symphony as they caress the
underside of my kwitn,
my transport to lilies.
Summer flies dance just above
the surface, tempting the hungry
ones from below the clear summer
waters of Indian Lake.
A transport truck rattles by,
bellowing air, ending my travel
back in time. The wind changes
as I guide my kwitn back to
shore, back to our time,
back to now.
The Blackened Hole
A naked man runs out
of a burning house,
his screams silenced by
the acrid by-product
of toxins, varnished wood,
and petrochemicals.
The resourceful volunteers
strain to hear his last sounds
but only gasps and pained
noises escape his charred
mouth. He falls. No one
catches him. His chest
rises silently then stops
in mid-breath.
The fire continues to
engulf, casting an illuminated
shadow on the pitch dark
night. Stars blink as they
have always done. The
morning stops the night
in its tracks.
The blackened hole where
the house once stood holds
secrets soon to be covered
by the newly arrived
idling bulldozer,
standing at attention
like a pallbearer,
doubling as an anxious
grave digger who gets
paid by commission.
The Church of the Council
The room was packed with faces,
young and old, from near and far,
all here for one purpose – to discuss
the state of affairs of the religion of
The Church of the Council which
was affiliated with The Thirteenth
House of Whoever Was in Power.
This was an annual event which drew
many to hear the words of the old
and wise ones who were elected to
their positions on The Church of
The Council. The Church was a
not-for-profit organization and seldom
ever in fiscal shape due to the
lack of fiscal restraint and exercise.
Now the white-haired ones
had a plan but in order for this plan
to pass and be implemented, it needed
the support of the dark-haired ones
who were the majority and unruly.
The Speaker rose from his great seat
and began to address the congregation
in a slow and deliberate manner.
The speech was long and between
naps the wisest of the wise heard the
words and was slowly lulled to his
usual spot in dreamland, which was
far more interesting than the speech
of the Speaker, entering its second
full hour. Then at the exact time when
the Speaker was to launch his third
hour, a sound was heard from the back of
the room. A dark-haired one stood. The room
fell quiet as he made his way to the
centre of the Great Hall and stopped amidst
the rows of white-haired ones to his right
and dark-haired ones to his left. All were
facing the Great Chair in which sat the
Speaker who was shocked into silence at
being so rudely interrupted. He sat with
his hands and mouth open in mid-sentence.
The dark-haired one said in a loud, clear
voice that everyone in the hall heard,
“I have sat here and listened to the Speaker
for two full hours and yet I have not
heard anything I have not heard before.
These points that he makes can be found
in the minutes from last year’s assembly.
I suspect as usual the only person who has
read the minutes is the person who has copied
in quill our script. My question is this: why do
keep repeating the same things year after year?”
With this simple question the room exploded
with more questions similar in nature.
As quickly as they came, they went their separate
ways, never to meet again. The Church of the
Council was expelled from The Thirteenth House
of Whoever Was in Power.
Rain falling slowly on my
Red Native Canadian back.
Sensations evoke a soft
Touch of a woman I knew,
Once, only once.
Once, Only Once
Once, Only Once
Rain falling slowly on my
Red Native Canadian back.
Sensation evokes the soft
touch of a woman I knew,
once, only once.
Warm caress of cloud water
spreading throughout.
A lonely large drop sliding
down my shoulder past
the curve of my back
Falling and hitting the deck.
Idling
Sitting with idling thoughts,
intangible mind pollution.
Eyes like glass steaming up.
drawing fleeting images.
Fiery orb staring down
from its distant height,
changing everything to its
terms and conditions,
effecting and affecting
my outlook inside this
cranium capsule of time.
Tasks and Demands
I walk into my cluttered space,
screen stares back, waiting
for tasks and demands.
A call comes in from a member
who is dissatisfied with her lot
and wants to spend an hour in
confessional, but I have no collar.
When we finish, she talks with
less strain while my shoulders
sag under her adopted burdens.
Someone knocks.
Screen flashes warnings as
flying windows dance across
the single cube-like glass eye.
Another soul starts with shouts,
anger pulsing through his veins.
Stories of leaking windows,
dripping taps and front end jobs
on a new car purchased with a
child-tax-credit downpayment. No
questions, just money and the first
month free from payment or guilt.
Potholes causing wear and tear.
“How can I get my cheque
when the roads are so bad?”
I answer, “We’ll try harder next time.”
He shouts, “My vote I’ll keep,
you’ll not get it this year.”
“Suit yourself.”
All alone now except for flying windows
patiently awaiting tasks and demands.
Our Hearts Were Beating One With Their Drum
They were drumming for the one
we were mourning.
A walk with my son from
our talk, our sharing,
Our pain.
We saw the brigh
test
star. We knew who,
our burden less.
All alone except for our pain.
the blue-black night,
and the drum.
We both heard it, music for
two battered hearts walking as one.
It began to change us.
Our hearts were beating
one with their drum,
healing.
They were drumming for the one
we were mourning.
We heard them give their hearts
to the drum for their friend,
for our boy, cousin, Godson.
The days are better now,
moments of silence.
Our hearts were beating
one with their drum.
They were drumming for the one
we were mourning.
Dreams Not Wanted
Who are you?
Chief
Poet
Man
Father
Husband
Son
Brother
Relation
Friend
Connection
similar to the silky strands of a spider’s web
capturing light and sustenance, keeping out
dreams not wanted.
A Work in Progress
Snowflakes, as white as
can be, fall easily,
melting upon contact
with the open palm of
my outstretched hand.
I raise it to the heavens
as an offering, a sacrifice
to the silent descending
pure grace.
The artist from afar
dispenses the solitary
colour as if to shroud
one of Vincent’s starry nights.
My gauche hand feels lighter,
allowing it to rise higher
as the vapour from my breath
slowly ascends and drifts
aimlessly away from
my moment of tribute.
The severed reminder,
complaints of phantom pain,
nothing.
Flesh versus steel,
steel wins. Flesh loses
to the gods of tomorrow.
All arrangements complete,
the service at sunrise
for a nail, a bone, a scrap of flesh.
And the eulogy,
a work in progress.
Dance Along the Ghost Highway
(Translation)
The fire warms and comforts him.
fixing his gaze.
They call him
the Old One Who Knows,
the young men
whose hair is black as night.
while his a reminder of a winter
that is never far away.
The fire leaps,
throwing sparks
into the moonless night.
All is ready for stories,
the gift of past ones
who dance along the ghost highway.
They light the pipe,
and tobacco smoke
clouds each man’s face
like the morning fog
as it rises from the lake.
He remembers as a boy
how he would sit
as quiet as a shadow
listening to the Old Ones
recount hunts, hungers and wars.
Now the stories are ready.
He knows those
who sit with him tonight
will remember.
He is slow to start,
slow to eat
and slow to move.
Finally, with the voice of thunder
he begins to weave a story
from a fire pit
long forgotten.
Under these stars
that seem to dance
in rhythm with his voice,
the time is right.
Skite’kemrujewey Awti
Kisikuo’p elisink kikjuk puktewiktuk,
Puktew tele’k kutey mimajikek,
ke’s puksuk pijekemk te’s wnaqiaq,
kutey kloquejk alayjita’jik,
aqq mikwite’tk ta’n tuju
nutqwe’kek i’tla’tekes,
l’pa’tu’jijuijek nekm mikwite’tmajik
kisiku’k eloqisultijik kikjiw puktukewiktuk,
kikto’qipultijik, kikto’qamkipultijik,
aknutma’tijik.
Msit wen a’tukwet aqq kwetmtijik,
tmaweyey wtlu’tew alayja’sik
msit tami wsiskuk kutey
eksitpu’kewey u’n ke’sk kwetmaj,
jiksitmawet, jiksitk a’tukwaqn.
Ankite’tk, poqji mikwite’tkl a’tukwaqnn,
poqji ankite’tkl kisiku’k wtayjual,
ankite’tk a’tukwaqn ta’n tewije’k,
wen aqsutkis, wen mawtmk telues,
poqji ankite’tk ta’sisni’k kisiku’k
kikto’qi pemkopultijik puktewiktuk
aqq weskewo’ltijik.
Tal lukutisni’k etuk na’kwek,
waisisk al’kwilua’tijik,
al’kwilmu’tij ta’n i’taq aqq msit
tami elapa’sin oqnitpa’q
aqq kejia’tiji skite’kmujk eymu’tijik.
Na kisikuo’p apaja’sit,
alapa’sit puktewiktuk,
nutqo’ltite’wk ankama’titl
askise’nmi’tij puktew,
wel pmiaq puktew,
wenaqapa’sit, wasoqa’latl wtmaqnml,
illama’teket, na poqj aknutk,
poqji a’tukowajik nutqo’ltite’wk,
ankamajik aqq nemi’sit aqq kejitoq
nekm nike’ankamut,
nekm nike’ jiksitut aqq nekm nike’kisiku.
kisiku ata’a’tukwet.
Two New Poems
Demasduit
In the National Library and Archives Preservation Centre
I saw sights
no one from my tribe
has ever seen.
I saw paintings of canoes,
of birch bark wi’kuoms,
and brown faces
encased in oil.
In these crypts
where the temperature is perfect
the humidity constant,
paintings, sealed off
from man and catastrophe.
She was the last
known image of a race,
a tribe.
She was wrapped in a fur stole,
and her eyes looked out and saw
she was the last known image.
She was Mary March,
she is Demasduit.
As the drawer rolled shut
and she returned to the stony silence of her crypt,
awaiting the next generation,
I wept.
Our Sisters
Our sisters –
Who has seen them last?
The 824 who speak
No more, nowhere,
Their songs fell silent,
Their trail on glassed ice
Rubbed away till gone.
Speak – we must speak
Dance – we must dance
Warn others – we must warn
Search – we must search
Our sisters
Our mothers
Our aunts
Our cousins
Our friends
Without you the pain grows
Without a
nswers
More will be taken.
No more.
Taho.
Clay Pots and Bones Page 5
