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 sang sacred songs to the Mother.
who came from the umbilical cord of the Earth.

today they drum,
walk, talk, sell their wares.
wear suits and ties and drive trucks.
but still they hold their feathered headdresses.
their guttural pitch and long cries sound out.
they know their loss.
they listen to the land.
the coyote's eyes still sing
and the woodland hills
casts its magic.
they see the old gardens,
river front villages,
painted caves and full fish nets.
they, 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 sheets of blue sky
from which they came.
hear the voices of their long gone elders
who speak like sunflowers, like shots in the night,
like brave air, fragranced in rebirth
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 shook,
sang, lit her lovely face.
her sharp dark tropical eyes
aimed straight for us.
wrapped in her mystery,
she warmed us, dared us,
awakened us,
then dappled with our desires.

with each crackle of the blanket
she laughed, motioned
as she leaned into our stories,
dark skies and smiles.
we were in her court.
gleaming like newborns.
she was the pulse of the earth,
its immense home.
at times she'd pause. stare.
kiss the blanket.
then tease us with her inner eye.
she was on her victory ship.

she drew her splash
from the orange pinches,
fiery reds and deep greens
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?"