Poetry n Prose

Cliff  Palace

The sun on cliffs
yields to the eye
the many silent rooms . . .
empty and unused reminders.

The eagle cries out
Who?
Where?

The cliff echoes back
the laugh of centuries.

The answer is a crimson secret.

                     ~ Cynthia Kristopeit


Untitled

We can all learn
something from
the Earth.
La tierra, la naturaleza.
This is nothing new.

She shows her scars
unabashedly
unapologetically
triumphantly.

Her wounds are older than memory,
are part of our legends,
parte del hilo entre generaciones humanas.
Estas heridas
forman la belleza en
nuestros ojos. 

Canyons, rocky and precarious,
violently cut by water and wind
seeking refuge in her folds.

Mountains and volcanoes,
an expulsion from her womb,
children formed from the
battling and bubbling within.

Grassy plains, the soft hair
covering her fertile skin.

Icy glaciers, las huellas
of rejections from her fiery partner.

And oceans, rivers, lakes,
a collection of tears
from so many years of being
misunderstood. 

She doesn’t hide these scars,
she carries them with pride.
They give life and take life,
offer a challenge or a respite,
a site for sacred healing
or bloodshed between brothers,
mothers, daughters
or lovers. 

And silently she watches
and sorrowfully she welcomes,
for these will become her
scars too.

And little by little, day by day,
eon by eon,
they change in appearance
but never heal.

And people poke and prod,
get closer,
step back,
awestruck by her beauty.

But she will always guard
the secret of their true
origins, the pain out of which
they are born.

And she will smile, and suffer,
and rotate
and dance with her fiery lover,
while every generation
tries to uncover the truth
and reverse so many years of
misunderstanding.

                             ~ Katie Brown 

Just Another Sell-Out 

quiet observation

watching the

hypocrisy

pretense profuse

dress up and play the part

pretend the world

is ignorant

choose your words carefully

the eyes and ears

in Indian Country

are all around you

envelopes pass

under the table

your slight-of-hand

transparent

the scent of tainted money

a cheap cologne

engulfs your sheep's clothing

the wolf within

waiting

feigned innocence

self-serving excuses

flashing your pedigree

fabricate your image

polish bright a shining smile

the glint of the knife

you hold behind you

ready to cut apart

the dreams and reality

of real tradition

do not assume

we are not aware

of your duplicity

your deception

is

blinding

play your games

if you will

but know this

we are battered

tattered

and worn

but

WE ARE STILL HERE

watching and observing you

now and after

your little troupe of trolls

have left you

high and dry

no more envelopes

will pass

hypocritical sell out

                       © Orannhawk  2010

BEAD PEOPLE                   

Miser stitches     

Tiny beads

Extravagant colors

An array of light

          and a rainbow of thought.

     

Beads are like people

All colors, shapes, sizes, forms, styles;

Each in its own way is beautiful;

Each has a different origin on earth,

all come from one original Creator;     

All reflect light

Each has a purpose,

          in a particular design,

          or special project

                   in life;

Each has a place

          All are important;

Some are more compatible

          with some

          more than others;

Some are fiery alone,

Some more fiery with others;

Some depict water,

          others earth,

Still others--minerals,

          and sun,

          the rest--wind;

Some shine in the morning,

          others in daylight,

          in the evening,

          or under the moonlight,

          and starlight,

And there are those in ceremony

          by the firelight;

Blues behind grays turn

          to violet

And purple rays,

          peak at red

          fade to brilliant orange

          corals,

          bounce to white

                   of the morning

          and fiery yellow

                   of father sun;

Personalities teach patience,

Stubborn one

          doesn’t want to go back into the jar,

Adamant one

          insists on being next to a friend,

Vain one

          rolled to hide its pock mark to sit proudly in the design,

Adventurous one

          jumps off the needle

                   rolls onto the floor

                   to explore

                   and disappear for awhile;

Atsnt (look)

Look at them, sitting so handsome

So pretty,

Even those with flaws shimmer brightly,

          lime,

          kelly,

          brass and tangerine;

Impish yet so patient,

          wanting to be seen,

          saying ‘pick me, pick me’;

Smart and knowing

          if they work together,

          they can tell a story

          and bring happiness to human beings;

Smart and beautiful

          in the rainbow of thought.   

              ~ Yvonne Swan

Photo ~ Yvonne Swan
All Rights Reserved     

Sleepless Visitor at Chimayo