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jacky Jan 2015
Ito pala ang pakiramdam ng ligaw na damo,
may pangangailangang kinukuha sa hamog ng umaga,
sa lupang kakarampot, at sa katas ng ibang ugat ng ibang halaman.
Ito pala ang pakiramdam ng ligaw na damo,
nananahimik na namumuhay sa anino ng tunay na sibol
ng kalikasan. Ano ang aking silbi kung ang langit na nais kong marating ay hanggang talampakan lamang ng tao?
Ano ang aking silbi?

Ito pala ang pakiramdam ng ligaw na damo,
mabubuhay ng walang halaga,
mawawala ng walang sinasambit.
Trying my best to write in my native language // I'll post a translation
Argumentum Jul 2015
Paglalakbay

Nag-iisa, iniwan ng diwang naglakbay
patungo sa lugar ng kawalan
Naiinip, suya na magmasid
Sa paligid na pawang wala namang pinagpalit.

Kausap ang sarili,nakikibalita.
Baka sakaling may bagong malata.
Subalit naaagnas at walang katas.
Tuyo, upos at butas butas.

Humaplos baka sakaling may madama
Nakinig baka sakaling may maulinigan
Ngumanga baka sakaling may matikman
Na kaunting ligaya ng pawang mailap

Napukaw sa manhid na paligid
Nakinig sa saliw at lira Ng katahimikan
Lumasap ng malamyang putahe
Napalasap sa walang buhay na kalagaya
Eugene Mar 2018
Gabi-gabing nagsusunog ng kilay.
Araw-araw na tinatahak ang lubak-lubak na daan.
Minu-minutong nagtitiis ang balat sa tirik na araw.
Iniinda ang mga kagat ng lamok sa gabi.
Pinagtitiyagaan ang kapirasong lamparang liwanag sa dilim.
Maibahagi lamang ang kapiranggot na kakayahan.

Inakala **** madali.
Hindi pala.
Kailangan **** suungin ang init.
Kinailangan **** tawirin ang mga ilog marating lamang ang iyong patutunguhan.
Inakala mng magaan.
Hindi pala.
Kinailangan **** maglakad ng walang sapin sa paa.
Kinailangan **** iwasan ang mga putik sa kalsada upang marating ang lugar na akala mo ay langit na.

Nagawa mo pa ring makaalpas.
Ilang beses ka na ba dapat na sumuko?
Nakailang iyak ka na ba gabi-gabi dahil hindi mo kaya ang nakikita mo?
Ilang damit lang ba ang dala-dala mo upang maitawid ang mga kaalaman para sa iba na nagmula sa iyo?
Kaya mo pa ba?

Ikaw ang liwanag sa kanilang madilim na daan.
Ikaw ang gabay sa kanilang pagpupursige.
Ikaw ang magiging pag-asa sa mga pangarap nilang hinahabi.
Huwag **** ipakitang marupok ka dahil lamang sa delubyong likha ng kalikasang nasa iyong harapan.
Isipin mo sila!
Isipin **** may naghihintay na bukas para sa kanila.

Ikaw ang kanilang tinitingala.
Magpatuloy ka sa pagngiti.
Isapuso mo ang kanilang masasayang pagbati sa tuwing ikaw ay makakarating.
Damhin mo ang kanilang pananabik na makita kang masayang nagtuturo sa kanila.
Iwaksi mo ang negatibong bagay sa iyong isipan.
Yakapin mo ang iyong natutunan --ang iyong misyon at rason kung bakit ka inilagay sa posisyong iyong kinatatayuan.

Balang araw ay magtatagumpay ka!
Balang araw ay masisilayan mo ang katas ng iyong pagpapakumbaba.
Pagsisikap.
Pagtitiis.
Malayo ka man sa mga mahal mo sa buhay, naiintindihan nila.
Ang propesyon mo ang magbibigay ng pag-asa.
Magtiwala ka!

Kaagapay mo ang Diyos sa bawat **** pagsisikap.
Huwag kang panghinaan ng loob sa bawat problemang iyong kinakaharap.
Alam naming kaya mo!
Sa iyo uusbong ang mga batikan.
Sa iyo magmumula ang mga pinakasikat.
Sa iyo manggaling ang magagaling at matatalino.
Alam naming kaya mo!
Magtiwala ka sa kakayahan mo.
Ikaw at ikaw lamang ang maglililok nito.
Ikaw at ikaw ang huhubog sa kani-kanilang mga talento.
Nasa iyo ang aming papuri.
Nasa iyo ang aming taos-pusong dasal.
Ang laban mo ay laban naming lahat.
Kayanin mo.
Kakayanin mo!
Ikaw ang aming liwanag sa gabi at pag-sa sa umaga.

#IkawNaNagmamahalMagmamahalPa
Jose Remillan Sep 2013
Hindi ang dalawang katawang lupa ang
Nagniniig, nagsasanib ngayong gabi. Tangay ng
Daluyong na pumapaindayog sa bawat
Paghagod, pagkumpas sa ritmo at ritwal

Ng pagsamba sa dambana ng laman,
Katas at dahas ng magdamag, sabay
Tayong lumalaya sa hangganan ng
Pag-ibig ng mortal nating katawan.

Hindi ang pag-ungol o ang malalim
Na pagbaon ng mga kuko sa talim
Ng bawat lihim ng silid na ito ang
Hahadlang sa atin patungo sa wagas na

Pag-ibig. Pakatandaan mo, lilipas ang
Alindog at handog na kagandahan ng
Katawang lupang kusang bumabalik,
Humahalik sa paanan ni Kamatayan,

Ngunit hindi kailanman ang wagas
Na katotohanang sa gabing ito, hindi
Ang dalawang katawang lupa ang
Nagniniig, nagsasanib, kundi tayo,

Bilang mga kaluluwa.
Bacoor City, Philippines
August 2013
Nauubos na ang katas ng mga bulaklak sa hardin,
Gayundin ang mga dahong tila nagsasayawan sa bawat pagsipol ng hangin.
Unti-unting ring nanamlay ang mga iwinawagayway sa bawat pulong ipinagbigkis.
At maging ang bahaghari'y waring sanggol na nahihiyang magpakita't piniling magtitiis.

Sa pagtikom ng bibig ng tinuturing na demokrasya
Ay nasaan nga ba ang tunay na pagkalinga?
Na sa tuwing gumagayak ang mga nakapilang ekstranghero
Ay magsusulputan ang mga buwayang masahol pa sa nakawala sa hawla.

Sinisipat ang mga bulsang walang laman,
Para bang mga santo silang naghihintay sa alay na hindi naman nila pinaghirapan.
May iilan pa ngang susukli ng lason buhat sa kanilang mga bibig.
Matindi pa sa hagupit ng kidlat, kung sila ay magmalupit.

Doon sa kasuluk-sulukan ng kurtina sa entablado'y
Nagsitikom ang mga buwelta ng mga may puting kapa.
Sila sana ang pinakamakapangyarihan
Na hindi kung anong elemento ang pinagmumulan.
Sila sana ang pinapalakpakan,
Ngunit ang suporta'y wala naman palagi sa laylayan.

Taas-noo sila para sa bandilang pinilay ng sistema.
Bayani kung ituring ngunit sila'y napapagod din.
Nakakaawa, pagkat sila'y pinamahayan na rin ng mga gagamba
At kung anu-ano pang mga insektong noo'y itinataboy naman sa kanila.

Tangay nila ang armas na posibleng lunas sa kamandag,
Sila na rin mismo ang dedepensa't aawat
Sa paparating na mga kalabang hindi naman nila nakikita.
Ano nga ba ang laban nila?
Ano nga ba ang tagumpay na maituturing
Sa labang tanong din ang katapusan?

Samu't saring lahi na may iisang kalaban
Ngunit ang tanong ko'y, may iisa rin bang patutunguhan?
May iisang sigaw ngunit ang tinig ay wasak sa kalawakan.
May iisang mithiin ngunit ito'y panandalian lamang.
Pagkat sa oras na ang giyera'y mawaksian na rin,
Ang medalya't parangal ay tila isasaboy pa rin sa hangin.
solEmn oaSis Jan 2022
Sintas Man Ay Kalas
Luma Na At Pigtas
Sapatos At Medyas
Dibaleng May Pintas

Kamisetang Butas
At Maong Na Kupas
Pigtal Na Tsinelas
Hindi Pa Parehas

Tinotonong Kwerdas
karakrus ang kwintas
sa sugal ay utas
pati pato hulas

bahala na bukas
tawagin mang takas
hihiram ng lakas
tatagay ng wagas

nalango sa wakas
kamay lang may hugas
bahid, patak, tagas
palay naging bigas

kahapon ay bakas
sing-linaw ng habas
nahinog ang prutas
ngunit di pinitas

bagsak mula taas
sabik na pumatas
kahit pa lumabas
tinatagong Katas

Tinukso Ng Ahas
Yinapos Ang Angas
Kinapos Sa Alas
Nilukso Yung Dahas

Natisod, Nadulas
Kasi Nga Nangahas
Kung Dati Minalas
Nadapang May Bangas

Babangong Matikas
Sa Mali iiwas
panata kong tagos
dalangin ay lubos

payak man ang lapis
yakap Di Pa labis
sugat na may hapis
ginamot ng kapis

Tila Tala Lihis
Kutitap Sa Bilis
Araw May Silahis
kidlat ang hagibis

mukha na manipis
nagpalit ng bihis
hahakbang sa libis
Layon Ay Malinis

Patama Ay Daplis
Ngunit May Hinagpis
Pinawi Ng Haplos
Animan na agos

Timplang Nalamukos
Animo Ay Musmos
Siglang Dinaraos
Biyaya Ay Puspos !!!
Coming 🔜...
" Pakay ng Yapak "
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and makes the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.


PRINTEMPS DES HOMMES = SPRING OF MEN
L'ETE DES FEMMES= SUMMER OF WOMEN
Inspired by Cara de Luna's "L'ETE DES FEMMES".
Marthin Sep 2018
Magising ka sa ganda ng umaga ba
Pero babe, mas maganda ka parin,
Tara kain gud tayo, kainin ko yang
ngabil mo at inumin ko katas mo,

At kung gutom ka rin, pwede mo man
kainin tung pandesal ko,
kung gusto mo samahan mo na rin
konti ng bear brand ko,

Labas tayo mamaya, ang kinis ng ulap
pero mas kinis man kamay mo babe oy,
Gusto ko tikman talaga ba
yung mala marshmallow mo gung kutis,

Pero, hintay muna tayo ha
hindi paman gud lunch,
Pag alas dose na ay pwede na kita kainin
ay este pwede na tayo kumain,

Ano gusto mo kainin?
Yung mga egg meal o yung akin?
San rin tayo magkain?
Sa lamesa or sa bed natin?

Mahirap man mag pili babe oy
Gusto ko sa sala pero bad man gud ba,
Di man gud yan tinuro nila mama
Dapat man daw na kainin kita sa lamesa,

Baka gusto mo dessert?
Busog ka na ba babe?
Baka pwede na tanggalin yang skirt?
Naka feel pa kasi ako ng crave,

Kain tayo ng pina sosyal-sosyal sa dinner
Yung may pa wine-wine tayo,
Yan lang gud kailangan natin
Basta bukas ha ikaw naman ang cleaner.
Davao-Tagalog poem.
It's a bit sensual
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Actually I wrote this piece in response to Cara de Luna's Lete des Femmes But she asked me not to post my copy before she quit this site.  Too bad because my response is much more understandable and doesn't seem so chauvinistically banal given her rant.
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Actually I wrote this piece in response to Cara de Luna's Lete des Femmes But she asked me not to post my copy before she quit this site.  Too bad because my response is much more understandable and doesn't seem so chauvinistically banal given her rant.
Firefly Mar 2020
Sa pag lubog ng araw,
Nakatutok ang mga mata sa abot-tanaw.
Sa pagsilip ng mga bituin
Sa kalangitang dumidilim
At paghaplos ng malamig na hangin
Sa basang pisngi
At tuyong labi
Unti-unting nakakain ng masalimuot na nakaraan
ang matamis sanang kinabukasan.
Ngunit sa pagpahid
Ng katas ng nawalang pag-asa
Ay bagong kislap
Sa aking mga mata
Muling tatanaw,
Ngunit ngayo'y
Sa pagsikat ng araw.
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and make the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.
Actually I wrote this piece in response to Cara de Luna's Lete des Femmes But she asked me not to post my copy before she quit this site.  Too bad because my response is much more understandable and doesn't seem so chauvinistically banal given her rant.
Chapter 20: The Formality Of Acceptance

As he entered the village, it was not what he expected ...

“The women are in the process of building a great fire. Before you can be asked to sacrifice on behalf of The People, you have to be honored and formally welcomed into Piegan society,” said Jimmy.

Cutty wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was sure of one thing—there was no mistaking honor when it rose up to greet you. “These people may be down on their luck, but their fundamental spirit is intact.” He repeated this sentiment to Jimmy. “Only because you returned tonight, Major.”

Only Because You Returned!

Cutty and Jimmy had walked through the trees with the big white horse at Cutty’s side. Behind the horse had walked the rest of the Piegan Tribe: First Stoneheart with the Council of Elders, then the Warrior Societies, then the Hunters, and finally the Women and Children.

Everyone From The Tribe Had Come Out To Greet Him

The big horse had neither bridle nor rein but seemed to know exactly what was happening and where they were going. That was good, because Cutty hadn’t been sure. In times like these he had learned that the most successful route was the one of least resistance.

He had slowly walked beside the large stallion by the light of the three-quarter moon—with the torchbearers all behind him. The few times he had slowed down to make sure they were still on the trail the horse had lowered his head on Cutty’s right shoulder and brushed his cheek.

“It’s almost as if he understands why I’m not riding him,” Cutty had thought to himself.

The big white stallion was reminiscent of the one The Emperor had ridden during ceremonial parades in front of the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. He could now hear the women chanting behind him, and their voices were raised in what sounded like somber celebration.

The path opened up into a wide broad area with burning campfires and clapboard shacks extending as far as the eye could see. “So, this is what a modern-day Indian Camp looks like,” Cutty thought out loud.

Jimmy could tell that Cutty was confused as he said: “Only the elders and medicine workers live in teepees, Major. The rest of the tribe lives in wooden shacks that are both cold in the winter and hot in the summer. Many of the People have lost their way and for that reason the Siksika have been able to prey on us so.”

The Piegan Were Caught In A Time Warp Between The Old And The New

The next voice he heard was that of Chief Stoneheart coming up on the left side of his horse from behind. “Ichiban, would you please mount the white horse as we approach the fire? It would mean so much to the People.”

Cutty’s initial feeling was one of embarrassment.

His mind flashed back to the story of Jesus triumphantly entering Jerusalem on the back of a donkey as people waved palm leaves at him in celebration. His self-consciousness was again tempered by the importance of observing local customs. He had learned this on several continents, and it had served him well.

After Stoneheart had passed by—and was now in front of him—Cutty spun 180 degrees throwing his right leg high into the air and over the back of the big horse. Like all good horses, this one immediately knew that he was now in the hands of an experienced rider. Cutty sat motionless on the horse’s back as it slowly made its way toward the flames.

Wooden shacks had been built in a circle around a large stone-rimmed fire pit. It reminded Cutty, in a strange way, of the squares or pracas he had seen in Portugal. Three women were standing inside the large pit and had lighted a fire. The flames danced in the moonlight as Cutty wondered what was coming next.

Then Instinct Overtook Intellect

Without fully understanding why, Cutty reared the stallion up on its two hind legs. He kept the horse in this position for what seemed like forever, before patting it on its right wither and dropping it down on all fours. It was then that he charged.

Cutty charged up the right side of the fire pit at a full gallop. He rode completely around until he was back where he started from—but he did not stop. He drove the horse even faster around the fire, two more times, before rearing him up again in front of Chief Stoneheart and the Council of Elders. The entire tribe was blinded by the aura of Ichiban. Cutty whispered something into the horse’s ear before dismounting in one fluid movement.

“So, you speak to horses too, Ichiban,” said Stoneheart, as he touched the stallion’s mane. “You two seem to know each other well. Maybe from a previous life?” Stoneheart said these words with the first smile Cutty had seen from him since leaving the train station in Missoula.

“There is nothing like a good horse,” Cutty said back to the Chief, as Stoneheart escorted him to a place of honor.

Cutty was being led to the southern end of the fire pit, when Stoneheart asked him to turn around. The women had all stopped chanting, and in a louder voice than all of the women combined—Stoneheart began. As he chanted, he raised both arms to the sky and rotated slowly.

Cutty Was Discovering Just How Important The ‘Circle’ Was To Native Americans

Stoneheart rotated in two complete circles—first to his right and then to his left—before stopping where he had started directly in front of Cutty. This reminded Cutty of the many Katas he had practiced—always finishing in the same spot he had started from.  Stoneheart never lowered his head as his eyes had been fixed on the night sky.

“That sky is almost as impressive as the one over the Himalayas,” Cutty thought.

Stoneheart ended his chanting and turned to face The People. His head was now down as he started a slow and rhythmic dance around the fire.



Chapter 21: The Dance

One by one, they fell in behind Stoneheart dancing their way around the fire. Each tribal member had their own personal interpretation of the drumbeat as they danced through the mixture of moon glow and firelight.

Jimmy had now walked up to Cutty and was standing beside him.

“This is all in your honor, Major. The People can feel the magic of this night, and to them the magic is only real when it is felt in the heart. Stories, and the retelling of legends, don’t often create what they are feeling at this moment. After they have completely circled the fire, they will one by one take a seated position around the circular stones.

When the last dancer is seated, Chief Stoneheart will stand again and raise his arms to the sky. He will then chant a Blackfoot Piegan poem of thankfulness and lower his arms in your direction.

“That will be your invitation to dance, Major. I know this might make you uncomfortable, but it is a great honor to be asked to dance in front of the entire tribe. It will bring untold meaning to everyone. It won’t matter how you dance as long as The People can feel the spirit of your movement.”

When the last dancer was seated, Stoneheart rose with his arms reaching for the sky. It reminded Cutty of when he stood in front of Captain Nagata while first being introduced aboard the great Japanese warship—the Kagoshima Sun.

Eternal Moments Are Never Measured In Blocks Of Time

Chief Stoneheart dropped both of his arms with palms up in Cutty’s direction. He then spread them widely in a gesture of welcome.

Cutty had never really danced and was known as a notoriously bad dance partner both by Adrian and by the few girls he had tried to dance with at Academy *****. He knew he was bad, but there was one thing he could do better than anyone of his generation. He retracted his Katana from the Saya (scabbard) on his belt.  The entire tribe sat motionless—feeling his power—waiting for what he would do next.

“KIAI”

Without warning, Cutty let out with the loudest vocalization anyone seated had ever heard. It filled the night sky, as it bounced off the mountains with its echo of immortality. The power of its reverberation infused into the tribe, and for the first time they felt the connection between themselves and this ancient warrior.

He would share his spirit with them, and their hearts would be renewed. Their ancestors were now looking down from above and smiling at what they saw.

Cutty had watched Stoneheart as he danced around the fire. His movements seemed much slower than the other (younger) dancers, but they had a subtleness to them that seemed to contain great meaning. The other dancers—no matter how energetic—could not capture the feeling that had poured out of his every movement. He knew he could not dance like that.

Cutty Raised His Katana Over His Head With Both Hands

He then dropped his head, before beginning Kata #8. It was the same Kata that he had performed for the crewmembers of the Kagoshima Sun. This form, when done perfectly, took exactly ninety seconds to complete. It was based upon a circular attack, and Cutty would have to amplify its movements to be able to make it around the fire as its last strike was ****** into the air.

Cutty KIAI’d again! He then leaped forward with both feet while striking with his sword both right and left. He jumped and rotated in mid-air, striking an imaginary opponent with a downward killing blow as he landed.

Opponent after imaginary opponent was slain as he made his way around the fire. Everyone seated was frozen in amazement as this intrepid warrior vanquished his enemies in ways that they had never seen. He swept the blade through the embers of the fire as he passed between tribal members seated in front of him.

Not One Of Them Ever Moved Or Flinched

In the shadow of the fire’s glow, there appeared to be three warriors dancing and slaying their enemies. Cutty made his way back to his starting position and then KIAI’d again before dropping his head. It was customary—in Samurai tradition—at this point for someone of authority to release him from his exercise. Captain Nagata had released him while on ship with the command “MOKUSO YAME!”

Cutty Stood Silent With His Head Down In The Firelight

A red-tailed hawk then cried out in the distance, as Stoneheart rose with his arms extended and again started to chant. Cutty took this as the signal for his release. He sat down where he stood and waited for what Stoneheart was going to do next.

Every member of the tribe was still seated and facing Cutty, many with their backs to the fire. Jimmy got up from where he was sitting and took a position just behind Cutty. Two young boys had also walked over and were now sitting quietly beside him.

Stoneheart Finished His Chant And Began To Speak

As Jimmy translated, Stoneheart told those seated that…

“Tonight is a new chapter in the history of the Blackfoot Piegan People. A warrior has been shot from the bow of all that is good, and he has come to free the Piegan from our enemies and to resurrect our spirit. He is a warrior who has fought many battles and walked on foreign lands—lands that we can only wonder about. His enemies have been many in the pursuit of his honor. Early on, he conquered the only enemy that might ever truly defeat him—and that was fear.”

Cutty smiled inside himself, as Jimmy translated Stoneheart’s final words.

“The wisdom of savages,” he remembered the Colonel once saying. If anything savage had happened—since first meeting the three Piegan at the station—Cutty wanted no further part of what posed as civilization.

Stoneheart looked at Not-Many-Prisoners and, with sign language, instructed him on something he wanted done. Jimmy did not translate this, but the look on his face showed total disbelief.

“What’s the matter, Cadet; is something wrong? Is it something I did?”

“No, Major; there is nothing wrong. A new chapter in the long history of the Blackfoot Piegan People is being written tonight—a chapter that none of us had ever foreseen. Please remain seated until Chief Stoneheart and Not-Many-Prisoners come to get you.”

Cutty looked back and forth across the fire. Every member of the tribe was looking directly at him, and they were shaking their heads up and down.  Several of the men had gotten up and followed to where Not-Many-Prisoners had walked off into the darkness.

“I wonder what kind of ceremony comes next,” thought Cutty. “I hope it is accompanied with food.”

His Stomach Had Started To Growl



Chapter 22: The Intercession

Two women—seated to Cutty’s right—approached him and started to tug at his blouse. He was instantly confused at this strange behavior, as Jimmy said: “Please give it to them, Major. The reason will become clear before the night is out.”

With a slight bit of embarrassment, Cutty removed his military blouse. The brass buttons reflected the fire’s light as the women walked off into the dark.

Cutty stood there naked from the waist up as every scar he had ever suffered in battle seemed to dance across his body. The People were mesmerized by these scars and started to talk among themselves.

“Holy Markings,” said Jimmy. “They see your scars as something holy, and in their storytelling, they will become symbols of reverence. It has been a long time since any of them have seen scars made by a sword, and this will only add to the sense of immortality that they already feel for you.

This is a truly magical night, Major; and the best part is still to come. I hope you can feel what we are all feeling.”

The Best Part Still To Come

Cutty started to feel the cold and moved closer to the fire. He tried to do it inconspicuously so that no one would notice, but an old woman sitting on the other side of the fire was watching him with great interest. She stood up and started to walk his way. When she got to where he was sitting, she removed the blanket she was wearing from around her shoulders and wrapped it across and over his back.

Her Head Was Down

Her eyes were almost closed, and she never looked up, as Cutty turned to thank her. Jimmy said something to the old woman in Piegan, and she stopped and turned around. Cutty reached out for her right hand and pulled her down closer to him by the fire.

He stared deeply into the old woman’s eyes. There was a wrinkled and withered beauty to her face that he had never seen before. Every line and crack seemed to be hiding something of extreme importance.

Cutty could feel the power come through her hand, as her eyes never blinked. She was another one of those kindred spirits who had seen more than can be observed in any one lifetime.

Cutty smiled and asked the old woman for her name. “Mimiteh,” the woman said as she held on to Cutty’s hand. “New Moon,” said Jimmy.

“The old woman’s name translates to New Moon. She has been a source of knowledge and renewal within our tribe for many years. No one is certain how old she is, but her stories go back to before the whites came to our land. She is one of only two people who can talk directly to the Old One and enter her teepee unannounced.”

After looking the old woman in the eye, Cutty said: ”She has stories that go back much further than that—further than even the Piegan language can tell.”

As she got back up and started to leave, Cutty repeated her name. She turned once more in his direction and said: “The wind only blows—and the waters only run—in the shadow of your spirit. The Piegan People now live in that shadow, waiting for a new dawn.”

A New Dawn

Cutty tried to speak to the old woman again as another woman wrapped her blanket around Mimiteh and led her away. “That other woman is Hanata, the mother of Stoneheart,” Jimmy said. “It is best now to just let them go about their work.”  

A new drumbeat had started in the distance as Stoneheart and Not-Many-Prisoners walked back around the fire. Cutty stood up to meet them as Jimmy looked over his right shoulder. The two Piegan Elders flanked Cutty on each side and walked him toward the darkness.

No one spoke, as they walked quietly along a narrow trail. The moon’s light was hidden by the cottonwood branches above—spread out in full bloom—and acting as a canopy.

Cutty looked back over his shoulder, but Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. He wondered where they were going and how long it would take. After ten minutes of slow walking, Cutty heard the sounds of running water. The drumbeat had gotten louder, and now seemed close, as it magnified each image inside Cutty’s imagination.

As they got closer to the stream, Cutty could see that it angled steeply down from a ravine high above. The moon’s light was again visible along its banks. There were seven teepees going up the stream’s rise. They were spread twenty to thirty feet apart, and there were curious writings and drawings on their outsides.

Stoneheart and Not-Many-Prisoners walked Cutty by six of the teepees not stopping until they arrived at the last one. It was situated at the top of a short rise where the land leveled off and he could see for miles even in the dark. Cutty could hear voices inside, and he could see the glow of a fire through the teepee’s deerskin covering.

The Other Six Teepees Had Been Dug Into The Gently Sloping Bank

Stoneheart took the blanket from the back of Cutty’s shoulders as Not-Many-Prisoners bent down and pulled back the flap. “Please enter, Ichiban,” Stoneheart said. “Please enter this teepee as a visitor for the last time.”

Cutty ducked his head and stepped under the flap. In the center of the tepee was a smaller version of the stone-ringed fire pit they had just danced around. Ten Blackfoot Piegan men were seated cross-legged around the fire. Cutty was led to a seat of prominence, at the very back of the teepee, where he could see the entrance when he looked straight ahead.

Stoneheart walked back around the fire and took a seat right in front of the flap. He was now 180 degrees across from Cutty and sat cross-legged as the rest. Cutty also crossed his legs.

For a long time, there was silence inside the ancient dwelling with the crackling of juniper wood the only sound being made. Cutty thought it brought peace—along with great warmth—as the spirits of those seated chased away the past.

Old Memories Were Now Free To Leave, As New Ones Rose From The Flames

— The End —