year.â
âSuit yourself.â
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 brightest
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 spiderâs 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 Vincentâs 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 manâs 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.
Skiteâkemrujewey Awti
Kisikuoâp elisink kikjuk puktewiktuk,
Puktew teleâk kutey mimajikek,
keâs puksuk pijekemk teâs wnaqiaq,
kutey kloquejk alayjitaâjik,
aqq mikwiteâtk taân tuju
nutqweâkek iâtlaâtekes,
lâpaâtuâjijuijek nekm mikwiteâtmajik
kisikuâk eloqisultijik kikjiw puktukewiktuk,
kiktoâqipultijik, kiktoâqamkipultijik,
aknutmaâtijik.
Msit wen aâtukwet aqq kwetmtijik,
tmaweyey wtluâtew alayjaâsik
msit tami wsiskuk kutey
eksitpuâkewey uân keâsk kwetmaj,
jiksitmawet, jiksitk aâtukwaqn.
Ankiteâtk, poqji mikwiteâtkl aâtukwaqnn,
poqji ankiteâtkl kisikuâk wtayjual,
ankiteâtk aâtukwaqn taân tewijeâk,
wen aqsutkis, wen mawtmk telues,
poqji ankiteâtk taâsisniâk kisikuâk
kiktoâqi pemkopultijik puktewiktuk
aqq weskewoâltijik.
Tal lukutisniâk etuk naâkwek,
waisisk alâkwiluaâtijik,
alâkwilmuâtij taân iâtaq aqq msit
tami elapaâsin oqnitpaâq
aqq kejiaâtiji skiteâkmujk eymuâtijik.
Na kisikuoâp