Clay Pots and Bones (2 page)

Hello and Welcome

We say in the Spirit of Mandela

At a sacred place where the tools

Of war remain buried

Stand the descendents

Of Henri Membertou.

For as long as the

Rivers flow free,

The winds caress the

Sea bound coast

Mi'kmaq have honoured

The Treaties with Monarchs;

Their successors and subjects.

In the Spirit of Jean Baptiste Cope

We open our arms like Eagle's wings

We raise our voices as songbirds

We walk with pride and purpose

On the grounds of Peace and Friendship

In the land of Mi'kmaq

We say, Kwe' aq Pjila'si

Translation courtesy of Bernie Francis

Kwe' aq Pjila'si

Teli-wtunkatmek wijey aq Wjijaqmijl Mandela

Sape'wik maqmikew ta'n pukmaqnn

Matntimkewe'l me'j etl-utqutasikl

Kaqmultiek wetapeksultiek

Anli Maupltuo'q.

Teli-pkijitk sipu'l,

Wju'snn munsa'matk qasqi-kjikm

Mi'kmaq kepmite'tmi'titl

Ankumkamkewe'l wejiaql Eleke'wa'ki;

Napune'kwi'tiji aq wunaqapemua.

Wjijaqmijk wejiaq Sa'n-Patist Kopo'q

Wnaqa'tunen npitnokominal staqe kitpu wnisqi'

Wenaqintu'tiek staqe sisipaq

Kepmleketaiek aq kjitmiw

Wjit wantaqo'ti aq witaptimkewey

Ula maqmikek Mi'kma'ki

Aq telua'tiek “Kwe'” aq “Pjila'si”

Demasduit, why did you die

sad and alone?

Did they prod, test and

measure your spirit?

Did you see your family

hide and flee?

Irony Invades the Few

Irony Invades the Few

Who were they

peering through the fog

from clandestine

locations among rocks,

sand and shale?

English sport of hounds and

horses, the blood-sport of the

transplants, who found game

in this new lost land.

Eastern rain cries their name,

lunar solstice tides wash

the Royal sins away.

Demasduit, why did you die

sad and alone?

Did they prod, test and

measure your spirit?

Did you see your family

hide and flee?

Does a voice lose its purpose,

or eyes the prophetic view?

The tribal curse lives on in

the eyes of descendants.

How they suffer and weep

for what is forever lost.

Irony invades the few

while their numbers decline

and flee the hunters of

misery.

Visitors

A white cloud appears on the blue horizon off the shore of Unama'ki.

Strangers are coming in strange vessels.

The vessels come nearer and stop.

A splash is heard as the strangers

throw something from the front of the ship,

looks like a tree trunk with a long gnarly root.

The strangers speak in a foreign tongue.

Their skin is pale as the ghosts that haunt our camps at night.

Faces hairy like dogs, yet they stand upright like us, the People of the Dawn,

the first people to greet and get blessings

from the sun

as it rises each morn to bless the rest

who live to the west.

How the strangers cower on the shore.

Surely they must think there is no one here.

Come my brothers, let's go away and tonight

we will return.

They have not ventured inland or moved

from the shore since morn.

Perhaps they have heard the spirits

who guard our sleep, protecting us.

It is time we made them welcome.

Let's build a great fire that overlooks

their camp.

It is a good fire, the flames are the first

to dance.

See how high they jump and kick.

Now the drumming starts,

how we dance and sing.

But wait, something is wrong.

They're leaving.

Wait! We welcome you.

Stop! We mean no harm.

They leave. We wonder if

they'll be back.

They have left strange markings

on a piece of wood.

If this man, now a child, could

answer, I would ask him,

“Matchee, where did you

get those brown shoelaces?”

Brown Shoelaces

Brown Shoelaces

Standing at attention Master Corporal Matchee

doesn't smile or say much anymore.

Didn't he know that he, a Red man,

in their Aryan eyes is the low man?

We saw him meticulously polish and

assemble his FNC-1 through an

unblinking eye on foreign soil while

we saw his comrades regurgitate

words and bravado against their

unknowing, unwilling charges.

Long before the pin hit the casing

the finger was working its way

down his back.

Where did Matchee get those

brown shoelaces for his

black combat boots?

Wasn't he under guard?

If this man, now a child, could

answer, I would ask him,

“Matchee, where did you

get those brown shoelaces?

Did someone help you onto a chair

so your new laces could make

you airborne forever?”

A final jump.

Silence from Master Corporal Matchee,

a temporary reprieve for those

higher up the totem with maroon

hats and hands that don't come clean.

Alexander Standing in Tall Grass on Chapel Island

Every summer since his youth

he would make his way across by boat.

A red apparition in blue water.

Carrying his lunch in one hand,

a scythe in the other, he would

walk like a man with a mission.

His purpose to cut the tall grass

for the many who would arrive

to their Mecca.

A resting figure standing alone

on the lonely isle,

leaning with his elbow on the scythe,

chin in hand.

The scent of newly cut hay everywhere,

the light breeze carrying it away.

A bead of sweat running down his face

past the turquoise blue eyes,

the Indian nose, through the white

stubble and falling finally, quickly

evaporating to the air before

hitting the ground.

The once proud tall grass would fall

easily from the steady measured

swings of his scythe,

the slain grass resurrected to

serve as bedding for the

wi'kuoml.

Bunches and bundles to serve as

fire starters for tea and

fourcents.

Nothing will be wasted this day.

Forth and Back...

After all these years

Leonard, Leonard.

He walks with state-issued shoes

doing Mandela-like paces

back and forth,

forth and back.

Vertical bars dissect his form,

seen only by the population.

Brown eyes peer through iron.

Air moves freely across his

leather-bound hair, his breath

escapes through nooks and crannies,

while his lungs remain rooted,

and not really suited to be inside,

a permanent guest.

Lesser men would have

worn their last necktie or

stood with one shoelace

still tied to the state-issued

shoe while the other...

elsewhere.

Leonard is a worthy cause.

If there is to be one worthy cause.

let the cause be for this man

to walk free and take his place

beside ones who are wise.

Injustices visit each and

every hair above their high

cheekbones and earthy skin tone.

Leonard, Leonard. He walks

back and forth,

forth and back...

A Man Who Drank Tea and Told Tales

Was he our Peter who stood

on the rock and laid the first

block to build

in his vision?

Just a man.

Kmtin, like Kmtin the mountain,

whose white assures us, calms us

with knowledge gained gazing

through silvery vapours

from intellectual heights.

Was he the air that surrounds us,

feeds us and eases us through

our journeys?

Our time continues

while his was then and is gone.

A man who saw beyond

to a time when his visions

would be fulfilled and forever

treasured by those who

called him a true Native Son,

Chapel Island's best.

A man who drank tea and told tales,

true meanings grasped

after the tea became cold.