Moon at Midnight – Part XXXV (day 2009)

(part XXXIV)

Moon Cow, Long Arrow and I went hunting
We were gone for four days and three nights
We went South to try and find the buffalo
But what we found was elk and a moose
They were buffalo people but also reasonable people
So we knew that we had to take the animals that came to us.

We made camp that night and began cutting
I reflected on the beautiful Swiss blade that
Frank had given to me,
Wondering how his summer had gone
How things were in his Valley
By night time we were all covered in blood
But had everything cut that we could use
Leaving mostly just the bones
For the wild coyotes and wolves and ravens
That were always around.

We built a makeshift sleigh
That we took turns pulling in twos
It was hard work
But we were in no rush
And had feasted till our hearts content
The night before
On the fresh meat we had
Moon Cow talked about the buffalo a lot
He worried our people wouldn’t have enough food
And Long Arrow agreed, as always
Grunting in his affirmative way.

I asked if they wanted
To go see Amy & Frank
To hunt at their traditional buffalo run
They reminded me it was no use
Unless we moved back to our traditional winter home
That we had been at last year
I asked why that was a bad idea
And they made me understand they disliked the U.S. Army
And also that Mountain Chief had said
We would stay here now
And they didn’t want to go against him.

When we got back, the women were very happy
We had done so well on our hunt
Smoking began at once
This time I was able to build a smoke house by myself
As Moon Cow built the second one
I was proud when he came over to inspect it
And had nothing to say bad about it
Giving his nod of approval
As he poked at the holes
And casually patched them
With his skilled hands.

I talked to Mountain Chief about Winter
About how he felt his people were prepared
He said he believed everybody had a good hunt
As we looked around and saw all the smoke houses
Filling the camp with mouth watering smells
I asked him if he thought about the buffalo run
And he said: “Of course,” as he pointed to his inner arm
Making a motion of cutting it
Showing me it was in his blood
I could not guess the pain he felt
Not being able to lead his people
Where his people had always gone.

part XXXVI

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

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Dusty Boulders (day 1857)

Take this blood and run it along an irregular line from here to there, for there is no longer a fountain of youth screaming for more sticks and balls; left for dead there is only a pulse of electricity surging away into a stream of monotony.

But where does each screaming echo fall?

Twisting it’s way through sandstone crevices along a dried river basin, footsteps led aimlessly uphill in search of a higher plateau that might offer a view of the future, or lead to a three feet wide round door of periscope and a three strands of hemp rope holding a dangling sign that read: “Welcome. Please come in.”

If all was lost, there would be no now, for now is not lost as a pinch can accost.

While large maple leaves unfurled to beckon in the Summer, a slow and sweet amulet of sweat rested nicely between the bosom of naked pixie, casually watching the dried river splash over dusty boulders.

Candle That’s Lit (day 1799)

Your impatience drew blood
From the now leaking holes of my breastplate,
And this is our end?
How could these eyes turn off
A candle that’s lit so,
Illuminating for me intricacies
That collect at the feet of my worship
To become the fodder of
My stumbling blocks?
So shall again, I honor thy wish
To a sacrifice I never knew I could make,
A line I thought I could ignore.

Night Air (day 1790)

I’ve got anger seeping into my blue blood veins
Letting animosity fuel this deep inside fire
This isn’t dragging me down, boy, hell no.
For the sky’s calling me higher then high.
This is a lesson of life with a cruel world twist,
But no man’s heart has ever been softer
Nor shall erosion get at it’s strength.
No, this is a quest in growth,
With a battle-cry ringing out in cooling night air.

Siren Song (day 1700)

My Siren’s song was loud and clear,
Rung straight into my heart so dear.
A melody of which I knew
I had no choice as matters grew.

Little by little I worked into
My heart the song I’d sing till blue,
The golden Lady of the land
A Siren and I, hand in hand.

But as my Siren grew in me,
I lost all duty to thyself.
My eyes were slowly closed,
Hands soon swoll, toiled and blue.

She knew I had so much to give
Until at last this heart would burst
Upon the seams she so wove with
Melody so long, her Siren song.

She, however, would not let go –
Clutching, bloody, my heart would grow.
Until, at last, all writhing stilled,
My heart: milled, song: chilled.

model | Melody Mangler
model | Melody Mangler

Crispy Wallows (day 1593)

Crispy wallows and snakes following ancient trails down spirals, leading only to a perfectly spherical, blood-moon-packed dirt bubble where one thousand and one perpendicular lines scarred concave smoothness, remarkably resembling an eerie odessical scene of Labyrinth, David Lynch infused simplicity and snakes. With an omnipresent light leaving no shadows, even in such depths, that echoed with every heartbeat snaking it’s way downward, downward, downward until the downward was no longer downward but stuck in a simple sphere, simply circled as if snakes and ladders were suddenly trapped in an empty crystal ball bubbling with misunderstood and toppled (read:shook) reason that inhabitants were too impatient to digest, leaving perpendicular marks in frightened terror as retraced steps traced their snaking along ancient trails back into the under-root of an atmospheric tragedy they had become familiar with and called home.

Ask Embla (day 1551)

Buri, Buri, Bor’s three sons
– Odin, Vili, Ve of Bestla –
Take pain from frost ogre’s Bos
Who suckled life
To Ginnungagap’s gain:
Fire to ice,
Melt to freeze,
Blood to water,
Flesh to land,
Bones to mountains.
But pass great peaks
Will come to be,
Ask and Embla
Be flesh to climb,
Ask and Embla
Shall mind land too.
From our Odin: spirit;
From our Vili: will;
From our Ve: wisdom.
Together a triad,
True Aesir indeed.