Under the full moon
I stand
gathering
dreams
woven
long ago
into my spine,
stars
frame the lake
radiant halo
of tears
dogs
howl
stories
of broken
promises
land
broken
by the sword
and golden
cross.
Oh warriors
children
of the maize
gods
born
as sun
and
moon:
where
have
your songs gone?
The owl
screeches
from top
the cave
winging
lightly
over
sleeping
souls:
their dusty
shoes
by the door.
Once these
diminutive
gentle
folk
worked
night
to day
and back
ran
rocky
hills
grew corn
laughed
happy
for the sun
the wind
stars
but most
of all
the sacred lake.
A boy was a man
when he could
cross
alone
in his canoe
the widest
length
of the lake:
loincloth
adorned in parrot feathers
bringing gifts
of sweet fruit
and precious shells
to his
one and only gifted
child wife
waiting
dressed
in fine
embroidered
skirts
the color
of violet sunsets
and tangerine sunrises.
Once they played
pok a tok
sang
from the heart
swam
at dusk
and slept
under these same stars.
You,
sons and daughters
created
from the lake
not of mud
or wood
but molded
from sweet corn.
I see you still
in San Marcos
carrying bundles
to market
on your
brightly adorned
braided heads,
or herding
goats
on the hillside
smiling
waving
gold teeth
catching the light.
I hear you
whispering
in Mam
Sunday morning
rushing
across the plaza,
the guttural sounds
echoing
on the cobblestones.
Two little girls
laugh
and saunter
side by side
toward the lake
three dogs
thin
and mangy
follow
tails low:
warm wind
blowing
morning mist
away
so they can
laugh
and build
castles in the mud,
adorned with stones
while the dogs
stand
guard.
Tonight
the lake
quivers
with stories
so many
and I hear…..
(for all my Portland peeps)
It’s been three years since my father died – and 7 years since we started this blog together. His birthday is March 15th and I would like to celebrate it – even if he is not on this earth anymore. He is still with me – more so each passing day. I promised him I would keep writing – many times during his life and now I am trying to keep the promise. I admit it has not been easy – without his mentoring and love, I have lost my words for months at a time…..I wonder why we poets even keep writing – no one reads poets, but poets – I think we all know that, but I remember my father’s words – “it’s the process, the doing that matters. I write because I can’t live without it.” Well, sometimes I feel as though I write because I can’t live without you, father – I write to keep our dialogue going. I write to honor you, and despite the absurdity of it – know you are a witness – if ever silent. But not so, as I hear you on my long walks in nature.