Don’t open the book
To that page
Its letters were written
On old paper
With a pen
That’s known many names
Crossed out many lines
And sunk boats.
Try this book.
For three days we hunted
And for three days we found nothing
That would serve as any kind of sustenance
We of course found plenty of squirrels
And small birds to feed us
But deer, elk, buffalo, moose…
I woke up on the morning of the fourth day
Feeling like I had been charged with bolt of lightening
Awake from a dream that had left me silent all morning
As we packed up and prepared to break camp
Moon Cow came over and looked at my arrows
And asked if I was alright
I said yes, I’ve never felt better
And he asked about my dream
Moon Cow always had a sense about these kind of things
I think that’s part of the medicine man in him.
“When I was young
My mother used to come into my room
In the early hours of the day
And tell me that my father had just left again
She would cry to me
And I was..
Hardly able to understand what that meant
But her crying
Would alert me, and wake me up
And I would feel like I had to protect her
I was responsible for her
An assumed set of duties
That charged me with purpose
You should have seen me
Walking down the street
With two cents in my pocket
Going to buy the daily bread and a paper for mom
I’d say hi to all the folks I knew
And they’d smile back at me
Knowing and seeing the determination in my eyes
The responsibility I had in my shoes
They knew my father
Some would even stuff a nickle
Into my well worn pockets
I’d smile and say: ‘thank you m’am’
And charge off on my way
When I’d return home
Mother would be waiting with a broom
For the paper to devour
With the hopes she would find something better
For herself and me, I guess
In my dream I remembered my determination
For a better tomorrow
The perseverance that was required of me
I feel it now
And it makes me think about the future.
A sentence was all I wrote
On a dusty pad of paper
Laying on the old workbench
Inside my late grandfather’s shop.
I knew he was still around there,
He spoke to me in hanging machine parts
Scattered about full walls.
Then I whispered goodnight
And turned down the lights
Making sure the heavy door
Was shut the way he’d shown me how.
When this voice begins to rise
Like a letter I did not write
Could you hold your hand out now?
I’m a Saint and you’re the cloud.
If this sound was more then that,
If words were meant for writing
Would the pen keep upright marks?
To pause between the breaths.
All my paper has begun to curl,
And you’re the little triangles
I’ve drawn around the page
To fit between my mind.
Symmetrical hearts drawn on white paper
Dispersing clouds like a magical piper
Holding my shaking hand
More hearts in the sand
While slowly letting my heartbeat taper
Excuse me as I step in here a minute
Take my mind away, my load off
Shake loose this gripping cold
Retreat from this drenching wind
My, is that a copy of the paper?
Oh, it’s a very nice warmth in this room
I’ll take a tea please
If you don’t mind, a scone too please
Well, this was nice
I had a great stay
The tea was good
And the scone was as I’d hoped
But, as all good things
Must come to an end
So must I depart
And brave this dreadful weather