’t ever happen with

            a hurricane.

The steering currents warm

with energy

made certain

that

your arrival would be                                  noticed.

You brought a power greater than                 mine.

I stood helpless                                     on the shore

to

hold you back             

or                                 keep it as before.

My belongings                                     scattered…should I search              or

are they ruined by                    your caustic            pounding and should I

just       let        them                                        go?

More Beautiful Than Flowers

I am reading a volume of poetry, Voices of the Rainbow - Contemporary Poetry by Native Americans, and ran across a poet in this anthology that upon reading his Anishinabe Grandmothers, I was grateful for his ability to reach inside. His name is Gerald Vizenor. Reading this poem of his caused me to reflect on how the wisdom and strength of grandmothers in any culture are such a necessary part of generating hope for the future through their interaction with their grandchildren and community. It touched my heart to think of Native American grandmothers instilling hope even though they were sure to have experienced many trials in their own lives. It's a beautiful poem.
I hope that you will enjoy this as much as I did.




ANISHINABE GRANDMOTHERS

anishinabe grandmothers
swelling like sweet clover on the dancing fields

stomachs swaying
print dresses smiling on the wind

tribal dream songs
coming from the past without teeth
more beautiful than flowers

dream children touching the earth again
with gnarled fingers

the scars of reservation life
turning under with age

the sacred earth remembers
every flower

grandchildren following
clumsy and clover stained
tasting the rain
singing
the world will change

The poet - http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/gerald-vizenor

The culture - http://en.wikibooks.org/wiki/Introduction_to_Anishinabe_Culture_and_History/A_Brief_History

Ragpicking Love

I am just so moved by the photo on this album by Mark Knopfler. I've placed it on the wall above my computer monitor because I am determined to write a poem regarding the feeling I had immediately upon seeing it - I've written a few, one of them comes close but I don't think I've captured that feeling I had yet, in written words. So I thought I'd post it here - I'm open for comments on what you feel looking at it. Send them on!

Here is a link to one of the songs on the album in case you want to check it out
The Place we Used to Live

Say What?

I really debated about making a blog entry with this poem. I wrote it many years ago and I know it's very dark. Depressing. But for some reason it's coming back around to me and in an attempt to be true to what is that strange thing inside I call a spark of creativity, here it is.

At the time I wrote it I was contemplating on how exactly over 900 people would follow a mad man to their death - it had to start somewhere far from that moment when they took their lives and even the lives of their family members. I think it's so important to be careful in religious matters - and not so gullible. People do deceive others and some of them MEAN TO. Anyway, here it is - And turn back if you want to be reading a more uplifting message!

A Kool Aid pile of persons                    

longing for a taste  of

the Promised Land.

An abstract presentation,

performance art of futility

and a colossal lack of planning.

The connecting sinews show in

the promises made…

then discarded…

dumb sheep following blindly

the mad man.

The old model car

making a noise through town,

ugly it seems and

the sameness of your breath makes

the day less important when…

Oh, it’s not a choice to be

so unsatisfied.

It happened naturally,

by comparison.

When the media god spoke

the review was wanting

and

the canned promise of better productions

allured the players to the story

then to the story teller

then to…

Their last glimpse was of

empty eyes.