Life shall bless and repeat again,
Love shall pass along.
And with our praise
Little ones shall grow
As poplars bloom in spring.
Like the sun at twilight’s hour
Little ones must lay down to sleep,
Rest their heads and sleep a while
To let wings ruffle down;
Night shall wrestle in.
Lost in my lagoon I wander warily.
I think of night’s last spoken words
Echoing deep within my soul;
Resonating lifeline which
I reach out to
And lay them at my idle feet
Asking what shall then be done:
“What maketh thou of thine?”
For all the steps into thy forth
I reach out to my moon,
I reach out and ask myself
Upon the soil I walk:
“For with my gaze
That I spend forth
Away, into thy soul,
Where have I lost my only choice,
Where have I lost my voice?”
With wisdom I have become
A speaking voice for my tribe,
That let alone, that with my own
Shall spread throughout the valley.
And in this valley
Of my own soul
I spread out up to the peaks
And let my voice
Echo deep, and find the lasting grace.
Light and fire
Blow winds
With glowing eyes
Into our minds
To pull together
This light and fire
By the time we had made our way to the next post we were all lifetime friends. I was of course more of a loner, but I had none-the-less made myself a good few friends.
At first some of them were a bit skeptical, I must have looked like a bandit with my mukluks and leathers. They were gifts – I had explained, which was only half true. I won them over with my experience, there were far too many bright eyes in this pioneer train.
Of course the ladies were intriguing to a young bachelor like myself, striking off to start a life of his own. They kept me at a distance knowing what they knew about the old land we had left behind.
Rick-John, called so because of his rickety like movement he pressed forth with, was a friendly chap who struck up conversation right from the start. He had been a bank teller in the old land on account of his ‘Rick’. It’s hard to do manual labour with a Rick. He liked my long barrel. He said he’d never seen a machine look as loved as mine did.
He told me of the various times his bank had been robbed by the notorious gangsters of the time back there in New York. He said he could handle any Indian raid after what he had been through. I knew he was probably bluffing, that he would most likely be the first one dead or pissing his knickers. All the same, I wanted to keep peace, to have no excuse to be raided. I knew better.
This was a reason for my own caution, my own hesitation for staying with the pioneers. They did make good company and made the lonely time in between not so lonely.
It was a long journey across my land.
[note: to read the full epic track my land]
XX
I had started my journey West by myself. Myself and John-bo my trusty steed. John-bo was a donkey. John-bo carried my two wooden packs on each side, day in day out. I walked beside.
For the first seven days of travel I came upon pioneers of all sorts. Some just starting out, some coming out. One day I reached a sign that said: “End of the road. New York back that way. If you’re walking this way you have 15 days until you will reach the next post.”
I knew trading posts were common along these routes.
I checked John-bo’s packs. We had enough rice for four months. I was glad I didn’t have to pack his food too.
It took me a while to get used to the walking. I was used to light stepping through city streets by this time wearing awful fashions I hadn’t really enjoyed. I hadn’t been able to get a proper pair of mukluks until I was well into Iroquois land.
I had walked into a friendly Seneca village who hadn’t been expecting me. I must have slipped past their scouts with my light stepping – not likely. Like I said, they were peaceful.
There were a few other white men there in the village. Some were drunk and chasing women. The Seneca men cringed when we both caught site of one. I think they eyed me suspiciously because of this. I hoped I wouldn’t find this in all the villages I would come along.
I should have taken my long barrel to the drunks. I could tell they wanted me to.
I had kept my long barrel next to me for the first fortnight. I didn’t enjoy walking without it, for fear of the unknown. Perhaps because of laziness I found a slip to hold it on ol’ John-bo.
Ten days after I left Iroquois land, the Seneca, I came upon a line of twelve women and nine men. Only seven married couplets among them and four rascals, each old enough to know which end of the shotgun to look down. They talked a lot and moved slower, though I enjoyed the company. It was nice to not communicate in grunts and gestures.
[note: to read the full epic track my land]
As I tracked along the worn path like a good ghost, I watched the pack instinctively. I wasn’t lost in thought, I was the eagle as it circled it’s prey.
I moved past around a lose crop of pines. They held my cover from the resting wolves that lay lapping at the blood soaking their paws and fur. I could smell them just by looking at them, though I was still four houndred yards away.
My long rifle was itching in my hands. I could hear her dancing on my shoulder and looking for a reason.
I can’t win every game of poker but I’ve sure got a good shot when I’m done.
A pioneer must do what a pioneer must get done, and this was my long barrel, the law maker true.
My long barrel smelt of the oil I cared for her with. She had come with me on the pioneer trail, from the eastern seaboard of North America. I had bought it from a gun runner who had probably taken it from the dead hands of an Apache. Regardless, it was a good gun. I was never scared the Apache would catch me (they would have recognized it in the way only a warrior can), I was a quick shot. I was afraid they’d catch me and I’d have no ability to fend for our lives.
[note: to read the full epic track my land]
I remember when the wind blew so hard one year it would blow over our tin cups that weren’t full on the old weathered kitchen table. Our house was warm when the fire was hot, and well ventilated in the summer – we can say that. It ain’t easy being a pioneer, when the land is dry and winters are cold.
The thoughts drain my efforts, drain my life. They’re happy thoughts when you remember the past, but they’re also jagged edges that twist the time away like yesterday was my mothers hand.
There should be holes in my heart with all the bullets I’ve let go. And all the tears that I’ve cried.
This life makes a man hard before he knows how to sing. Like the twisting pines around these parts that I know each by name.
And firewood.
[note: to read the full epic track my land]
It wasn’t long before I could see the dust kicked up in the distance from the pack I had been following. I knew they were hurt and could see it in their movement. They moved quick but I was moving quicker.
My long barrel could have taken them all there and then, and really it should have. I hadn’t time to be wastin’ away from the stead as I was.
I thought of simple things as I headed uphill; my fire stoked oven, hard chair, dust particles changing the hue of the room to match my lonely heart.
From here I knew a trail that tracked the edge of the ridge along the length of the valley. Before we were half way across I would be upon them with a vantage point to pick every single one of them off before they knew where I was. I was a fast shot, even with my long barrel.
I wondered how Tim and Casey Johnson were getting along, just East of my trail, just over the ridge. My trail ran North-South. I had come from the North and was heading South following this rogue pack of wolves that had taken two of my lambs. I was born a tracker, and these were my lands. The wolf was my birth sign, but my lambs were my right.
[note: to read the full epic track my land]
There I would rush around the stone well, the little arch covering darkness and holding a squeaky bucket as it slips. I glide as the dog snarls, hovering just far enough away because it knows what’s good for it.
A deck chair squeaks back and forth like the broken weather vane whispering from the roof. I eye it slowly as sun peaks over my mystery horizon and look around for a glass to quench my thirst. Sometimes a savage I must be.
Small herds of livestock check their watches against the consistency of the grass, it’s not easy being a rambling herd. Especially in these dry times of year, especially with the river running so low.
My spurs rang through the air like the hot sun stung, not a soul around this dry place.
Cursing, I sat down at the weathered kitchen table; a hard seat and cold beans. A window and dusty particles distracting my angel heart, because I am here to love and the long coat isn’t my true calling.
I tracked like the Cheyenne, a good ghost. I could find a trail on a rock boulder. The wind spoke to me as it washed over the vista, and I was a good long shot.
[note: to read the full epic track my land]
Loppity lope bop
Dances to fingers
In a soft, unceasing roll.