A Song Called Red

​
drop down
to the next
line
foxgloves
'n' paths
into the stray
woods
the feral signs
of  forest
the ones you
forgotte
in your hurry
for destruction
in the devastation
of what was
never yours...
roots grasp
at toes
leaves seek
the fingers
of dreams..
half recalled...
their language
misinterpreted..
the seeds
of wither
taking over
everything
the colours
of olde blood..
wa-mo^-dse
biu`-ce
wa-bi^`..
bones
of our fathers
ribs of our sisters
the ones that
died or disappeared..
their lives
the fall water
of raindrops
their breath
the uncertain sigh
of a spring breeze
the one
you don't expect...
among the dead...
of winter
ts'eee
faces get
stirred up
painted in
pain
and snow
as the cold
becomes
their home
no hearth
for light...
only the stones
of stars
mi-k'a-k'e

constellations
of dust
and directions
we sleep
with our heads
in the
ghosting south..
a`_k'a-dsi
wa-pa`
the woods have
taken us
into their
embrace
as all liquids
become channels
of memory
here...within
the smother and silence
there are more
dead presence..
than we
remember...
not all are homeless
not all ran away
not all were
wanderers over earth
some/
just...
got lost...
limbs akimbo
in the rage
of a storm..
the one
that hasn't happened
yet..
but it's
coming!..
it is the darkness
beyond the skye
it is the
swallowed sound
that shall
not be heard..
the fire!
that never burns..
because it has never
GONE OUT!!!...
it is the
hour
that does not
wane..
because
it
can not be counted...
(thirteenth hour!)
there is the chance
of second nature
when it is offered
through the sap
of those
who sit within the
tree rings
i`-ga-xu-xu
colour streaking everything
seeping out
oh so slowly...
 
there is a danger
within these woods
as yet
it is unclear
as to...was it brought?!
or...has it always
been here?!
foxgloves shroud
the lower limbs
of bramble thickets
tallow mixes
sludge soft...with the
sediment
of streambeds..
ancient in their design
reading like  testament
form a book
of ages
flames of anger!..
rage!!...
gi`-ba-ko^!!..
underbrush
that can
scrape you clean
of flesh
sweet grass
smoke
braids the air
thick with scent
sho`-dse
btho^..
sha`-be
the smell
can be cloying
after dark
red paint
deep retinal
after images
handprints
almost glowing
upon the boles
of weather worn trees..
leathern funerary straps
mosaic distance
e`-to^-ha
their hollow boards
of being
still  grieve
with an ageless sense
of loss
death abides
songs of the
lowlands
ashes of a/
homeland
brackish waters
spat  back...upon a
spit of sand/silt
newly emerged
from creation red...
another sister
has fallen
among us
breathy sighs
scarce an inch
above water
/life...
mni wiconi
will it ever end?!
ni-do^-ga-xa
driftwood
bones flow
downstream
ho^_u-to^-ga
ka`-xe
ts'a-ge`
and we wait
for olde crowe
drifter/messenger
spirits sinking
with the
heat/fog
cold...the shine
of all things laid upon the
burying grounds
ancient
before we were...
ageless before time/tears
cascades of
sorrow
the stories keep on
unfolding
moments/minutes
and all...
some days
more than others..
the bloods
the bloodless
killers made..
killers borne
we see
their scars...
scores
upon these trees..
we are the
GhostRoad borne
and we are already
home..
wind singing
it is red song..
no^-xe_u-zho^-ge
u`-be-hni

~ SoldierBlue 
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​

Coherence and Connection

I walked with his spirit today...
I didn't hear his physical voice,
But heard him in the whisper of the trees
I didn't see his physical being,
But I felt him with my spirit.
I sensed him as I walked the forest.
I felt the pain in the tears of the water.
His voice and being linger with his energy.
He spoke of coherence and connection.
His words were his weapon;
His poetry, his activism.
Let his words move me,
Let his spirit guide me,
Let his lingering voice teach me.
I walked with his spirit today...

~ Debby Wyman Ball

Photo Credit: Debby W. Ball

Who Will Tell Our Stories

White sage smolders
in a red abalone shell
and the smoke
a sacred native smell
like an arrow
flies into the sun
an offering from
my heart to Creator,

outdoors wrapped in
a fragrant spring wind
my Moreno eyes
find amusing
a hummingbird zooming
above and over
poppies, roses and
almonds blooming,

I should be writing
stories stirring in
my mind begging to
come to their conclusions
but this enchanting 
creature holds my eyes
hostage freely on
it's ghostly wings,

who will know I was here
and this was taking place
for shadows on the ground
have neither tongues
nor eyes.

​~ Monolin Manny Moreno

Mysteries

Fog drizzles
off the shingles
sparkling like diamonds
glowing in rainbow
prisms of porch light,
wrapping its milky
wings around houses
cars and things,

inanimate objects
surround me but
they have no tongues
to shoot the bull,
have no eyes
to probe mine,
know no dreams
and can't tell time,

tonight is like
any other night
nothing changes
but the channels
and the shadows
and the ways the spirits
maybe entertain,
if I could
I would explain
I guess it's like
wind dancing
with the rain.

​​~ Monolin Manny Moreno

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