I am a therapy of sorts.
I can listen to your woes
Massage your tired feet
Perhaps make you some cookies
Or other kinds of treats.
But I am not medicine.
I cannot cure all your worries,
Or stop the consistent aching in your heart.
I cannot stop you from going over the edge
Or tearing yourself apart.

Isn't life that way
Crowded city streets
Breathing stop lights
Singing automobiles
Quiet in the country
White picket fences
And tire swings
The sky full of stars

There are dinosaurs in the grocery store
And new born babes leading companies
And psychopaths becoming millionaires
And then theres you, and then there's me

Because life is that way
Movies in the theaters
Actors sway to the sound of a muse
Under staunch direction
But we're on a stage
Its not all pretend
We eat our food
And our medicine

Still dinosaurs roam the earth
And children play on slides
And crazy fools play emperors
And I can see, and you can see

I’d jump at the chance to ride shotgun
on Henry’s medicine wagon
rolling from city to village
hawking 'Stickin’ Salve' and 'Oil of Gladness'.

We’d ride into Elmira’s County Fair
and set up over by the lake.
I’d fix old Diamond a pail of oats
and draw her a bucket of water.
while great, great grandpa
squeezed on his Union coat
and arranged his potions on the shelves.

Henry’s voice would boom
across the water like a megaphone
and people would gather close -
lured in by the old codger's
hypnotic banter of miracle cures -
and perilous Civil War battles.
  
He’d swear on his mother’s lumbago
that 'Stickin’ Salve' works just as fine
as the lead and powder
he’d fired at Cedar Mountain.

The folks would shake with mirth
whenever he bellowed,
“I’m Henry Howard from Bunker Hill -
Never worked and never will."
Women would tug their husband's sleeves
and they’d bring me pennies and dimes.

After dusk we’d tally the coins
and latch down the wagon for the night
then sleep side by side on the grass
beneath the New England stars.

At sunrise I'd wipe his brow -
to ease him gently back
from the thunder of enemy shells
still firing in his restless sleep.

We'd cook up some bacon and biscuits,
hitch Diamond up to the wagon
then head south through the rolling hills
along the Tioga valley.
We’d breathe in the fresh country air
and tip our caps to the farmers.

If Henry would come to tap my shoulder
some promising morning in spring
and whisper "the wagon's hitched outside,"
I’d go in a Tioga minute.

*December,  2006

High atop the mountain
a boy crouched alone in the vision pit – waiting.
Raising his red stone pipe to the four directions
he sent clouds of willow bark smoke
skyward toward his ancestors.

Naked beneath his star blanket he wept a man’s cry –
crying for a vision to come
that his people might live!
Chanting with eyes fast shut he waited and prayed.

First came the cries of the wind,
then the whisper of trees.
Birds swooped and circled about him.
He shook his rattle crying,
“Tunkashila, grandfather spirit, help me.”

A voice spoke in the call of a bird,
“Your sacrifice will make you
Wikasa Wakan, medicine man.
We are the winged ones and we are your brothers.”

In a swirling cloud his great, grandfather came and spoke,
blood dripping from the hole
where a white soldier’s bullet had found his chest,
“You will take my name, Tahka Ushte, Lame Deer.”
The new man on the mountain rejoiced.

Quietly entering the vision pit,
kind Old Chest placed a hand on Lame Deer’s shoulder,
“Four days have passed, it is time.”
and led Tahka Ushte down to the valley.

*June, 2006

This medicine was never
meant to be
my partner for
life and on
but after all it turned out
to be my best friend &
enemy at the same instant.

few things can calm me - the wrawl in the rain
chasse on the glasses, soirée on the pane
atoms of home - blood & bone - body's wane (and they're)
falling in ribbons of pewter so plain

fog laying softly, the wafting unterse
soundlessly haunting the grounds by its curse
ripples on crystalline mirrors disperse (in the)
capable hands of the watersong verse

nubes - replace the azure with the grey
bouncing the pavement with vestige of play
spirit in footfall, the speckled ballet (for the)
ruse to confuse sprightly night with the day

few things can calm me - the wrawl in the rain
please, weeping clouds, keep the crazy ones sane!
and as you slow down, i'll pray you regain (all your)
previous sorrow so we'll feel the same

I'm referring to actual medicine -

They say the best medicine tastes bitter,
So you have to take it to get better,
How I wish the word was sweeter!!
As in "the best medicine tastes sweeter",,
So what happens is;the little pill,
Goes into my blood stream with great thrill,
Unlike me when taking it in ; with no zeal,
But we thank God
For the brains that create those precious pills of "gold".

With a pen to a paper,
Like a sword to a foe,
I write poetry,
And present it to the world,
Like a present with a bow.
Letting the words
fill my paper.
Watching them take flight
Like many birds
drifting across updrafts in the wind.
And I will send
Them like a "get well" card
To every person who needs a friend.
Poetry is a healing process.
A coping system
A cure
A medicine for those in need.
Poetry is a dream
In which you don't
Have to scream
Unless you want to.
A dream that you control,
A beam that you can hold,
A story yet untold,
Perfectly crafted jewel,
With scripture writ in gold.