The Earth Forgets


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they buried their elders by firs and pines,
but the good earth has sucked back their bones,
washed the soil clean.
they who carved great mystic birds,
who sang sacred songs to the Mother,
who came from the umbilical cord of the earth.

today when they drum,
the river sweats with their eyes.
they hear long thunder raps. know the sky
and the banks so well.
they listen to the land. find the
coyote's essence and the blood in the trees.
they see the old gardens.
their supernatural instincts rally.
these first people,
whose fathers and mothers
rode the sacred groves,
wandered the Oregon valleys,
crossed the fertile lands,
and the craggy Steens and Wallowas.

today their vast land hosts big houses,
timber yards, glass factories,
cowherds, industrial stacks,
paved roads, restaurants,
and five-star hotels.
rivers display jetboats.
ski lodges offer up hot toddies.

Earth forgets with ease.
auctions off sorrow for so little.
these first people walk the trails.
sit on the rocks.
are flung into their parched past.
yet they bless the sea, summit snow,
mountain slopes, stars,
desert lands and sheets of blue sky
from which they came.
the voices of their long gone elders speak
like sunflowers, like tree roots,
like wings, like broken bones with the strength of sun.
the vast lands have forgotten them,
though they not the land.

The Courtyard Dancer And Her Blanket



her exceptional beauty,
her voice, the way her whole body broke,
made her a fabled star.
her blaze lit her lovely face.
she pitched the cloth back and forth,
each snap a pleasure.
her sharp dark tropical eyes
aimed straight for us.
she knew her conquest,
revealed herself in her intimate leaps.
the crowd cheered.
she warmed our soft blood.
excited us.  took off our hoods.
dappled with our desires.

she teased our comfort zone.
then tickled us with soft whips of the blanket.
minute by minute she rocked our cradle.
she, a dancing queen,
rose like a master would,
caressing our sails, delighting us,
scowling us.
at times she'd pause. stare.
kiss the blanket.
she was on her victory ship.

she drew her splash
from the orange pinches,
fiery reds and deep greens,
her grandmother's handiwork
weaved into the rich knit stitching.
"my angelic threads," she says.
"from the tears of the good earth." 

we were left galvanized.
later, when folding
the corners she looked up
and whispered:
“grandma, did you see?
we did it. didn't we?"