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I suppose I should be thinking of death
but it is April 20th, Easter
and somewhere, though perhaps not here
in the North Country, crocus
have colored morning and
beckoned negative thoughts to melt
like long winter snows we all
endured without much patience.
Death should be the daily topic
for an aging man but spring
is on the maple bud, the blind kitten
shall see and calves gambol in the barn –
yard surely as vetch purples
and pancakes scent warm kitchens.
It will come on its own one starry night
or afternoon when carrying a load
of heavy books home from college.
Have no fear, it is standing there
waiting for the right moment when your
work has been completed. We
might hope/wish that it hits when
you are kneeling to marigolds,
when the garden has become prolific
in lily and red columbine.
Don't worry that you don't give
much thought to death… it knows you're there.
new snow, new year
a dream as fresh as falling flakes
expectancy of young curiosity
building igloos of snow and ice
with windows shedding light
into space dark from ignorance
willing to be illuminated
wait patiently
for green words of their spring
to mature into dandelions
columbines of summer
when June opens doors to the
treads of feet eager for travel
eager to feel mud between toes
and a breeze which will carry
voices as autumn begins to drop
maple and sycamore leaves
hold fast, and wait, and see
apples and blueberries
and know the wait through light
showering was worth the several
cups of scalding tea
on the tongue, and piles
of snow which will now
need shoveling
ANCIENT CEREMONY
fasting; praying
a youth
in breechcloth
prepares
his vision
in silence
on the rocky peak
close
to the spirit
world
PIMA
rain by magic
...
rain by song
...
rain by colors
...
rain by dance
...
mountain moves
...
gives space to clouds
...
rain by magic
...
rain by song
...
rain by dance
...
(For Manny)
A
Ray said
"lean a pole
across your door
so strangers
not invited...
porcupine or bear...
cannot enter
while you are
away..."
B
Christine
waiting
for Ray
to come home
from feeding bears
on the other
side of the cedar
woods with a
wounded hawk
to heal
Just yesterday, like a dog, I pissed
on the grass in Dolores park,
reclaimed California for Indians
as it had been stolen from us years
ago. A passing lesbian poet frowned
on my heroism and told me where to go.
I gave her a robin feather, flipped
her off and drove away to Papalotes'
in the Mission for burritos
with my friends while tightly
clutching a $10.00 bag of candy
purchased in Sausalito, most
happy another day was sunny, and
my little criminal act produced
relief and political contentment.
Maurice Kenny, Mohawk, was educated at Butler University, St. Lawrence University and New York University. His work has been published in over one hundred journals and his books, Blackrobe and Between Two Rivers, were nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. His book, The Mama Poems, received the American Book Award in 1984. He is also recipient of an Elder Recognition Award from the Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and an honorary doctorate from St. Lawrence University.
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