River, Blood, And Corn Literary Journal

This Place

Listen to the silence of the great trees.

Birds shelter among branches

heads tucked beneath wings,

feathers preened.

Underground, the earth vibrates

with hungering roots

the trembling hearts of rabbits

the shuddering dreams of moles.

Above, clouds scatter and collect,

reflect muted colors

as the sun seeps along the horizon,

and stars parade to center stage.

Time to go though there’s something

about this place that urges me to stay;

something that makes me want to whisper.

Breakfast

Your toast is burnt

the way you like;

coffee strong

as I demand.

Cream drenches mine, sinful sweet.

Yours stays blacker than

the argument

our account depleted again

when you found a deal,

“Golf clubs, half-price, a steal!”

At breakfast,

the argument slides

into shadow.

You linger

at the counter

watching me

watching the toaster.

It’s the peanut butter we share

our one agreement,

other than how the curves of me

find home

within the angles of you.

All the rest,

our differences,

are melodies played in a minor key

You cup my face;

dare me to lick peanut butter

from your thumb.

Finding Home

If you have a true heart,

you know how to listen.

You understand the

negative space of silence;

how words linger near our hearts,

how stories dwell within our ears.

If you have a true heart,

you are a friend for life;

who will listen and laugh

or smack you upside the head

from time to time.

If you have a true heart, you will

catch the unspoken need

within the words

and be there

with him

beside her

hold a hand

jump-start a battery

let supper grow cold

pace lonely hospital halls

because you know,

you remember

what the elders taught us:

We are here to help each other find home.

About The Author: Linda Boyden has loved words all of her life. After teaching for a long while, her husband’s work took them to Maui, Hawai’i where she stopped teaching and started to get her stories published. Her titles are “The Blue Roses,” (Lee and Low Books, 2002), “Powwow’s Coming,” and “Giveaways an ABC of Loanwords from the Americas,” (University of New Mexico Press, 2007, 2010), and ”Boy and Poi Poi Puppy,” (Progressive Rising Phoenix Press, 2013). “RoxyReindeer” is the fourth book she has written and illustrated. Besides picture books Linda has had poems published in many journals and belongs to the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers, and Writers Forum of Redding CA. www.lindaboyden.com

Tsi’sdu on the Desert

I smell sage

and dust on the wind

the heat of baked tarmac

spliced with the tang

of nail polish

I’m painting

one toe at a time

foot propped on the glove box

as we cruise the endless desert highway,

sagebrush rimmed by mountains,

going nowhere special

just out driving,

when a jack rabbit bounds onto the road,

pisses you off

you gear down and we

tool off road into the brush.

We bounce a fair distance

the pickup snapping our bones

better than any chiropractor,

the nail polish lands on the floor;

our go-cups of wine spatter

the seat and our jeans in red.

With a final lurch, the truck stalls

and I fall against your shoulder.

Out the window a cloud of dust

settles on us like new snow.

All we can do is laugh at ourselves

and how we got tricked by Tsi’sdu, the rabbit.

You ask, Think the truck’ll start?

I say nothing, lay back against the seat,

still catching my breath.

From the west the wind picks up,

carrying the tart aroma of Honey Lake.

You wipe dust from my eyebrows.

I smell the fresh scent of your skin,

the linger of soap in your shirt,

taste the wintergreen on your lips.

Later as we drive back to town

I think to tell Rabbit I owe him one.

Spirit Man

Deep velvet night, the Seven Sisters watch

Shadows flick across my face, cloud ripples on the moon.

Under my pillow, your thunder speaks;

Hoof-beat rhythm of the drums:

Chanting our love song,

Crying our dream song,

Cursing our magic night song.

I rise–breathe your name to the moon,

“Beloved, Beloved Man!”

Through glass prison walls, I stare,

Patient pulse, eager for reply.

You rise–

Toss your massive head, white shag, ivory horns

Sear through the vaulted black.

Rear and tear the supple path beneath thunder hooves.

Across the ribboned trail, the moon-trail of the night,

My silent voice commands,“Come home, Beloved Man, come.

Home to me.”

The words sweep and spiral; gather strength, lure you to my side.

My prison shimmers, vibrates to your beat,

Breath quickens with delight.

I feel you first–tremors through my legs;

Hear you–warrior wails against the dark;

See you–a speck, fermenting into bloom.

I stand, unflinching target of your sights.

You lunge, ghostly arc across the sky,

Your rushing breath, inhaled, melts my snow;

Black eyes rivet, pierce through my empty shell,

Swallow, then redeem my tattered soul.

Strange harmonies in tune, our forces spent.

Jagged breath now metered and controlled, we rest.

Shattered, intersected, yet combined,

Full moon meetings of our souls.

"Spirit Man" published in “Through the Eye of the Deer An Anthology of Native American Women Writers” edited by Carolyn Dunn and Carol Comfort, aunt lute books, 1999.

Ladder of Women

You stand on the shoulders

of your Grandmothers

at the top of a ladder of women

you the Seventh Generation

wait

listen

hope

for a breath, a word, a sign,

the release of a bird

any animal spirit

something

to show the way home

its general direction.

Nothing comes from tongues of stone

but the silent dark

the chaos of wind

the static of a fractured planet eating itself

wanting to add you to its menu, too

when all you want is to breathe clean air

smell the top of your baby’s head

brush your lover’s shoulder with your lips

find your way home.

You stand alone

your heart blood drains

you can’t function

this lost

this empty

with nothing, no words,

no guidance from even

the women who bore you.

So you rage

at them

at luck

at God’s vacant eyes.

Drink away the pain

inject it into your veins

let anger be your home

or at least the warm vent

for this cold night.

Dream deep and awaken

inside your Grandmothers’ truths

see the sorrow each endured

circle after

circle, broken.

Piece together their tales

taste their tears and in the tasting

know this life, this burden they gave you

is a gift.

Inhale it

weave it a strand at a time

into your misery

try again.

You

the least likely to succeed

You

climb back into place

at the top of a ladder of women.

You listen

weary of the wind

and how much your legs tremble

You stand alone

yes, but not alone.

Listen to the voices

of your Grandmothers:

It is enough to stand.

A version of “Ladder of Women” was published in in “Cemetery Plots, Souls Beneath the Stones” by Lind Boyden, Don Peery and S.J. Luke, 2006.

On Native Ground

By Rebecca Hatcher Travis

like old men

faithfully bent over

their constant fires

hazy blue hills

work their way toward me

chock full of spirits

of ceremony

traveling through countryside

snuggled against vast prairies

still bearing the dust

of the buffalo

I cross over

cool wooded territory

that sinks into valleys

and climbs to meet the sun

on the other side

brimming with our history

the old ones retell

their stories so well

we stay late to hear them

over and over

until they live

within our hearts

once we settled here anew

now roots grow deep

in this land too

when I stand

on native ground

my heart knows

I am home

First published in Sunday Evening Poem series, Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Rebecca Hatcher Travis, an enrolled citizen of the Chickasaw Nation, often writes of her indigenous heritage and the beauty of the natural world. Her poetry book manuscript, Picked Apart the Bones, won the First Book Award from the Native Writers’ Circle of the Americas and was published by the Chickasaw Press. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies, literary journals and online. Ms. Travis is a member of Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers and lives in south central Oklahoma, near the land her ancestors settled in Indian Territory days. She is currently working on a new book of poetry.

This Place

Tsi’sdu on the Desert

On Native Ground

River, Blood, And Corn Literary Journal: A Community of Voices