bellows smoke and fire.
The cold wind swarms
over my clothed form.
Furs are gone,
traded for drink,
for ball and shot.
Lungs use less and less
of the morning air,
phlegm loosened
as I spray the slushy
grey snow, colouring it
like a summer sunset,
and then I hear a tail
slapping the once
familiar winter lake.
Mainkewin?
(Are You Going to Maine?)
Do you remember Maine?
Do you remember telling everyone who would listen that you were going to Vacation Land picking blueberries?
Do you remember the taste of your first submarine washed down with a cool Bud from the first store you saw after you crossed the border?
Do you remember the cool mornings that enabled you to get fifty plus boxes that first day at work there in the barrens?
Do you remember where you went swimming to cool off in afternoons? Was it Scoodic Lake or Columbia Falls?
Do you remember going back to the camp after picking blueberries and seeing the filth on your body?
Do you remember waking up the next day and being unable to move without pain?
Do you remember working in the hot August sun not worrying about the UV index?
Do you remember being up half the night treating your badly burned red back and asking yourself, “What am I doing here?”
Do you remember the excitement of getting your first pay and spending it in Cherryfield, Millbridge or Ellsworth?
Do you remember the Bay Rum Pirates, Canned Heat Gang behind Grant’s General Store?
Do you remember staying until the frost killed the best berries of the season, the ones that were
promised to you by the leaseholder?
Do you remember hurrying to get home so the kids could go to school?
Do you remember the trip home and someone asking at the border, “All Indians?”
Shadows Dancing on the Edge
Photographs to petroglyph images,
beaded bone belts to fleeting
glimpses on sand swept clean
by wind and waves from distant
shores across the water of salt.
Stories so old, told around fire
pits as ancient as time.
Easy smiles seen in the dark
with shadows dancing on the
edge of the circle of light.
Knees pressed tightly to the
chest decorated with shells
white as the first snow, amulets
warding off spirits unkind to
the people who walk the woods.
Grandmother moon lends
her brilliance, illuminating the
questions that arise like mist in
the fields of sweetgrass near the shore.
When the morning sun touches
the tallest blade of swi-tey,
its mystic scent is dispersed
to far off places by the gentlest breeze,
No answers, just sensations
felt by those who are one
with their world.
Ash and Flint Flying as One
Sinew stretches and bends
an unwilling sculpted
rock maple no longer
haughty in height and form.
A sinew loop encircles a ring
cut deep into the white
nakedness of aged wood.
An instrument of life and
death begins to take shape.
Flint on ash slides gently where
hand and bow meet like lovers.
A sound unique to sinew, ash
and maple is heard by the
holder, gripping as if his
very existence depends
upon a true flight.
The sound of fat burning,
odours rise like ghosts,
easily melding with smoke
and flame, revealing faces of
children crushing bones,
ripping meat and swallowing
between smiles, as the
provider of the cause of
celebration envisions
days of ash and flint
flying as
one.
Dear successive fathers:
Explain to me, please, when did the
change take place from owners
to wards of the selfish state?
Write down the reasons why
the land under our feet became
foreign soil in perpetuity...
Clay Pots and Bones
Clay Pots and Bones
Dear successive fathers:
Explain to me please, when did the
change take place, from owners
to wards of the selfish state?
Write down the reasons why
the land under our feet became
foreign soil in perpetuity.
Say again how the signers of
1752 lost as much as they
gained while the ink from a
quill pen rested in its
blackened Royal well.
What justification exists that
allowed our mounds to be
desecrated, clay pots and bones.
Rock glyphs painted over by
cfc-propelled paint.
Our songs and stories protected
by copyright and law, not in the
bosom of our grandmothers or
grandfathers of yesterday.
The cost of keeping us does
not reflect the real cost.
How many ghostly sails with
reeking holds did English
ports comfort in early fog?
Have you much experience in
the destruction of people.
besides us?
Dancing, Fasting and Praying
The Medicine Man
gazes intently like the Eagle,
as each of his charges
looks to him for answers.
The dancing, fasting and
praying are all in vain.
Each morning
the stronger ones
prepare the still ones
whose eyes and
features are frozen.
The summer village’s vitality,
so strong for many seasons,
is now spent as if it
were a salmon.
Strangers, as pale as
ghosts, bear
gifts of trade,
leave with fur
and knowledge,
their hidden gift
to come later.
Brown faces,
red spots
spreading like a
summer fire,
consuming small ones
and old ones first.
The future, the past,
given the honours of
passing.
The Medicine Man
gazes intently,
as his eyes
water for the
last time.
Kluskap and Mi’kmaw
Kluskap:
Who are you and what are you doing here?
Do you hear the forest?
It says, “Come to me and sit.”
Mi’kmaw:
I sit here but I cannot hear.
I have forgotten.
I hear the one with shining eyes,
he tells me,
“Run to me.”
Kluskap:
Do not listen to him, listen to me.
He wants you for the wrong reasons.
He will steal your tongue, your land,
even where your ancestors are laid.
Mi’kmaw:
He does not want much,
a beaver, two fish, three geese.
When he gets these, he will be
satisfied and leave us.
Kluskap:
Listen carefully. The beaver will hide
from every man. Fish will be no more.
The goose will not come back. The land
he will take from you. And you cannot
say a word for he will have taken your
tongue. He will be here forever.
Kluskap Aqq L’Nu
Kluskap:
Wen ki’l aq talueken tett?
Nutmn nipukt?
Teluek, “Juku’e
Aqq pa’si.”
L’Nu:
Epi, pasik mu nutmu
Koqoey. Awan’ta’si’
Nutaq Wasoqwalkikwate’w,
Telimit, “Juku-tukwi’e’n.”
Kluskap:
Mukk jiksituaw, jiksitui ni’n.
Ketanisk na pasik, kmutnattew na
kilnu, kmaqmikem aqq ma’w ko’kmaq
Ta’n elisulti’tij.
L’Nu:
Mu menuekekw pikwelk, pasik kopitl
Aqq tapusiliji mime’jk
Ne’siliji sinumkwaq,
Elmiaq ula msnaj, l’mietew.
Kluskap:
Nike’ nute’n! Kaqietaqq kopitk,
Kaqietaqq mime’jk, sinumk ma’ apja’sikw,
Apkwilja’tultew kmaqmikem,
Je ma’kis-taluewn mita kilnu ma’tenukw
Ma’liekw tami, siaw-i’tew na iapjiw.
Leather, Stone and Bone
The cord has been with us
for such a long, long time.
Connected to the smiling
father, it grows taut from
our resistance and then
slackens again from
our reluctance.
The two sides:
flee, cut and be messy,
or stay, trust and be tidy.
One voice echoes the words
of ones who know,
their journeys complete,
the other voice of ones
who stay and breathe
the undated atmosphere.
Words written on parchment,
actors whose costumes
change with new acts
following written cues
making cultural-specific
laws governing the ones
of leather, stone and bone.
Cradle to grave, they say
Cradle to grave.
How words uttered in House
ring true to the present.
The giving father
smiles on.
The giving father
smiles on,
his children divided.
Cut or keep the cord.
No one asks the question.
Save the Last Bullet
The noble savage – have we
dispelled the myth?
The monosyllabic dialogue
of unionized Mediterraneans
riding against The Duke
who passes out the guns,
telling the fair maiden,
“Save the last bullet
for yourself, in case...”
The great General who said,
“The only good Indian
is a dead Indian!”
as hundreds succumbed
behind his horse.
The General’s horse stepped lighter,
the red dust became an
eternal dusty shroud.
Shed a tear with the children
of the Black Hills.
Sacred stone cut to provide
monumental caricatures
of men. All four.
Consent forms required
to pray at the Hills!
Is there a homeland
called Caucasia?
The Chain Remains Strong
The Chain stretches back
four centuries.
Two different world views
met as equals.
A time when the numbers
were reversed.
Around a fire held by rock
they agreed.
For as long as the sun rises
and the rivers run.
Sacred oaths sworn.
Royal Proclaimer said his peace,
we ours.
Prosperity for all,
a new beginning.
Painted faces washed away
by the rain.
Wigs, leggings and blood
red coats rested.
The Chain remained strong,
held by men.
The land became deeded,
the game depleted.
Sister and brother beings
lost forever.
Equitable foes no longer,
a paradigm shift.
Hatchets at the ready,
knives honed.
Moose skin shields, no match
for disease.
The Chain remained strong,
revered by one.
Blankets of pox and vermin
a gift.
Sought-after hair still attached,
twenty pounds.
Survivors scattered but able
to stand.
The land became deeded,
the game depleted.
Dark robes singing psalms,
plundering others.
Lodges of learning where
no one spoke.
Tongues severed by words
and leather.
The Chain remains strong,
unforgotten.
Alive.
Good Creator
Good Creator,
I bring sad news.
Let me sit closer to
the fire to warm
my aching bones.
Where shall I begin?
As you instructed us,
we fulfilled our bargain.
These woods, hills
and mountains echoed
the sounds of many
villages.
The animals you sent
were plenty
and we treated them
with respect.
We took no more
than we needed,
until...
Good Creator,
all this changed upon
the arrival of the ghost maker,
the pale one.
With his help, our
numbers shrivelled and died.
Now you must walk for days
to see other brown faces,
and they are but pale shadows
of the ones who have gone
forever.
Good Creator,
our robes are in tatters,
our stomachs like empty
seashells. Sand
and dust.
Good Creator,
my hands are the hands
of a disrespectful child
who has taken too much.
The woods are empty now,
devoid of sound,
like a sunset or a passing cloud.
Good Creator,
I seek your counse
l.
Is it too late?
For you I say keep your skin
the colour of earth and your
grandchildren like eagle wings.
Teach the ear so it hears
your young speak our words.
Now It’s Your Turn
Now It’s Your Turn
Look. Just look at it now
My grandfather’s grandfather could
walk for two days before seeing
the ones with wanting eyes.
Now today I can’t walk more
than fifteen minutes and I am
reminded by a sign that this
land is no longer ours to do
with as we see fit.
I yearn for those days when
I caught all the fish I could eat,
the rest shared with others.
My canoe would be filled to
the gunwales, her ribs bulging
as she strained to take me
home with salmon.
The trees offer little shade now.
Do you know why?
They have been cut so much
they don’t get a chance
to grow. When I was young
I saw a tree so big
ten men could stand on it.
Grandson, listen to me.
Make me a promise that you will
not let us lose any more.
The land that is gone stays gone.
The fish will be wary and may
never come back.
The trees may grow back,
if left alone.
For you I say keep your skin
the colour of earth and your
grandchildren like eagle’s wings.
Teach the ear so it hears
your young speak our words.
My eyes have seen many things,
now it’s your turn.
Taho.
Questions for Great Grandfather
Have you ever felt the kiss
of a tanned hide cured by
your hands?
Do you remember how
balsam wood smelled after
a summer rain?
Tell me how supple birch
bark becomes while wet
outside your canoe.
Has your hand fought with
a salmon at the end of your
bone-tipped spear?
When was the last time you
sat with bare back against
a bleached stump?
How many times have you
shaped your hair with black
bear grease?
How long did you lie on the
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