Without the Name

This is war,
Without the name
It’s always been,
The slow erosion of their land,
Of their ways,
Their rituals,
Their families,
Their communities
Their lives

This is war,
Without the name,
Declared through false handshakes,
And broken treaties,
Declared through smallpox blankets,
And stolen children,
This is, was always war
Without the name.



Star, from where you are,

Can you see

Just how beautiful

The light you shine is?

Imagined Words

When I was young
I used the write stories and poetry
In my head.

Too quick for pen and paper
The stories unfolded before my mind’s eye,
Like drops of rain I could try
To catch them,
But surely I would miss too many to try,

I would lie in bed
With words my dreams,
With words the sheep I would count,
But surely with such tales on play
There was no way rest I would take

I would imagine the words
Being spoken from my mouth,
The thought of the sound of my own voice,
Catching and releasing the words from my lips,
And yet not a noise would be made.

When I was young
I was a dreamer,
An artist,
A dream artist,
Painting mental pictures
Of the imagined works
of this poetess.

What If (The Dream)

She fears the steps,
She must take in becoming,
What if she trips?
What if she falls?
What if her dreams are much to big for her small body?
What if?
What if her what ifs are the wrong inquiries?
What if her dreams are just right for her size,
And the ground should rise up to meet her,
Easing her landing?
What if the scariest part is letting go,
And sliding into the unknown,
What if imagining “what if”,
Is symptomatic of a dreamers urge to wonder;
That which should ne’er subside?
Unless the dreamer loses the very gift of the dream

The Wounded Me

The wound had festered,
Until it reached the surface,
There it was open,
The air stung,
How I did shriek!
Unable to believe such harm had been,
Was of, was in
But it could not be unseen,
And beckoning alone would not heal,
And so I gathered gauze of aid,
And let in the attendants for my mind and soul,
To dress the painful opening that was now exposed,
And it promised not to close,
To be stubborn as cells stitched together a flesh bandage for the wound,
And it was painful,
The knowing, the being, the healing.

Time passed,
Much time passed,
And I look back on an invisible scar in disbelief,
How was that me?
Who was that me?
The wound is closed,
But the memory of phantom pain shocks my mind once in a while,
And strange photos,
Strange writings,
Strange thoughts of things not as they really were
come back to me,
To me,
To the me that is whole,
But who remains vigilant,
For the feared return of the wounded me
that once resided here.