Clay Pots and Bones
Page 4
green grass, belly down, before
the sun reminded you?
What happened to your bare
feet when you walked across
a boggy swamp?
Has your tongue ever tasted the
ocean from an oyster eaten
fresh from the shore?
Were you able to tell which bird
sang the loudest on the morning
of the solstice?
When you lay down under the stars
did you find where Great Bear
hid from Chickadee?
Great Grandfather, I have seen things,
faces that turned scarlet when struck
with venomous words.
I heard the sound of glass falling
onto an unkempt green blanket.
Ask me about the sound of bone
breaking again,
the sound of a door slamming, locked,
not meant for elements.
Spoken words meaning less, foreign
with each syllable.
Stolen childhoods, crushed ideas,
frozen gazes.
Great Grandfather, I have also heard
words whispered at dawn,
seen the flash of fire in the
eyes of those who survive.
Stood with those rich with
pockets bare as their feet.
Heard the drum beat louder,
so loud it shakes the inside.
Songs of times gone by
in the mouths of the young.
Great Grandfather, from a
cupped hand over battered
chest,
I release you.
Matuesuey Kmtin
(Porcupine Mountain)
A plume of grey rises from the
heights of Matuesuey Kmtin.
A shudder felt, muffled sounds
escape as each new charge
catches current, releasing rock.
With each passing day Kmtin
dwindles, a fading shadow,
yet still dwarfing bulk carriers that
come seeking cargo to cover
the green with slabs of grey
in cities south and west,
in lands intent on concealing
silent footpaths of those who roamed.
Across the man-made road
of rock, over the once fluid
now semi-stagnant bluish
green-grey highway
of whales and tuna,
a message is posted:
Turn Off All Radios
Danger
Blasting Area.
What if I left my radio on?
Would they leave Matuesuey
Kmtin alone?
The owners of this shrinking hill
will leave only when Matuesuey
Kmtin is a memory found in
obscure poems by an obscure
poet who lacked the resolve to
play his radio and sing along
momentarily preventing its
determined demise.
Learned Elder
Learned Elder, share with me
the universal truths that you
harbour deep within your soul.
Take me by the hand to that
special place.
Lead the way so that I may
see the prints on Mother Earth.
Give me guidance, teach me
to ask and not to demand.
Sing to me the chants of old so I
may keep them alive.
Take out your drum and let the
sound reverberate inside.
Show the steps of the sacred fire,
offer tobacco and sweetgrass.
Unclench your hand and soak the
birch bark and shape a wi’kuom.
Hone your knife and scrape the fat
from the fresh hide of the kopit.
Use your ancient axe and bring
down the straight and true ash.
Weave your baskets to hold the
summer bounty of berries.
Polish that special rock to
make your dream stone.
Share the stories of my clan,
give me my history for safe keeping
until the time comes when I
become the Learned Elder.
Fires of the Ancients
Stand together as one.
Speak together as one.
Use all fifty-two languages
in this land of the maple.
How can they not hear us
when we speak so powerfully
revealing ugliness so beautifully?
Wise words of ancestors.
A voice alone is like a
solitary morning dew drop.
Voices together become rivers
of dreams, destinies and aspirations.
Let’s do what we say.
Let’s say what we do.
Speak the words spoken around
fires of the ancients.
A single shout becomes a
chorus that no one
dare drown.
Our Nation World
My eyes are wet
with the tears
of our loss.
As I stand alone
on the shore, on
top of these blue
rocks, I think back
to a time when all
voices heard were
in our language.
The very same that
Kluskap used to
teach the Mi’kmaq
about the ways of
our Nation World.
Now as I stand here,
the salt spray
washes away any
trace of my sadness.
I know now that
I will hear those
voices again as
I hear now the voices
of the Spirits who
speak to me through
Mother Earth.
The ready drum sounds like a crack
of thunder as you move as fast as light
around a sacred fire, with the smell of
sweetgrass and sage trailing
behind you like wisps of mist.
Dancer, you bring joy to the soul.
Magic Steps
Magic Steps
Dancer, you bring joy to the soul.
How you move as quiet as a cloud
casting shadows above it all,
hair the colour of a raven’s wing,
leather and beads absorbing light,
dancing back in time when your
magical steps would be your mother’s.
The silent drum held over a fire,
stretching, becoming taut while
you, dancer, recount the steps
your mother would have danced to.
The ready drum sounds like a crack
of thunder as you move as fast as light
around a sacred fire, with the smell of
sweetgrass and sage trailing
behind you like wisps of mist.
Dancer, you bring joy to the soul.
How you move across time, taking
me back to a time when your
steps would be your mother’s.
The drum held by your father,
holding it over a fire, the same
way his father would have done,
stretching, making it taut,
waiting for the swish of
moccasin as it touches grass
made flat by others who dance
the magic steps of old.
A Ball of Blue
The elders stand quiet,
no words, just their presence
charging the misty morn.
Mi’kmaw drummers, their
leather-bound sticks
at the ready, tap a gentle
beat against leather,
bead and feather.
Flags fly with the slightest
of breezes caressing the faces
of the frozen dancers.
The sacred fire accepts
tokens of sage,
sweetgrass and gold-like tobacco.
Offerings and silent prayers
tossed into a fire which
lives for such favours.
The distant relations,
heads lowered, wait for a signal.
Then, at once the drum speaks,
snapping everyone back to the
present in time and in space.
The circle comes alive with
music and the fluidity of dance.
Smiles seen as broad as the mist-free
horizon with blues and whites
of sparse clouds dancing their
eternal dance around a ball of blue
we call home.
On the Shore of Bras d’Or
A storm with thunder and lightning,
an anomaly on a December day,
destroys a Chapel that stood alone
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Wooden pegs in place of nails,
house of God framed by hand on
an isle sacred to the People of the Dawn
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Touching sky as high as any
on Cape Breton Isle, a steeple that
cast a shadow in all directions
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Until a flash of fire ignited the cross,
yellow and orange flames danced
the day while an inferno roared
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
With waves as high as a man
breaking foam and fury over
the lone boat, unable to help
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Awestruck congregation, faces
wet from tears and elements,
witnessing an act of God
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
As each piece of timber trembled
and fell, a cry in unison heard
over the blare of the storm
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Chains of light last seen in
the heat of summer returned
in the cold of winter to lay waste
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Time came when ashes cooled,
soot and spark were raised by wind,
and fire an all-too-recent memory,
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
A bell forged from a distant
foundry, large, heavy and loud,
was nowhere to be found
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Some said an accident caused
by lack of foresight. Others said
a warning from our Grandmother who lives
on the shore of Bras d’Or.
Grey Skies, White Mist
Riding waves in an open boat of
blue on a morning with steady
rain coming down on an American
Day of Independence.
No parades today.
The wind blowing gently upon the
red faces of my brothers, one younger,
the other older.
Indulging in a common quest,
salmon.
Taking the time to make memories.
Grey skies, white mist,
net empty as our stomachs.
Maybe tomorrow, knives sharpened.
The trip back in drizzle,
washing faces, minds and
souls.
Progress
Handshakes, smiles all around. The
suits come into the band office
carrying their pens.
Fast polite chatter, wet palms
hiding papers piled like a pyre
inside leather boxes with brass locks.
Minions of the queen mentioning her
thorny hat, this and that and the Act.
Words spoken with no “ahs” or “ays.”
The counselled Council listens
to the Concord pitch, its pros and cons,
weighing each grain against each rock.
Four plaque-like walls holding their eyes,
seeing nothing new or different
since the last time.
Mouthpiece spinning spiels,
nods of non-comprehension,
feathers combed not ruffled,
patted not struck.
Sign here, initial there, witness here.
More handshakes,
dry palms wet again.
Saunter out of the old Indian Day School,
now band office, boxes go out with white
blisterless hands,
clutching pens like Cornwallis trophies.
Black ink slowly drying with red splatters
here, there...
From Wind and Prying Eyes
Almost hidden by a colluding maple
one hundred yards away, a man
with dun coloured hair moving
rhythmically to a primeval metre,
keeping time with another
unseen by eyes but his own.
A red skeleton of unknown
genus is being covered by the
workers continuing their role
as inattentive voyeurs.
Wind picks up, leaves begin to
shudder, their milky undersides
exposed to the harsh
judging tight. Wind foregoes
interest, calming, slowing.
Leaves green again, their verdant
veins once more concealed
from wind and prying eyes.
Shadow Dancers at Night
My shadow dances as I move
toward the rising sun.
I am not a dancer but my shadow
dances smoothly and with purpose.
When I pause,
the dancing stops,
the music of the drum
silent.
As I go faster,
tempo picks up,
cadence matches sounds
heard only by my shadow.
The dancer hides, sacred steps
seen only from the corner of the eye.
Forgotten dancer hides from
the noonday sun until time
comes to remind,
go back.
My shadow dances as I move
toward the setting sun.
Dancing smoothly and with purpose,
growing ever larger, impatient,
needing to break free,
till the sun hides from night
and my shadow disappears,
joining shadow dancers
at night.
One More Night
The old man sat crouched beside a fire
feeling each bone in his ancient frame
cry in protest as he circled a small
area to lay his aged form to rest.
Not unlike brother Paqtism the wolf
who would search the four directions
and
give each a cursory sniff ensuring that he
not be surprised by visitors of night.
The old man cupped his brown hands, scored
from his struggles of eighty summers,
and began to speak in a voice of one who
knows and has travelled the good path.
Lu’ks, I am at rest and the fire burns
brightly permitting me to see your
eyes and know that you understand, for
what I am about to tell you I have kept
close to my heart for sixty summers.
Now pay close attention and remember
you must not tell anyone this story until
I have moved on to a place not here under
these stars. See how chickadee tries to
catch the great bear? Ah, the bear will
hide but the chickadee will be persistent and
cook the bear in his pot. See how the pot
points? The pot is never far from the bear.
That is why the bear can never hide and he
loses his life each year and starts all over
again. Believe me, I have seen them do the
same dance the last seventy summers.
Forgive me, my body stays but my mind
wanders to places not yet discovered by us,
the Mi’kmaq, the Children of the Dawn.
Uncle, are you sleeping?
No! Just resting my eyes.
What about the story you have kept for
sixty summers, will you share it?
Oh that. No, not tonight, maybe tomorrow
night. It has been with me for sixty summers,
one more night isn’t going to hurt.
My Paddle Does Not Sing
My paddle does not sing
when I dip it into the clear
summer waters of Indian Lake.
This wood of ash, shaped
by a distant knife, cuts cleanly
and with each stroke creates
miniature vortexes drawing
me away from the sounds of
the shore and sky, back to
times of birch bark and pitch.
Even the predictable thunder of
the Concord with its race
against sound does not deter
me from my journey back.
Back to times when the lake
would have echoed the sounds
of knives scraping hides on
the shore and of little ones
chasing each other among
alders and grass as tall as they.
The water reeds play a