DEBBIE – SIX MONTHS LATER
How can I write of your death
and writing make it real
how can I not and ever hope to heal
How can I write of the crab
without a hatred more than buzzard red
who will at least not eat you till you’re dead
How can my heart and hands be empty
with fullness of gifts I cannot give
How can it be you do not live
How like a vampire do I walk the night
and in a mirror no reflection see
Without a you where is the me?
JUDY
Judy was a beauty
tall and blonde and shy
early this month she decided to die
The soft wise eyes, the curling lashes
all now ashes
We have been friends for twenty years
hugs and coffee when in town, cards when far away
And always the latest poetry
She said it was important, and it touched her
in places nothing and no one else could reach
Three years ago
I put my neck in a green eyed noose
I sent no cards, I did not call
I do not know if I could have saved her
though touch and poetry have been known to
I only know I hate what I did and didn’t do
I only know that she drowned out there alone
I only know it was a long time since I had thrown her a line
HILLMAN
A shadow on the wall in Hiroshima
ashes on a lake in Austin
Donna looks over the side of the boat
and cries as they drift
because she cannot see his face in the ashes
She might also have looked
for 81 years from China Sea to here
for the feet of the best dancer she ever knew
the graceful movements of Tai Chi
the hands of massage
and the mind and heart of a poet
The ashes drift to the banks and bottom of Lake
Austin
All that remains are the shadows on our minds and
hearts
And the walls of Hiroshima
FATHER’S POEM
My father’s poems
did not come down to us on paper
He was eight years old when his mother died
his youngest brother not yet three
They say he adopted the care
of the sweet sad child
and told him a story each night
Night after night after night
New stories he made up each night
And he would gather him up in the story
and hold him there
until he slept
I’M BACK
I went away but I’m back
I’ve met the Queen
but I’m back
I’ve worked and grown till I dropped
and learned till my ear wax popped
I’m better and kinder and wiser
with an armful of gifts
and I’m back
Oh dear, isn’t anybody here
THE WORDS
(played to the beat of a big sad drum)
The words / and a touch /
would have meant /
so much /
But it’s gone / and it’s gone
and you know / it’s gone
Yet sometimes, / in the night /
it still throbs /
Like a phantom / limb
OLD WIVES LAKE MASSACRE – THE LEGEND
About a hundred and fifty or two hundred years ago, in what is now south west Saskatchewan, a band of Cree camping on the shore of a prairie lake were surrounded by a much larger band of Blackfoot warriors.
In order to save the lives of the young and strong, they slipped out under cover of darkness while the old and infirm stayed behind to keep the fires burning and keep up the appearance of an occupied camp.
When the Blackfoot attacked the next morning they were furious at having been tricked in this way and massacred all of the remaining inhabitants of the camp including all the old wives.
This unusual and powerful occurrence is remembered to this day in the name of the lake
I grew up and ranched along its shores.
OLD WIVES LAKE MASSACRE – THE POEM
I have eaten the beef
that ate the grass
that grew on your unmarked graves
And the sadness I sing, I sing for you
for all sadness is one sadness
all pain one pain
and all treachery one treachery
Many have eaten of the buffalo and the beef
They wake in the night
and do not know why they are sad
The Legend
The Poem
DEER GONE
A tough shot, 600 yards at least, running left to right
in the open sights of the 303. Aim to the top of the
third jump ahead, move the gun in a smooth arc
and squeeze slow
It was a kill
I saw it as great skill
a source of blood fed pride
and the deer… well it just died
The Indians used to see it as a kind of revolving door
the spirit of the animal would come back soon
enough in another body if you used the one
he had given up to you with gratitude
There are not many deer in these parts anymore
I wonder if they are trapped
waiting for the gratitude
Indians lost in whiskey
and we never knew