"mohawk" poems
only an idiot like me, the rain poured down, my socks were wetted, and i looked at the pavement for glory, instead i found a £10 note and imagined my right shoe on my left leg, and my left shoe on my right leg... just to prove the luck.
it came from listening to rotting christ's kata
ton daimona...
i wrote the poem on two tesco receipts
numbering them no. 1 - .4,
it made sense to just give it a narrative...
the naturally apparent lisp of greek is due to...
lies between theta (θ) and phi (φ)...
check feta cheese... it might be less morbidly fermented...
that's why the greeks have a natural lisp...
it's theta and it's phi...
in english it's like chinese.... w & r...
something's rolling something's waving,
something's trigonometric...
harrison fowd was almost jonathan woss if i care...
the chinese in english debate with chin-chin-wanker
scissors piece of paper stone good luck on the handshake:
lost the price of interest being gained for excavation
purposes of dinosaur bones and inflation via the
ptertodactyl of the extended mohawk shave...
english dicionary makes me confused...
it places theta alongside the, than... but then
it's therapy... thermometer...
too many unique examples i'd have said...
that's the lisp there... sidelined phew and engaged in phew
in byzantine...
english linguistics is filled with too many "unique" examples
of expression... coupled with the celebrity culture...
i farted and a person took hold of a *** squeeze...
how's that?! english language in summary?
pleasing on the eye... but the spelling? a burden on the tongue.
i know that slavic linguistics would make enlgish that's written
ugly...
it wouldn't be pharmacology but farmacology...
then it made sense, i stopped asking the english dicta
written down, the greek θ wasn't a couple of th & etc...
a few athenains in death metal said it like i said it... the 2nd f...
it was απηθανoν - because it was simply athens - fern fence...
and not d... defence, or anything easily acquired as a prescription
of zee wee point of german scottish.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
As the Mohawks straddle the goal line
We hold our breaths.
We need a win under our belts,
And this is the most important game of all.
I feel the tension in my stomach,
Now in my hand,
As you take it into yours.
Normally I would be thinking of you
But we are so focused on this touchdown
"Hike!" Shouts number 7, and there it goes.
Caught by 22.
Almost intercepted,
But not quite.
We go wild.
Hearts pounding
Mohawk fans cheering
We won.
You grab me in a huge embrace and
I can't breathe
But its not because you're holding me too tightly.
Together.
Without thought:
Thought of consequence
Thought of the future
Thought of pain
Thought of who is watching,
You kiss me right there and then
And even though your eyes are closed
I still see the blue in my mind from moments before,
Letting me know that it is okay to dive in.
As the cheering roar dies out
I see that blue again
Confused and happy
Or is that me?
On this homecoming night
We won
And I'm not talking about the team.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
Lucid, abusive
Tongue in cheek divine
Stupid, elusive
Lost soul of mine
A snap of orchestral fingers to summon the suave illustrator
Mohawk punks and minions to smash the limp masturbator
Loveless, acquiesce
Arpeggio flutter ripples
Convalesce, Fancy dress
******* with perky *******
One or two drinks, make it three then five
Keeping the blood warm and love alive
Visceral, peripheral
Dark raven hair
Liberal, scriptural
I couldn’t even care.
I adored her all, her everything, her gleaming demeanor
The subtle wink of her eyes, the glow; even greener
Exotica, ex machina
Street amazon of desert glass sand
No drama, rural karma
Flesh sweating like the heat of Sudan
Dead singers like Cole and Morrison sing of paper moons and Crystal Ships
The mixed CD segues to U2, Pulp, and then a full disk of The Flaming Lips.
"Nightingale", minor scale
The saxophonist played under the street lamp outside
Folktale female
“Another drink?” she abides, two glasses and wine supplied
On her balcony we watched and listened, to the call of urban passion
The wordless music we adored, a testament to our mutual attraction.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
My girlfriend
Recently
Moved in with me
So she decided
To call her friend,
Who was also
A close friend of mine,
For a couple of beers
In the now 'our' house.
Carmel Scotts
Arrived, knocked,
At around 9,
And girlfriend let him in
And his motorcycle
Sat outside near my
****** old car.
He was a skinny
Ill skin tone guy
Due to his being a
Poppy aficionado,
And he dressed
Like he belonged at
A London punk rock
Concert in the early 80s.
He came in
With his huge mohawk
Flipping God and the system off
And his boots
Knock knock knocking
On Satan's roof.
'Sup' 'Sup' 'Beer?'
'Yeah man, of course'
And we drank and drank
And the now 'our' clock's hands
Moved and struck
12.
We were quite drunk.
I put on
That record
By The Stooges
That we loved
And went to take a ****
When I came back
Iggy was moaning about
Some Deathe Car
While on the now 'our' floor
Carmel crouched
Like a tiger
Above girlfriend's opened legs
As she too moaned
Being eaten alive by
the now 'our' friend.
They were really going at it
And didn't notice I was back.
I was mad,
Really ****** mad.
I was about
To slam him
Off girlfriend and beat him
To a pulp
When suddenly, I woke up.
I remembered
That I don't have a girlfriend,
(I never have had one)
And I don't have a punk friend
(Or any friend really).
So from mad
I turned sad
And got drunk without both of em.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
The barber asked "what would you like?
Quiff?
bun?
Mohawk?
slicked back?
side parting?
centre parting?
greased?
permed?
straightened?
skin head?
bald head?
spiky?
A comb over?
pony tail?
pig tails?
curly?
frizzy?
dyed?
mop top?
French crop?
blue rinse?
purple rinse?
step?
undercut?
shaggy?
dreadlocks?"
"No thanks" I replied
"I'll have a short back and sides and make it messy on top please"
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
I would like this life of endless
Greyhound time schedules to cease.
What self-inflicted alien abduction
tore me from the valley of my birth,
leaving me to wander empty streets,
each the branch of a coppiced maze?
I grow weary of quotidian fastfood buffets
downed with the aid of espresso baristas.
My legs have lost the muscle-memory
that strode the river cliffs with no regard.
Time to end the sleepwalk of forty years;
rejoin the forward guard of Iroquois.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
each stroke of greased fingers on the mohawk
was a result of a genius work of art
an outlet where my soul barely peeks
yet you cut with your hypocritical shears and your rusty hand
and you call it discipline
and you call it concern
I call it ********
the shadows on my
eyelids were davincis and picassos
sketched in a magnificent representation
of inner self which you all want to see
yet suffocate by your rotten curricula
and you call it quality
and you call it excellence
I call it ********
the silver that glitters in these ears
conceals the tortures of my youth
the horrors that dwell in my every sleep
yet you rip from my skin you are unworthy of touch
and you call it decency
and you call it suitability
I call it ********
© Glenn L. Sentes
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
People often say now I understand
When they hear that I'm from Paree
Not Gay Paree silly, but redneck
In the heart of Tennessee
I am the newest style of hairdressers
Here to lay out all the facts
I no longer work on the tops of heads
But straight out of the pits
It all happened when I got bored
With the every day to day
Trimming of the head left me feeling dead
That's when it hit me..."Underarm Braid"
That right there was my life saver
That right there was my turn around
If it didn't make me world famous
At least it did on this side of town
Now people come from as far as Nashville
To have their underarms done
I even gave a left and right pit Mohawk
To the Governor's daughter and son
What? Did you think I only braided?
There's so much more that I can do
Just ask the Punk Rock Chick's that wait in line
To have their armpits colored blue
My older clientele have let there hair grow out
Since it is they learned
I'm now specializing in for both women and men
Their favorite sets and perms
So feel the freedom of the pits
That hippie chicks have long since known
Here at Michael's Salon Of Pits
We'll do something special with that growth
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 8:42 AM UTC
Reginald "combover" Twistleton-Smythe
had hair on his head but just on the side
He wore a big hat when out for a walk
Too scared to shave and have a flat-hawk
One day at his Gran's fell asleep after tea
and woke up to find he was combover free
He saw grandmas scissors behind on the shelf
As she looked in his eyes and said "Be yourself!
With that combover thing Reg, you sure do look silly
Go shave your head, you'll look just like Bruce *****
"But my heads the wrong shape, it just wont do the trick,
I'll look less like Bruce ***** and more like a ****
"Listen to your Gran for I always know best,
I'm not saying go out and run round in a vest.
Just cut your hair short and wear it with pride,
it'll be like a mohawk but just on its side"
Reggie "flathawk" I've heard people say
now runs round in vest shouting Yipee Kiyay
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 11:31 AM UTC
The *** stood stars on end, so to,
whispered, “play with me,” and in
haste we fled. We explored,
discovered, and devised something
bright, half something else sinister,
notarized – black roots pinned a
pink-scorched Mohawk, and
reciprocated, my wild “Mao-Mao,”
or so she’d named the hair on my
arms. The moon endured whilst we
knifed each other with each and
every gasp and sutured wounds left
prior lovers. I’d only come across
her name near the end, “Xiaolian,”
though the tattoo ‘top her leg, told
me, “Lola.” Come what mothers
christen us innocent would be a
poems in and of themselves,
addendum, the delirium aged and the
dance of neon atop our waterfall
soaked bodies - epic.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
My sweet Austin Texas ecstasy, my beloved Guadalupe you
gem of the desert. Your family’s a basket-a-bigots but
******* they drink for miles and how near they are to my
heart. This heat’s a drug I swear it. Let's swim in that hole
in the bedrock between two rivers. That'd be nice: me and
you and mobs of Westlake High sophomores with their
blue-raspberry bikinis, a hundred Teen Vogue magazine
covers lined up on the grass like a set of bad church pews.
Imagine that whitewash of a crowd, you and me so alone in
that big static it's better than private. Let’s punch brick, peel
back our knuckles and watch’em clot in the sun. **** gauze,
we’re goin’ to a punk show. I’m puttin’ on short sleeves,
goin’ on parade, gunna flaunt my cigarette burns like a Cadillac:
I want those dorks at the Mohawk to look and love me like
they love gore. I’m gettin’ my black-eye ribbon tonight.
We’re in the Chaos in Tejas show, darlin’, put on Crazy Spirit
and bring your 2x4: skinheads ain’t jumpin’ themselves.
Let's get medicated, hunny, let's get saved. I love watching
Austin bleed out into the sand every dusk. Love the musicians
sailing out grimy and frothing over what night brings:
what a big sky, Texas, you're almost better in the day all
parched ground and azure azure. I love the glass on the high
buildings here, they’re like mirrors. This is God’s powder room.
This is where God sees himself drugged up and beaming in a
beautiful powder room. This is where God goes to remember
youth. I love how youth hasn’t gotten you yet. That unassailable
capacity for charity, that surging belief in belief shouting out
through your temples, I can’t stand how you make me sick of
making myself sick. You slapped the ******** outta me so quick
I’ve never seen grace move that fast. I thought you'd knock the
grapefruit polish right off your nails you hit me so good.
What a sight you are, kid, so proper and fit, Christ, you could
be therapy: so brunette-in-the-Fall, so full-lipped,
unabashed and Aristotelian, frayed like anything but ****
well stitched, impeccable at the seams.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 8:11 AM UTC
It was my first time
I was fifteen years old
And it was 8 inches.
Eight. Whole. Inches.
Laying motionless in my hands,
Long and lifeless as I stared excitedly, nervously
My first ...haircut
I spun around in the salon chair to see my exposed jaw, shoulders, neck
Holding in my hands a ponytail that would soon be sent to Locks of Love
My first legitimate haircut, not the simple snips my mom would attempt in the bathroom when split ends were too unbearable,
A real style
Back straight and shoulders proud,
Uncertainty left on the tiles beneath the feet of beaming confidence,
Leaving dead the sheet that covered scared eyes and shy smiles…ever since I've developed an addiction to change,
Can't leave it the same for more than two months
And the chime of the door behind me opened endless opportunities:
Brown, auburn, gold, red, blond, yellow
Black
Brown black, blue black, soft black, natural black, always back to black
Straight, curly, layered, cropped, feathered, fringed, shaved
Undercut, mohawk, faux hawk, that weird thing where I gel it to the side and kind of look like a boy...
And yeah, sometimes I get sick of the sexist comments
People telling me I've got a boy's haircut
That short hair is for men, but
So were the olympics and voting and public education and getting published,
And thriving in the workplace and wearing pants,
And god knows im not going to give up either my Levi's or my razor
I'm not going to keep worrying; man's words will stop me from doing what i love
And I've been called lesbian, boyish, butch, manly, androgynous, anti-effeminate,
But I know I don't stand alone.
So thank you, Natalie Portman, P!nk,
Rihanna, Katy Perry, Anne Hathaway,
Kaley, Megan, Erin, Kim, Skylar
I don't know all of you well,
But the risks you've taken with your hair
Are an inspiration to those who care
So short haired women,
Keep doing your thang.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
I'll be at the ball in my tutu and fishnets
While I idolize the girls with the long hair and dresses
The money thrown at them by loving parents
While my outfit is made up of spare change and short tresses
But I'll wear my mohawk high because even though
I look out of place and not as royal as you
I am me and true to my name
While you are just the same ******* dolled up
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 5:57 AM UTC
I cannot restore the lakes that teemed with fish,
nor the maples cultivated by the Mohawk,
the Adirondacks now more remote than boyhood,
a lost dark conversation with jejune oblivion.
Events became the storyline of my life,
and events were always stronger than resolve.
My journey took me inward without time schedule,
dredged up expediencies as layovers.
Still, I felt drawn to the people,
who bejeweled my dreams in neuron flashes,
became therapy, billboards along the escape route.
Turned out that vital knowledge would suffice.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 10:02 AM UTC
My hands are not my hands
My voice is not my own
My lip never was my lip
But this blood is all mine.
The spoon sedated my fears and insecurities
It's tender metallic surface gleaning
And involuntarily shaking
As I lapped up alllll the yogurt.
I could use a cartwheel.
I don't want to sleep
I'm afraid of dying
as my back and forehead sweat in agony
My eyes don't open anymore
A steady beeping
A flickering fills the air around me
I told my brother I'll be back soon
If I stop
I'm writing with my eyes closed now.
My heart rumbles like a cannon shot
My only regret is how I never knew you better
Mr. Cobain.
We had such fun nights with Mr. Yorke
and Mr. Coyne
Just laughing
And taking turns rolling Thom's glass eye across the floor.
Spring training.
I'm laughing on my bed outside
Catching glances of the summer
Coiled and contemptuous
They go on their lives not caring
Who lives.
Who dies.
Three girls climbed into my window
They smelled of grass and
polyurethane
The children died 6 years ago
The Johnny Carsons of this life
And
GET OFF MY HAND *******
PASS ME THE FOOTBALL
Percodin.
Codin.
Coding.
I just turned the page
And I'll be ****** if I do it again
“oh ****
If Dan went white-face ghetto
And wore beatnick clothes
It'd be
AMAZING
The incisor broke my fall
Sorry.
No pork and beans today.
Ericccccc
Help my head
Chalk these mint leaves up to fate.
Because GOD **** are they good.
I'm reading your expression
On an empty pizza box.
You don't seem too pleased.
I fear
This ice in my tray made me soak my bed
Honest!
Flounder had a mohawk
I don't give a **** what you say.
His **** mohawk was badass.
His stubble made Sebastian jealous
A bed of ice is better than a bed of coals
Or a bed of cars
Or a bed of rice
But that would feel really, really good.
Take a guitar solo
Now a bass solo
Now a keyboard solo
Now a harmonica solo
Now beatbox, no go?
Maybe the former
The TRANSFORMER of course. I hope I live to see that one day.
Yes.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 5:50 PM UTC
How cool I was with undercut
pretending then Mohawk
playing rugby pretending
brunching with fab hipsters
pretending enjoying arcane debates
about particle physics pretending
and social justice pretending
loving tall beautiful black boy
pretending and playing Tetris til dawn
or napping on the couch pretending
in fashionable Old City coworking
space pretending cuddled alone
as rain struck clear panes windowed walls
facade pretending that was my life once,
author in a zine pretending, cheese day denizen
pretending amid all that a sprawling
vacuum of identity pretending
and isolation pretending despite
lunching with a priest I met
pretending online or long, meandering
walks to the park pretending
with Mr. Wiggles and biking up
Passyunk pretending through the market
that smelled of live chickens and grease
bemoaning my loneliness pretending at
row-house holiday parties hosted
by midlife fairies & queers pretending
with dreams with drugs
pretending alcohol *** and roof deck
skyline views pretending pop up gardens
live music filling midsummer streets
pretending same streets
filled with seasonal dirt
artisanal water pretending
bottle cap eyes cigarette **** nose
garbage mouth snowman melting
away pretending going
the way of brotherly
love. How cool I was inhabiting
my urban life pretending
I was there.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 6:16 AM UTC
He carries a black widow spider
in his pocket
it keeps him alert,
he's tattooed from here to there
he always liked the pain,
an endorphin ******
He wears a Mohawk too
His belt is a live rattlesnake
he doesn't like to be bothered
He's a dangerous man in a dangerous world
He met Ray
a princess from Bakersfield
She had a smile that
opened the heart
He looked at her
He looked at his life
He had looked at one death too many
He paused
Much to his surprise
He chose life
His heart it creaked on open
She saw something in him
I'm going to have to ask her
what it was.
She turned on her healing light
offered acceptance,
When violence calls
She taps his shoulder
and no one knows why
but he feels the warmth of the sun
rotating in his chest
he walks away,
it's okay.
Will they make it into the everlasting sunset?
Your guess is as good as mine
But for now
their love is what
legends are made of.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
As I sit in the station
A kid comes into view
Extremely obnoxious
Raunchy and rude
He wears lots of spikes
Has piercings galore
Wears his hair in a mohawk
Biker boots on the floor
My Flesh wants to judge him
As a Punk and a Freak
But my spirit is willing
For Your eyes to seek...
*Oh, give me Your vision
Let me see through Your eyes
Let me not judge the lost ones
In no way despise
They could be Your jewels
They could be Your prize
Oh, let me be gentle
Let me see through Your eyes*
I go to a restaurant
And there at the place
Stands a derelict person
With pain in his face
He stares at my burger
And it is clear
He's starving hungry
And covets my beer
Do I move from the window
And relinquish my seat?
Or buy him a burger
And french fries to eat...
Chorus
There's a lesbian woman
Next door where I am
She has a Butch haircut
Is hooked with a femme
She has a loud voice
A masculine walk
We never converse
We never talk
We say polite things
Goodbye & hello
But she might be hurting
How could I know?
Chorus
Jesus I'm blind
I'm deaf & I'm mute
I want Your compassion
I want to bear fruit
Let me see through Your eyes
Let me hear with Your ears
Let me speak with Your voice
Assuage all their fears
Give me Your hands
To dry all their tears
Chorus
The enemy waits
To tell them his lies
Let me feel Your mercy
Let me see through Your eyes
SoulSurvivor
(C) 8/31/2016
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
such heights
that the heart soars
that the world soaked in such delightful
and enchanting light
that the limitless endurance of unbound soul
and strength of but even such a small smile
her kitten perfect punk rock makeup
entices me to kiss her
but i get entangled in the knitting needle
stuck in her eyebrow
its sharp surface reflections
gives me a glimpse of myself
and my noble knight shinning armor fumblings
and how quaint i must be to her
so old and all
with my guitar and my candles
in the hall
singing a serenade in broken french
at three am
i cook dinner for the six of us
but her friends all female versions
of jealous eyes
just look at my food with guilty suspicion
and the reflections are starting to get to me
after all how should i see
myself except as her other half
and im lacking a mohawk
and id feel kinda silly in one so
i drive in the towns roundabout
looking for a burmuda cop in downtown miami
from these grand heights
i find my way down to the realization
that i never fit into her sense of style
but i went in perfect with her collection of keychains
and teddy bears
im a collectable from the poets line
and how many got of of them hanging bout in the closet
but she strips down and says
hey babe forget the fashion noise
come here and get you some nookie
wanna chew on ya like a chocolate chip cookie
from the grand heights
to going down on the depths
aint so bad after all
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
1. The Ugly Coupling of the blue sousaphone suckling
Buffalo Buffalo
didn't know the blue mouth piece widget
was no inspired milk spigot
soaked with Mr. Creosote
in Vomit'n beer laden banana bins
weewoo weewoo the maniac is behind you
(its funny how when i'm feeling particularly uninspired my poems always come out like this....)
chuckling happily listening to singing nonsense
with headphones on
9 beats, repeated triplets, phrases
spoken in a mumbling rhythm
(....just jumbled references, slant rhymes and free associations)
dreams of peace in the middle east
as eyes turn upward to see a collard shirt and mohawk looking back
"my god what have you done"
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
oh hey, what's up? I'm your next interview!
What's that? Oh yeah! These are my favorite jeans,
you know the ones so comfortable, they're you,
so ripped and faded, comfort seam to seam?
No way. No wearing suits, that's not my style.
My hair? I like the messy look, why ask?
My favorite show starts in a little while.
Could we get on with this, speed up the task?
Your company? I haven't heard a thing.
Don't you guys sell, like, thrifty shoes and socks,
and bells? Oh, closing bell! The one they ring,
the floor, you're trading with the Payless Stocks!
Yeah, no. I don't know anything 'bout that.
I'm anti-corporation anyway.
But hey, you want to see my brand new tat?
I show it off at every gig we play.
I don't know spreadhseets, Word or Powerpoint,
but my new iPad's got those Angry Birds,
and I can show you how to roll a joint.
Hey, where's the bathroom? Got to drop some turds!
Aw, **** It's out of order, you should know.
Oh sorry dude, that silent smell's a ****
I think I'll get a mohawk, let it grow.
I'm hungry, are we done, when do I start?
This Monday? Are you kidding? Yo! High five!
Oh, wait, I'm going fishing with my girl.
How 'bout next week, whenever I arrive?
I'll celebrate my new job till I hurl!
I'm glad you like my honesty, that's fair,
to give more guys like me an equal chance.
My laid back mind's a breath of fresh new air.
and honesty's a virtue at a glance.
When I come in I'll do the best I can,
with all the missing knowledge in my head,
the many skills I'm lacking in my hand,
and all the bad production you all dread.
I'll see you when I see you Mister Boss,
I never asked your name, who gives a ****
There's something on your lip, is that lip gloss?
Oh, wait, you're not a dude? Oh, sorry ma'am!
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 11:03 PM UTC
one up man ship,
there is that in fair play, I don't know, I never ventured any
good might come from
pulling down
a stronghold, non confron totally nonconfron peeeaaace out
is it tec or did the sttererer get a ne w keyboard and the old is better
Okeh, april is earth month and we are into it,
lots of petroglyphic links to stupid
pothead oh yeah we did
imagine that one time, we no just me, we agreed at that moment
life had a point
and we made it
that was cool.
oh, the deals always tickle, this is disney whatifery I do believe,
this exact once
was there a sela ha aah all that Iroquois mohawk talk,
here is where we imitate socrates, know nada,
live in the world, or in the words that
all ways take my bread I cast upon still waters,
aiaiai we say we know why ai think you know
you know may and you know can
you know take, I know give
life is good I may say, so
may bread,
cast on all waters may be
yours, gnoshit. Y'gottssa eatit.
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 10:58 PM UTC
his breath washed against me
like the sea into a pier
in the brown gloom of his basement apartment-
the greenness of our unemployed summer days
halted by Arsenault's phone call
those deep azure ripples in the mohawk river
tinged with creamy moonlight
brought this life to the shore
here we go lie down, lie down-
a conjectural pernicious crimson tide
we wore black as midnight
like still, ominous birds
shrouded, our eyes a profligate deluge,
the cemetery inundated with pink brio
and the ****** yellows of inexpedient sunshine
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
Perhaps it was her voice itself, clear and simple,
Unalloyed by any classically trained fol-de-rol,
Or possibly the nature of her faith
Displayed with such clarity, such transparency
By that very instrument,
But in any case, she had utterly bewitched the populace
Of the place known as Ahwaga by her distant cousins,
And when she stood on the Delaware & Hudson platform
The next morning, they had cheered her lustily,
All but begging her You must return to us,
But the train had lost its footing on a sharp grade
Mere hundreds of yards before making the station at Deposit,
And she was lost in the carnage and conflagration.
The townspeople she had said her farewells to that morning
Were distraught, their feelings a mix of grief
And an odd sense of culpability, a nagging misgiving
That perhaps this was an omen, some augury
Denoting that their own faith was not up to scratch,
And so they had taken her back to their own burgh
To bury her in a manner befitting her piety
(She had been travelling with siblings,
But they acquiesced to the plan, though how willingly
Not wholly apparent at the time,
And made no clearer through the ramble of time)
And so she was laid to rest in a plot
Surrounded by ornate fencing, her grave marked
By an obelisk pointing unambiguously to her Heaven,
And it is said that, on autumn evenings
When the breeze rustle the dying leaves just so,
You can hear the spirits of her Mohawk brethren
Come down from Quebec, murmuring songs
Telling of the spirits living in the trees and hedgerows,
Spoken in the ancient tongue
Of the languid, unhurried Susquehanna far below.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
the
red
mohawk truth-sayer
speak in tongues
to the fire
speak in tongues
to the wind
lord
our People
seek a better place
seek a better world
through
our
ritual ghost dance
let us
breathe
from the soul of
the spiritual fire
to take us
higher and higher
unto
the
great grandfather blue sky
that
our
Native People desire
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 10:00 PM UTC