"sweetgrass" poems
A wild man is not a boyfriend, he is a force.
Can you love me in the blinding heat of a birthing star, when I shower warmth on distant moons?
Can you love me in the hole of the cosmic Black, where no one can reach me? Not even you?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me when I drag buffalo skulls through the dirt for days, to the rhythm of an ancient drum?
Will you love me if my beard hides the scars in my heart, from battles I cannot explain?
WIll you love me when I lack courage, when I am defeated, when I won’t let you patch my wounds?
WIll you trust me when I smell of sweetgrass and sage, and when I stink of whiskey and sweat?
When I drink from the cup and play in astral light, will you anchor me to Home?
What happens when my words don’t work, and I can speak with only my eyes?
Can you love me enough to let me go, without asking me where I’ll be?
I am no poodle to lay groomed on a leash at your feet. I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth.
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He’s not built for animal husbandry. He is a force. He is a cause for an effect. He is a mission.
Are you afraid to let me inside you? Not just my flesh, but my soul. The wild man is neither burglar or vandal. I will not take anything from you. I will not trample on sprouting seeds or pick flowers as a trophy. I am the sun on flooded fields and the fire for tangled webs.
Don’t be scared, lover, mother, maiden, crone. Take me as I am.
Even if I have the power to destroy worlds, I will not destroy you.
A wild man is a protector. A father. A warrior for all that is good.
When the chaos seeks to obliterate you, sheering your flesh from bone, I will hold all the pieces together in love, until you are ready to reassemble.
When your seas boil, and your winds throw cars at corn fields, I will wait patiently for you to catch my eye, so that both of us can laugh.
When Hell opens up the fiery gates, and sends all the cosmos against you… I plant my heels deep in the ground. I lay my shield low. My sword is sharp then, my love. The steel sings sweetly. With a smile, Hoka Hey! My last breath a farewell kiss. Today is a good day to die.
For ours is the oldest love affair. The greatest story ever told. Cupid and Psyche, Shiva and Shakti, You and I.
Same same but different. Would we have it any other way?
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He is a force.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
I tromped across North America a few years back
Following the Mayan Elders
Listening to the powerful Lakota Brothers sing songs of mourning and joy
Building community
I was following a White Cherokee
We created clan
I was motivated by the teachings of the Anishinaabe
And represented Thunderbird Clan
We stopped in sacred spaces such as Serpent's Mound
And Cahokia Mounds
We peered briefly through the veil; Samhain
I followed the red path and eventually found I had always been on it
I met Hopi and Navajo elder's
And my friend Sea, a pipe carrier brewed a special tea
I was gifted tobacco that had been grown from seeds
Recovered from an iceman's medicine bag
She transmuted the ancient tobacco into a tea
By folding it into a sweetgrass and cedar brew
Sea gave it to me in a basic stainless steel carafe
Every time we drained the carafe
I refilled it and the essence was just as powerful as the previous brew
When I finally caught up with the Lakota brother's in Sedona
Their voices were raw
We all were
I shared the tea with them
So much magic on that journey
The joy on those brothers faces as the tea reached their throats
I gave them the carafe and told them
It was the gift that keeps on giving
Their thankfulness has been the gift that keeps on giving
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
Dawn lights the seventh day in June
and darling look how you've grown
Harvest the life inside of you
It's time to reap what we've sown
Now I've got my honey
suckled on the supple breast
of my lover in our quiet nest
I'll spark a fire to keep us warm at night
and offer long arms to hold you tight
Oh, my flower child
you've got the sky in your crystal eyes
You are soft like the moon
and then blazing like the sunlight
Let's go to the whisky springs
Where I've been given joy like no other
Living inside a dream
Close your eyes and feel your face
kissed by the southern breeze
Let me inhale with you
The aroma of the sweetgrass
Laying in the pool
Of the cool whisky waters
with my wife and my daughter
Take me back to whisky springs..
I wanna go back to whisky springs..
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC
The peaceful shepherd
dozing against warm
wood of a pasture
fence.
Where sheep live like kings
in a peasant's square
protected and fed
and led.
The shepherd's kin
cries weakly - but why
are you not in the
world, living?
A crinoline reply
floats above the sweetgrass.
Where would I
be without them?
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 4:19 PM UTC
Mother, forgive me
I have not been reverent
Burned your sage without ceremony
Tore your sweetgrass in haste
Greedily spread my roots
and drank your water
without giving thanks
I am both the feet that touch the earth
and the earth itself
Mother forgive me for not remembering
Forgive me for straying
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 5:12 PM UTC
nestled in its comfortable corner of the marsh,
lays nine-thousand acres of soggy southern soil and sweetgrass.
here the hands of the clock carelessly play a lazy leapfrog
as tranquil transformations of pidgin make for musing murmurs.
the clangor of crickets lulling the weary ears to sleep,
as nocturnal creatures nimbly parade over placid, brackish water.
rotting wood stilts sink softly into the not-exactly-quicksand,
the last ferry makes a wake while winding to the next *******
father time is in no hurry here.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
There is no God
If there were, every smell would be sweetgrass
and lemon.
and
If there were not,
we wouldn't have noses.
So there it is.
It must be that
I failed to notice the shrinking days,
the ever smaller liaisons,
the patches of silence.
Then there came the equinox.
Everything was eight hours long,
and you were nowhere in sight.
Who is responsible for that?
If my skin is soft to the touch
and unwrinkled
if my hands work faithfully
and my heart also,
then I must be blessed.
If I have my heirloom ring,
if I have a blightless history,
if our galaxy is still cold in the
right places, and hot in the
right places, then I must be blessed.
And if I remain troubled
with all those gifts -
then I am doubtful, sour, ragged.
Not worth the love I crave.
I am a child at a magic show,
second-guessing the theatrics -
There he is, behind that screen,
with a dove and dowsing rod.
With a tiger, and a cage, and a key.
So I am troubled-
it seems that everything came
in the lapse after a kiss,
where everything which could be touched
could be ignored.
Then the kiss was gone -
and there was the world again
stark and unholy,
bright and blue as a bruise.
How brutal it is to live
on that third planet under the
sun, behaving poorly. How failure
meant nothing, in that orbit.
How brutal it is!
never to face the thing that sustained us
(not even to thank it)
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 8:36 AM UTC
substitute your mind for the divine presence
open you eyes and gaze upon the unknown
I speak for a plethora of overgrown gardens
are we cartons of cigarettes or bundles of sweetgrass
answers like these are never necessary
yet we borrow everything from life's apothecary
i am among the tired lions
who offer their music to your dynasties
its a weekend campaign finance escapade
to bring farms to your table and then go back to the basics
i wish you could see the benefits
that only exist beyond these earthly dimensions
for limits expand whenever we question them
I give thanks for the earth
i give thanks for the trees
i give thanks for the mother
i give thanks for the bees
i give thanks for the soil
i give thanks for the work
i give thanks for the passion
i give thanks for the hurt
i give thanks for the smiles
i give thanks for the children
i give thanks for the flowers
i give thanks for the silence
i give thanks for the power
i give thanks for the rain
i give thanks for the sunshine
i give thanks for the pain
i give thanks for the anger
i give thanks for the rage
i give thanks for the strength
to never separate myself from you
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
We know this table has been a fire pit in days long past,
a flat-topped boulder, a grassy river bank,
a row of seats along side a highschool ball game.
It is the gathering place of women who
know their history and the names of their ancestors,
who tell one another in stories that live
among the words they use. Stories that keep them breathing.
This table, with it's polished oak surface, kept shining
with canned wax has been the heart-place home of the
people through ages. It is the place
where the circle is widened, children are raised
and Warriors seek council, leave reverent.
This table has woven whole societies, birthed legends;
dreaming the life of family/clan/band/tribe
into beads, quills and brain-tanned hides, sewing
them into the skins of daughters with the sinew of survival.
This place is strong like the August sun on the high plains,
and January winds on the prairie, enduring as the work of knives,
awls and the love that are used as tools here in this sacred place.
Here divinity smells of new sage bundles, green braids of
sweetgrass, fry-bread and venison stew. It is warm
as a summer thunderstorm, a mother's arms or a lover's
lingering kiss. This table has existed in a thousand
forms through centuries of stories. This table, this
talk, this knowledge, this way of keeping real history.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC
It was a sweetgrass serenade
singing up serotonin
through the cavalcades
and ramparts
that I had been using to
barricade my heart
It was a sweetgrass serenade
and when I let those sweet words slip
off my tongue
just like syncopated honey
into the three-stranded braid
of me and you and Creation
taking us into those outer places
where we can occupy other spaces
It was a sweetgrass serenade
and on our journey to the moon
is where I wonder who
is following us cause
on our way back
I could feel the exodus
of my past,
you know
the part that
no longer serves.
And in its place...
It was a sweetgrass serenade
singing up serotonin
filling up that empty pocket
with a force of positivity.
Looks like We found a lifeway
time to let it shine and
step into deep play
May 15, 2023
May 15, 2023 at 9:19 PM UTC
Oh...how I long to go home
where the crickets sing me
and the sweetgrass in Praries
smells freshly cut
barns weather on
and I feel the sun upon my skin
and autumn crisp apple air...
leaves me drunken
crystalline formations dance on the windows in a deeply frozen nest
and long burning logs rage
as patterned snowflakes dance outside
a fire of comfortable blanketed walls burns as
spring birds call me back
where faded country music plays
a sad and aesthetically pleasing tune
the smells of generations cooking
I am invited in ...
to dream
dancing on Daddy's boots
in the living room
I dream of a love-strong home
where you can be high and deep
tough and sinewy like the thread
holding us together
weaved by my Native American Grandmother
So sweet and energizing
a place of refuge from waning storms
Where I can be
the person
that I promised myself I could be
as I cook a gourmet meal
from fresh and simple ingredients
I use my senses to taste in my mind
then with my mouth
creating masterpieces
with a magical gift , handed down
of composition
sipping a glass of perfectly chosen wine
and palate cleansing fresh sorbet
a calm, appreciative natural high
Oh, how I adore the tender
domestic bliss
feeding roots
cherishing moments
lavishly on tight purse strings
making MAGIC in hearts
and in my kitchen
poetic recipes for life...
bread from necessity
inked in a passed down book called
....HOME.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 10:18 AM UTC
You
and
I
become sweetgrass
become riverwater
become cryogenics
Not
Frozen in time
Not
Slowed, stopped, surrendered.
A new field
With hope.
Timeless.
You? And me?
Yes.
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 3:39 PM UTC
*The crying sky with heavy afternoon crystal
drops of heartache tickling
sweetgrass mingled with newfound sunshine
With piedmont wine forming perfect pools ,
ushering streams to awaiting seas
A place to bathe for romantics like me
A home for springtide antics ,
for polka dot bullfrogs , singing daisies ,
red grass blankets and apple tree sergeants
Windemere spiderlings , crooning wood larks ,
hereford dancers crossing purple clover parks* ..
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 6:59 PM UTC
My dreams.They come to me like midnight jasmine.
Treacle sweet as I walk in heavens garden.
Leaves brush my cheek
In passing.
As I srroll through heavens garden.
My days are spent in reverie of blissfull
Oceans lapping distant shores.
Misty breezes take me deep
As I walk in heavens garden
She holds my hand and thrills my heart.
Long and winding paths take me up counry roads.
Birds urge me forward with sweet song.
To the place where I belong.
As I stroll through heavens garden.
Sunshine opens my soul. Eternal joy from afar.
Stars await their turn. To burn and glow from a million miles
To light the way for my footfall . Sweetgrass s is my bed.
Crickets serenade
as I drift through heaven's garden.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 9:33 PM UTC
When I go I will go far
I'll follow the sun from the riverbed of my childhood home
To places where the mountains hold no snow
I will sing my freedom song to the birds along the road
I'll braid sweetgrass through my hair
Cup my hands around the moonbeams
And sleep out in the air
When I go I will be
The stars in my own eyes
Wool blankets, blue crickets, battered books, tall trees
I will be strong legs and bitter tea
The climbing of the mountain for the diving to the spring
I will be art out on a blanket and poetry sold for free
Abandoned cabins and agates on the beach
Cold water in the morning, apples eaten to the core
I will be anywhere I need
I will be everything I see, and then a little bit more
When I go, I will be
The sun in my own eyes, the sand beneath my feet
The ocean in a cup, for it takes salt to make me clean
I'll be the moss on every tree, a moving prayer on folded knees
Whispering bliss, singing praise, thank you for this day
Thank you for the sun, my heart, the sea
When I go, I will go free
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
*sweetgrass encasing your soul
salvaged by streetwalkers barren as the road we came on
we broke the speed limit for pedestrians
as ****** equestrians chased our shadows home
joking, we laughed at the bones that framed our photographs
i see elephants in your tone
honorary delegates to the symphony’s throne
violins voicing interludes that are out of tune with young mermaids
who create splashing inversions upon musical modes
your composition sheets hold my soul in throes of solitude
resplendent hues on the emptiness of nocturnes, etudes and poems*
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
#
Untethered at times
but, only in short
spurts do you sprint.
I see you, grazing the
sweetgrass-edges, green and lush;
such a perfect circle
you carve--
Peg, spiked in dry dirt;
the clanking hobble, has you
starved.
Dragging chain, uprooting succulents
scraping bare the dry ground
while beautiful, unfenced; is
the grassland- all around
You were built to be wild, love..
Wild.
#
Jan 15, 2020
Jan 15, 2020 at 10:38 PM UTC
A little Mady bird caught the sun ,
having forsaken her nest then revelled in the-
new morn
Dreams of sunflower fields and wisteria ,
bumble bees and sweet corn ...
Oak arbors sprinkled with tinsel
Pungent , turned earth laden with -
sweetgrass , kernel and lentil ...
Sing a song of powder blue ventures
Proud announcments from the tip of -
fragrant magnolias
Scolding her contemporaries draped in water oak-
sanctity
Nestled in mistletoe
Pious morning adventures ...
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 4:45 PM UTC
find the answer, never despair, hold hope habitual
ritual
rright use learn of love of life
like cloned Poke'mons
in the movie, but rreal
first gentled by a feminine manifestion of Solomon's Jah,
that one. God. Wisdom is her domain, patience
does all her handiwork and
cares for her children,
in time.
Just in time,
each stitch,
each twist of the sweet grass, first lesson learned by
maids and lads alike,
braiding sweetgrass to tie us to the will to be a we,
I call you not servants,
but friends.
There was a wise man who saved a city, the equivalent
of saving civilisation,
these days;
and no one nor anybody knew his name,
only that he had made the peace.
"to manifest many sons, he said. I am one of them."
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 1:54 PM UTC
Home. A four lettered word found among many languages and cultures. Home a four lettered word not found in every family or friendship circle. Home a four lettered word with a plethora of meanings. Home a four lettered word that we mold and shape like clay to help make sense of our own situations. Home a four lettered word dictated by four walls. Home may not always mean windows and doors. Home a four lettered word that can make anyone’s heart beat rise or fall down to their feet. Home a four lettered word that comes with memories held closely or shaken violently. I don’t believe that home can be a physical place but rather a space in our collective imaginations that gives meaning to the five lettered word human. Human a five lettered word that is dictated by the terms civilized and barbarous. Human a five lettered word that is beyond our comprehension. Human a five lettered word that is undervalued and criticized. Human a five lettered word that today is taken for granted once it comes to error, which we are prone to. Human a five lettered word that is measured by success which in all reality means who’s imprint is deeper and not forgotten when we all return back to whence we came.
I found home in people, places, and parts of my imagination. I found home in my workplace which is the same place that youngins call their home. Home a feeling or sense that I bring everyday into this workplace to heal them, to heal me. I found home in stories, memories, and olfactory sense. Home a sense of belonging and returning back to our center that I bring everyday into this workplace to heal them, to heal me. Sage. Cedar. Sweetgrass and Yarrow roots to cleanse my body, mind, and soul. Sage to keep the bad medicine at bay. Cedar to keep in my shoes and wash in my hair as I think about how long I can really hold my breath for underneath this wave of colonization. Sweetgrass to honor the devine femininity that lives in all of our spirits that comes from under our feet. Yarrow to wash my body and purify my thoughts.
May 7, 2020
May 7, 2020 at 8:26 AM UTC