Clay Pots and Bones (7 page)

Our Nation World

My eyes are wet

with the tears

of our loss.

As I stand alone

on the shore, on

top of these blue

rocks, I think back

to a time when all

voices heard were

in our language.

The very same that

Kluskap used to

teach the Mi'kmaq

about the ways of

our Nation World.

Now as I stand here,

the salt spray

washes away any

trace of my sadness.

I know now that

I will hear those

voices again as

I hear now the voices

of the Spirits who

speak to me through

Mother Earth.

The ready drum sounds like a crack

of thunder as you move as fast as light

around a sacred fire, with the smell of

sweetgrass and sage trailing

behind you like wisps of mist.

Dancer, you bring joy to the soul.

Magic Steps

Magic Steps

Dancer, you bring joy to the soul.

How you move as quiet as a cloud

casting shadows above it all,

hair the colour of a raven's wing,

leather and beads absorbing light,

dancing back in time when your

magical steps would be your mother's.

The silent drum held over a fire,

stretching, becoming taut while

you, dancer, recount the steps

your mother would have danced to.

The ready drum sounds like a crack

of thunder as you move as fast as light

around a sacred fire, with the smell of

sweetgrass and sage trailing

behind you like wisps of mist.

Dancer, you bring joy to the soul.

How you move across time, taking

me back to a time when your

steps would be your mother's.

The drum held by your father,

holding it over a fire, the same

way his father would have done,

stretching, making it taut,

waiting for the swish of

moccasin as it touches grass

made flat by others who dance

the magic steps of old.

A Ball of Blue

The elders stand quiet,

no words, just their presence

charging the misty morn.

Mi'kmaw drummers, their

leather-bound sticks

at the ready, tap a gentle

beat against leather,

bead and feather.

Flags fly with the slightest

of breezes caressing the faces

of the frozen dancers.

The sacred fire accepts

tokens of sage,

sweetgrass and gold-like tobacco.

Offerings and silent prayers

tossed into a fire which

lives for such favours.

The distant relations,

heads lowered, wait for a signal.

Then, at once the drum speaks,

snapping everyone back to the

present in time and in space.

The circle comes alive with

music and the fluidity of dance.

Smiles seen as broad as the mist-free

horizon with blues and whites

of sparse clouds dancing their

eternal dance around a ball of blue

we call home.

On the Shore of Bras d'Or

A storm with thunder and lightning,

an anomaly on a December day,

destroys a Chapel that stood alone

on the shore of Bras d'Or.

Wooden pegs in place of nails,

house of God framed by hand on

an isle sacred to the People of the Dawn

on the shore of Bras d'Or.

Touching sky as high as any

on Cape Breton Isle, a steeple that

cast a shadow in all directions

on the shore of Bras d'Or.

Until a flash of fire ignited the cross,

yellow and orange flames danced

the day while an inferno roared

on the shore of Bras d'Or.

With waves as high as a man

breaking foam and fury over

the lone boat, unable to help

on the shore of Bras d'Or.

Awestruck congregation, faces

wet from tears and elements,

witnessing an act of God

on the shore of Bras d'Or.

As each piece of timber trembled

and fell, a cry in unison heard

over the blare of the storm

on the shore of Bras d'Or.

Chains of light last seen in

the heat of summer returned

in the cold of winter to lay waste

on the shore of Bras d'Or.

Time came when ashes cooled,

soot and spark were raised by wind,

and fire an all-too-recent memory,

on the shore of Bras d'Or.

A bell forged from a distant

foundry, large, heavy and loud,

was nowhere to be found

on the shore of Bras d'Or.

Some said an accident caused

by lack of foresight. Others said

a warning from our Grandmother who lives

on the shore of Bras d'Or.

Grey Skies, White Mist

Riding waves in an open boat of

blue on a morning with steady

rain coming down on an American

Day of Independence.

No parades today.

The wind blowing gently upon the

red faces of my brothers, one younger,

the other older.

Indulging in a common quest,

salmon.

Taking the time to make memories.

Grey skies, white mist,

net empty as our stomachs.

Maybe tomorrow, knives sharpened.

The trip back in drizzle,

washing faces, minds and

souls.

Progress

Handshakes, smiles all around. The

suits come into the band office

carrying their pens.

Fast polite chatter, wet palms

hiding papers piled like a pyre

inside leather boxes with brass locks.

Minions of the queen mentioning her

thorny hat, this and that and the Act.

Words spoken with no “ahs” or “ays.”

The counselled Council listens

to the Concord pitch, its pros and cons,

weighing each grain against each rock.

Four plaque-like walls holding their eyes,

seeing nothing new or different

since the last time.

Mouthpiece spinning spiels,

nods of non-comprehension,

feathers combed not ruffled,

patted not struck.

Sign here, initial there, witness here.

More handshakes,

dry palms wet again.

Saunter out of the old Indian Day School,

now band office, boxes go out with white

blisterless hands,

clutching pens like Cornwallis trophies.

Black ink slowly drying with red splatters

here, there...

From Wind and Prying Eyes

Almost hidden by a colluding maple

one hundred yards away, a man

with dun coloured hair moving

rhythmically to a primeval metre,

keeping time with another

unseen by eyes but his own.

A red skeleton of unknown

genus is being covered by the

workers continuing their role

as inattentive voyeurs.

Wind picks up, leaves begin to

shudder, their milky undersides

exposed to the harsh

judging tight. Wind foregoes

interest, calming, slowing.

Leaves green again, their verdant

veins once more concealed

from wind and prying eyes.