Was he our Peter who stood
on the rock and laid the first
block to build
in his vision?
Just a man.
Kmtin, like Kmtin the mountain,
whose white assures us, calms us
with knowledge gained gazing
through silvery vapours
from intellectual heights.
Was he the air that surrounds us,
feeds us and eases us through
our journeys?
Our time continues
while his was then and is gone.
A man who saw beyond
to a time when his visions
would be fulfilled and forever
treasured by those who
called him a true Native Son,
Chapel Island’s best.
A man who drank tea and told tales,
true meanings grasped
after the tea became cold.
We Fight His Demons
As he gets older he becomes
more child-like.
Simple tasks, like bathing,
eating, dressing are now
hurdles he cannot, will not,
face alone.
Our hands are his tools
to use as required,
our roles reversed.
The child becomes
the doting parent.
Worries, doubts, fear
and finally acceptance.
We fight his demons.
We chase away the bad spirits,
and smooth away the
wrinkles of discord
within the circle.
The Mi’kmaq in him
knows the elders
will be cared for and it
begins with those
closest,
his own.
Over Half a Century Ago
My days are slower now.
In my teens I was fast
like a corvette.
My days are a foggy blur,
as foggy as the Atlantic
over half a century ago.
Mud slows my walk.
As a child I loved it,
as a man in a trench,
I despised it.
Panzer tracks framed in
mud, heart racing.
A memory, just a memory
over half a century ago.
A tarmac with spilled fuel
filling my senses, roar of
spitfires sounding like
thunder at the farm
back home
over half a century ago.
Warriors of the sea,
land and sky, my
brothers and sisters.
We answered the call
over half a century ago.
Mi’kmaw Maidens in Distress
Two young women with differences
as great as their height and colour.
The pair, troubles the same. For now
sharing my castle, shielded from
verbal slings and arrows.
Attacks causing great harm, esteem
damage and identity crisis.
Mi’kmaw maidens in distress like
sheep separated from the flock.
Wolves catching scent, circling.
Funny how the ones professing the
most love can profess such hate
for ones of their own blood.
Four walls getting smaller each
praising-
counselling-
cajoling-filled
day with the visiting
Mi’kmaw maidens in distress.
Armour becoming lacklustre,
as is my enthusiasm.
Beyond Touch
I didn’t want to tell you
how good you looked that day.
I wonder if it was the way our
sun attacked your eyes
and saw through a lash or two,
a man who sees you at night
although always beyond touch,
taste and smell.
Lay, lie, lying at night
overhead paint changing,
reflecting our moon.
My space. You stood so close
for a moment I knew you
inhaled our air a molecule
at a time.
How I saw the pride in the
manner of the voice and a
minute swelling of a breast.
It was your dusty white
digits gripping chalk from
our learning-together past.
Now back on soil and water
I must stand and fight
an urge to whisper the words
of a convincing wordsmith
to end our sporadic friendship,
becoming lovers of our time.
For David
Sleep my son, sleep.
Dream of things fantastic
where new snow as
white as a winter cloud
lies like a soothing blanket.
Travel to far-off places,
remain safe and remember
I am never far from your side.
Do all the things young boys
do in their sleep. Touch the
stars, walk the moon, swim
the oceans without a care.
Visit the great thinkers of
time, imagine a language
of your own, teach the ones
you’ve met and never fear
saying the wrong thing.
Stretch your slumber wings
and fly to the home of the Eagle.
Ask him how he became
so important to the Mi’kmaq.
Tell him about the times
you saw him soar beneath the
clouds and how his shape
was silhouetted against white.
Remind him to come back for
the gatherings and let the
drums lull him to fly lazy
circles above our home.
Sleep my son, sleep.
And tomorrow when the sun
rises, I’ll ask you about
your journey.
Your Eyes
Your eyes cannot hide
the message of your
soul. Your manner is
not different, just your
eyes. Things happened
that made your eyes
lose their shine. Now
black pinpoints stare
down on me, making me
uncomfortable. A fly left
open? Something on
my face? I know we will
act differently now. Time
may change your soul and
eyes. Time may soften my
feelings. But for now, space you
shall have from me. Nothing
else.
They Took Your Word
They took your word. How they
twisted, shaped and changed
your truth to their truth.
So easy for the sea of blues
to deceive the willing deceivable.
Intolerant truth seekers
who took away your rights.
Your brown eyes, hair and skin
no match against prejudicial
badges, crimson gowns and rubber gavels.
For four thousand days you knew.
We knew.
And they knew.
Two people, just two, without
fail strode beyond those walls
with stainless razor wire and
self-locking doors. Every month.
The great man, you his son,
we his people.
Each time, each visit
we were there in spirit.
The woman at his side.
a mother to you.
You felt the comfort,
heard the beat of her heart.
“Freedom!” robed ones said. Freedom
with strings attached.
“Admit to our truth. Admit to our
truth. For you, freedom.
For us, exorcism of guilt.”
“No,” you said
in your soft speaking voice.
“My word. My truth. My God.”
So help you God.
You stayed in your cot and
awaited the arrival of your truth,
until a rust bucket galley cook,
impersonator of a master,
sharpened too many knives and
his forked pickled tongue
spat out your truth.
On that last day inside
the man and woman took
your unshackled hands
and led you through those
gates of hell,
to Freedom.
Those in green, not blue,
say the eels are not yours and
you cannot do as you wish.
These swimming broken pieces of
gallows rope, theirs not yours.
Badges, crimson gowns and rubber gavels
say so again.
Can the Creator sign contracts?
Did something happen
while we slept?
Now we wait.
We wait
and you wait again
for truth.
My German Friend
My German friend, for ten years
you have been my neighbour and
now you speak to me for the
very first time.
In those ten years you have been
like a sponge, soaked and bathed
by friendly eager hands,
softly caressing you with dirty lies,
misconceptions and soapy versions
of history. My history. Our history.
Once again someone from across
has judged the cover and
failed to look inside.
The classic mistake.
For ten years you have lived in a bubble,
created by the biases of your friends.
And, yes, I believe you when you say,
“I’m not prejudiced.” That kind of
prejudice is not of your making,
but it is made with your cooperation,
acceptance and willingness to
take someone else’s ugliness and
call it your own.
You are horrified when I reveal the truth.
Fortunately I have a solution.
Come. Come see my home and sit at my table.
Let’s go and see the people who work
as hard as you and your friends.
I’ll take you to the source so an opinion
can be made using the
proper information and not other people’s
borrowed eyes and hands and feet.
As a man who creates with wood, you must
understand that in order to make, to create,
you need the proper tools.
Here, I give you the tools. Now
you can use these implements to shape
an opinion of me, my people and our ways.
When you have learned all you can
you’ll no longer have to rely on others
for your opinion. You’ll have one of
your own.
Na to’q.
For J. E. M.
A sunset passes silently
as one more day’s designs
are met and silenced.
Your whispering breath
colours the still night.
Your love of yarns
paints your dreams.
Hands held subliminally
close to a dispensing heart,
known so well by me.
Inseparable like a thorn
and a rose.
Eyes of a summer sky
and mine of earth,
so much left to uncover.
Standing as one we see
our labour blossom
into the best of me
and the best of you.
Together we’ll watch
till we become part
of the landscape.
Raindrops slide freely across
my darkened face.
Clan brothers lie still, waiting
for my song of death,
ready deep inside my throat.
I Scream the Cry
I Scream the Cry
Raindrops slide freely across
my darkened face.
Clan brothers lie still waiting
for my song of death,
ready, deep inside my throat.
Silhouettes frozen,
the tools of death at rest for now,
charcoaled forest floor littered
with pine needles sticking to
leather and skin.
The enemy sleeps, all but one
tending fires, slowly
smoking meat for travel.
Forays into other sleeping camps
like ours, innocents
taken as they sleep.
Water fails to quench my need
for vengeance.
My knife feels heavy
as I scream the cry.
No Match for Steel
A loam-filled spade
covers the poxed constant face,
the high cheekbones,
until dust.
A bow with broken sinew
laid quiet, no match for steel,
alongside a quiver half
empty.
Drum beating slower for the dead.
whispering feet, light of night,
death rattles, all joining
a chorus.
Birch bark canoes with pitch
cracking under a sun
aided by a wind heavy
with sorrow.
An empty lodge of mud, sticks,
and water, ripped open by a
surgeon, turned butcher.
Flattened grass springing to life,
moccasined feet caressing
seasoned paths strewn with barren
pots of clay.
Scent of sweetgrass gliding out,
fields almost bare now
receding toward
the sea.
Songs lie forgotten on sand, gentle
breezes scatter unspoken
lyrics, unplayed melodies.
A quiet moment.
A scream of life echoes within
a new wi’kuom, bouncing off the faces
of skin and granite, dispersing to a
forest reborn.
In 1996 the poem “No Match for Steel” was the winner of the Anne Marie Campbell Award for Creative Writing, an award given annually by the University College of Cape Breton to promising Cape Breton writers.
In choosing “No Match for Steel” the judge for the competition, Beatrice MacNeil, explained her choice as follows:
It pierces an arrow into the heart of yesterday and mourns the loss of a way of life so e
loquently that one can hear the “whispering feet” and the “wind heavy with sorrow.”
This writing is clear and haunting. It clears its throat of steel and screams for the scent of Sweetgrass to sweeten yesterday’s lyrics. But the poet never loses completely. He is the moderator between time was and time is. His voice is the seed growing in the new forest. And the wind drifting softly by will wait and carry his words forever.
Welamsitew
A pool of mountain-clear water
captures trees with gnarled
branches somewhat like an old
one with many winters. The sky lies quiet,
clouds and blue,
trapped in the little pool.
An insect dances, six legs causing
tiny ripples dying off before
reaching shore at the face of
Welamsitew, the vain one, who
sits and gazes at her mirrored self.
Cheekbones as high as the tops of
maples, last year’s garments
lying, carpet-like, the colour of
sweat lodge flames bathing rocks.
A brown squirrel chats without
pause, disturbing no one except
Welamsitew, the vain one, and
causes her to lose her
loving gaze.
Viewing again, she closes her
eyes and opens them a
butterfly’s wing depth at a time,
slowly and carefully until brown
eyes see a brown face, an
old friend, familiar lover,
herself.
The world of Welamsitew returns
to normal, clouds move on,
the sky begins to darken, waves
wash ashore erasing the walking
portrait of Welamsitew,
the vain one.
For Ball and Shot
The winter rain never stops,
my feet are cold and I keep
longing for the warmth of
wi’kuom and my fire.
How I feel for the beaver,
his home at the tail of
this familiar lake.
Soon I will break open
his lodge of mud and stick
taking his young, his mate,
so that I may trade his life
and the lives of his clan
for ball and shot.
The bow pales beside the
musket balls and shot.
Once, a hunt would be silent,
with dignity, with acceptance,
now with great noise and
ceremony as a blazing tongue
Clay Pots and Bones Page 2
