Moon at Midnight – Part XXI (day 1995)

part XX

At first it was hard to communicate with Willow
But we were inseparable
And we learned each other’s words
That helped us communicate
And what we lacked in spoken word
We made up for in body language
I hadn’t known many women in my time,
More familiar with an axe and squirrels,
But I learned Willow every way I could.

I learned how she hummed almost inaudibly
Before she woke me up
Dancing her fingers lightly over my sleeping body
As if they were sunlight
Warming my mind to the day;
I learned how her eyes looked shocked and innocent
When she couldn’t understand the words
I would excitedly share with her;
I learned her various routines
That announced each changing rhythm of the day;
I learned how much of a teacher
She was to Lily
Taking every moment she could to share
Her wisdom to her only child
With just the right enough patience
Matched with enough urgency
To encourage the blossoming child
To remember the things she must to survive.

I learned how she played with me
And laughed at my seriousness
She would push me to delay
In spots I hadn’t noticed in my hurry
Instantly draining whatever burden
I had riding about my shoulders
I learned her mischievous smile
When she would want me as her lover
And how she would lose all control
As she leaned her head back to my caress
Eager to remain entwined
Lost in the clutches of love.

Lily’s eyes would always grow larger
When she observed moments of our love
I knew that her adolescent crush
Wouldn’t let her sleep at night,
When Willow and I would share our passion
She seemed happier
Clearly part of her mothers spirit
That always sought to see happiness
In those around her
She would help as we learned to communicate as a family
Each playing a guessing game
That we became very accurate at
The more we learned each others’ rhythms.

part XXII

Moon at Midnight – Part IV (day 1978)

(part III)

As I sat crosslegged in the little clearing
Hidden as I was, deep within the forest
Heading East to the land of the Old People
I wondered about the faces I might see,
Faces of the men and women who would greet me,
Faces of the children playing in fields
And fields growing with the vigor
Only well cared for fields of tender hands can grow
I knew I would find
In the land of the Old People.

Beside me was a little patch of buttercups
That skirted the edge of deeper forest
Fallen logs and fir needles of this land
I could still hear the brook I had crossed
Calmly gurgling in the distance
My canteen still cold from its fill
My belly still churning from its fill
My fingers still wet and a cold
Only fresh mountain water can give,
A cleaning happily taken
Where I had let my bare feet soak gently a while.

My eyes scanned into the forest
Of an age I guessed ageless
Not a stump to be seen
Finding geometry in naturally fallen trees
Trees standing so tall my guess couldn’t reach
Moss covering so gently
I envisioned the industry nestled
Deep within the safety net of moss
That lay about thickly covered forest floor
Fungus’ mycelia layer hidden well
In healthy circles around the Ancient Giants
Old Man’s Beard hanging low
And spider webs zig-zagging
With its delicate fibers of care.

My pouch was always on me
No matter how far from camp I wandered
So as I moved away from my opening
I felt instinctively for my tools
Stepping over former soldiers
Rotting as life continued its circle
Through the efforts of decay
My soft crunch avoided the mounds
Finding edible mushrooms was easy
This early season of harvest
Upon edges of clearings I’d find strawberries
And blueberries and salmonberry brambles
So thick I’d get high
Feeding so heartily on such sugar
I knew it wouldn’t stay forever.

Fire starting was an economy no man could do without
No sane man that is,
For plenty of nights I’d been cold
In pure darkness of deep night,
But this night I had supple moss
And accessible wood dry enough to start
A warming dance in my blood
Soon the coals were hotter then the wood
That burned inside their whispers

My bed was simply a roll
The hard ground was something I was used to
I carried soft fur of a bear
On the top of my bag
Which I’d lay under my roll
To soften each night’s cold
My dream of a sheepskin
I had read about in books
Of old foreign herdsmen roaming
Highlands of Scotland
But I with my simple roll
Laid out on the ground.

part V

20151015-shawnigan-lake-ned-tobin-27

Turning Outlaw Again (day 1825)

I’m turning outlaw again,
My stinging words will pierce thy soul
And my fists will bleed my wicked ways,
I’ll drink my beer warmer then
My women have ever been.
I’m turning down the next dusty road
Handing over my soft spoken ways
For rowdy bars and snake tattoos
I’ll start to hiss with the devils drink.
I’m turning outlaw again,
My gang will be 20 strong
On an open road,
Our clubhouse filled with naked women
Who have signed their posters on the walls.
Saw toothed barbed wire
Will be our backup guard dog
And strapped in a leather sheath to my hip
Will be the deadliest blade known to man.
I’ll shoot my shotgun out the back door
At empty beer cans from the night before,
And all my cigarette smoke
Will lead me to toke,
Cause baby, I’m turning outlaw again.

Written Down the Back of my Neck (day 934)

Lines have been written down the back of my neck
Ancient scrolls, unintelligible
In a language spoken when men and women
Lived together in deep respect and love

My throat has begun to burn
The ink has started to bleed
Where once was smooth innocence
Crawling with anticipation of the turning times

Return to a fantasia built upon sorcery
Filled with myth so blood-soaked and deep
Memories flood the virgin landscape
And the Oracle speaks once again

One Houndred Days (day 302)

We paddled and paddled
For one houndred days straight
Neither rest nor sleep
Was our friend all the while
We came about falls
We came about rapids
We came about bears
Finding winters warmth flapping
We passed by the furs
Of the coastal regions
We passed by the spruce
Of the swampier interiors
We passed by the pines
When the river twined
And we never complained
For our destination inclined
Not a single soul to speak
Not a diverting path to take
No energy was lost
In the battle we fought
We all had our children
Our warm wives back at home
But our socks they were warm when
Our backs they lay cold
Our knit caps, they
So red and so bold
We paddled until
Our paddles they broke
Then paddled some more
With the spares that we towed
And then, in the distance
As we pushed through the night
First one, then another
Then tens of houndreds they did burn
The fires of our friends
The fires of our family
The first of the First Nations
As they sat along the bank
Celebrating their season in the sun
The drums we had felt
Many days before
A pace threatening saunter
A force for our driving
As we came to the landing
We were swarmed by the tribe
We had always come here
We would always return
We were family here
We were friends here
This was our home
The land of the free
And after we shared
With the children all around
We welcomed the tribes men
We embraced our dear wives
We brought out our treasures
We had bargained for at the market
One houndred days paddling
One houndred days to the east
They sang songs for us
They sang songs with us
We brought out our fiddles
And we sang songs for them
We danced through the night
And we danced all the day
We hunted with the men
And we slept with the women
But then, when we saw
The leaves turning colours
We packed up our furs
And loaded our pelts
Carved out our paddles
And sorted our gear
Sad and long faces
As the morning progressed
We paddled on silently
Into one houndred days to the East