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 they drum.
wear their feathered headdress.
howl. cry. know their loss.
they listen to the land.
the coyote's eyes still sing
and the blood in tree roots
casts its magic.
they see the old gardens.
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 the vast land hosts ranch houses,
timber yards, glass factories,
fenced fields, industrial stacks,
blacktop, 24-7 restaurants,
and five-star hotels.
rivers run jetboats.
ski lodges offer up hot toddies.

Earth forgets with ease.
auctions off sorrow for so little.
these first people see the dawn,
the burning water,
their old backyards,
riverbanks occupied,
and hunger in the alleys of death.
they hear their parched past.
yet they paint the sea, the high rocks
and summit snow with rich color.
call upon sheets of blue sky
from which they came to endear them.
the voices of their long gone elders
speak like sunflowers, like brave air,
like fragranced souls in the shuddering rain
beneath the strength of the 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 sang,
lit her lovely face.
she pitched the cloth back and forth
as if she was astray,
feeling out her ground, turning, staring.
but her sharp dark tropical eyes
aimed straight for us.
she warmed us, dared us, darkened our lips,
as she dappled with our desires.

with each whip of the blanket
she laughed. sang, motioned
as she leaned into our personal stories.
uprooted our fire.
delivered diamonds that broke
down our crusty walls.
we fell into her delightful cries.
imagined our names
upon her hand.  our flesh in her fingers.
weighed our own intimate silence.
we were in her court.
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 ancestors' 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?"