poetry & things


Woodland child you have lost the moon

to walk a path dark with fallen trees

sorrow of your sacred homeland camps besieged

the old ways buried deep, the red earth swallowed

all the precious souls, have flown far into the endless night of eagle

feathers swirl, scattered at this ancient altar.

In the ashen air

always your heart remains, your wisdom blood breathes

like the sun of fire, your dance of vivid painted colors

surreal dream of Tishomingo, trading beaded leathers

through the ages, children rooted in trees and fields

medicine men smoked in visions of waterfall suns

all of our days, deep this bloodline runs.

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