Clay Pots and Bones (8 page)

Shadow Dancers at Night

My shadow dances as I move

toward the rising sun.

I am not a dancer but my shadow

dances smoothly and with purpose.

When I pause,

the dancing stops,

the music of the drum

silent.

As I go faster,

tempo picks up,

cadence matches sounds

heard only by my shadow.

The dancer hides, sacred steps

seen only from the corner of the eye.

Forgotten dancer hides from

the noonday sun until time

comes to remind,

go back.

My shadow dances as I move

toward the setting sun.

Dancing smoothly and with purpose,

growing ever larger, impatient,

needing to break free,

till the sun hides from night

and my shadow disappears,

joining shadow dancers

at night.

One More Night

The old man sat crouched beside a fire

feeling each bone in his ancient frame

cry in protest as he circled a small

area to lay his aged form to rest.

Not unlike brother Paqtism the wolf

who would search the four directions and

give each a cursory sniff ensuring that he

not be surprised by visitors of night.

The old man cupped his brown hands, scored

from his struggles of eighty summers,

and began to speak in a voice of one who

knows and has travelled the good path.

Lu'ks, I am at rest and the fire burns

brightly permitting me to see your

eyes and know that you understand, for

what I am about to tell you I have kept

close to my heart for sixty summers.

Now pay close attention and remember

you must not tell anyone this story until

I have moved on to a place not here under

these stars. See how chickadee tries to

catch the great bear? Ah, the bear will

hide but the chickadee will be persistent and

cook the bear in his pot. See how the pot

points? The pot is never far from the bear.

That is why the bear can never hide and he

loses his life each year and starts all over

again. Believe me, I have seen them do the

same dance the last seventy summers.

Forgive me, my body stays but my mind

wanders to places not yet discovered by us,

the Mi'kmaq, the Children of the Dawn.

Uncle, are you sleeping?

No! Just resting my eyes.

What about the story you have kept for

sixty summers, will you share it?

Oh that. No, not tonight, maybe tomorrow

night. It has been with me for sixty summers,

one more night isn't going to hurt.

My Paddle Does Not Sing

My paddle does not sing

when I dip it into the clear

summer waters of Indian Lake.

This wood of ash, shaped

by a distant knife, cuts cleanly

and with each stroke creates

miniature vortexes drawing

me away from the sounds of

the shore and sky, back to

times of birch bark and pitch.

Even the predictable thunder of

the Concord with its race

against sound does not deter

me from my journey back.

Back to times when the lake

would have echoed the sounds

of knives scraping hides on

the shore and of little ones

chasing each other among

alders and grass as tall as they.

The water reeds play a

symphony as they caress the

underside of my kwitn,

my transport to lilies.

Summer flies dance just above

the surface, tempting the hungry

ones from below the clear summer

waters of Indian Lake.

A transport truck rattles by,

bellowing air, ending my travel

back in time. The wind changes

as I guide my kwitn back to

shore, back to our time,

back to now.

The Blackened Hole

A naked man runs out

of a burning house,

his screams silenced by

the acrid by-product

of toxins, varnished wood,

and petrochemicals.

The resourceful volunteers

strain to hear his last sounds

but only gasps and pained

noises escape his charred

mouth. He falls. No one

catches him. His chest

rises silently then stops

in mid-breath.

The fire continues to

engulf, casting an illuminated

shadow on the pitch dark

night. Stars blink as they

have always done. The

morning stops the night

in its tracks.

The blackened hole where

the house once stood holds

secrets soon to be covered

by the newly arrived

idling bulldozer,

standing at attention

like a pallbearer,

doubling as an anxious

grave digger who gets

paid by commission.

The Church of the Council

The room was packed with faces,

young and old, from near and far,

all here for one purpose – to discuss

the state of affairs of the religion of

The Church of the Council which

was affiliated with The Thirteenth

House of Whoever Was in Power.

This was an annual event which drew

many to hear the words of the old

and wise ones who were elected to

their positions on The Church of

The Council. The Church was a

not-for-profit organization and seldom

ever in fiscal shape due to the

lack of fiscal restraint and exercise.

Now the white-haired ones

had a plan but in order for this plan

to pass and be implemented, it needed

the support of the dark-haired ones

who were the majority and unruly.

The Speaker rose from his great seat

and began to address the congregation

in a slow and deliberate manner.

The speech was long and between

naps the wisest of the wise heard the

words and was slowly lulled to his

usual spot in dreamland, which was

far more interesting than the speech

of the Speaker, entering its second

full hour. Then at the exact time when

the Speaker was to launch his third

hour, a sound was heard from the back of

the room. A dark-haired one stood. The room

fell quiet as he made his way to the

centre of the Great Hall and stopped amidst

the rows of white-haired ones to his right

and dark-haired ones to his left. All were

facing the Great Chair in which sat the

Speaker who was shocked into silence at

being so rudely interrupted. He sat with

his hands and mouth open in mid-sentence.

The dark-haired one said in a loud, clear

voice that everyone in the hall heard,

“I have sat here and listened to the Speaker

for two full hours and yet I have not

heard anything I have not heard before.

These points that he makes can be found

in the minutes from last year's assembly.

I suspect as usual the only person who has

read the minutes is the person who has copied

in quill our script. My question is this: why do

keep repeating the same things year after year?”

With this simple question the room exploded

with more questions similar in nature.

As quickly as they came, they went their separate

ways, never to meet again. The Church of the

Council was expelled from The Thirteenth House

of Whoever Was in Power.

Rain falling slowly on my

Red Native Canadian back.

Sensations evoke a soft

Touch of a woman I knew,

Once, only once.

Once, Only Once

Once, Only Once

Rain falling slowly on my

Red Native Canadian back.

Sensation evokes the soft

touch of a woman I knew,

once, only once.

Warm caress of cloud water

spreading throughout.

A lonely large drop sliding

down my shoulder past

the curve of my back

Falling and hitting the deck.

Idling

Sitting with idling thoughts,

intangible mind pollution.

Eyes like glass steaming up.

drawing fleeting images.

Fiery orb staring down

from its distant height,

changing everything to its

terms and conditions,

effecting and affecting

my outlook inside this

cranium capsule of time.

Tasks and Demands

I walk into my cluttered space,

screen stares back, waiting

for tasks and demands.

A call comes in from a member

who is dissatisfied with her lot

and wants to spend an hour in

confessional, but I have no collar.

When we finish, she talks with

less strain while my shoulders

sag under her adopted burdens.

Someone knocks.

Screen flashes warnings as

flying windows dance across

the single cube-like glass eye.

Another soul starts with shouts,

anger pulsing through his veins.

Stories of leaking windows,

dripping taps and front end jobs

on a new car purchased with a

child-tax-credit downpayment. No

questions, just money and the first

month free from payment or guilt.

Potholes causing wear and tear.

“How can I get my cheque

when the roads are so bad?”

I answer, “We'll try harder next time.”

He shouts, “My vote I'll keep,

you'll not get it this year.”

“Suit yourself.”

All alone now except for flying windows

patiently awaiting tasks and demands.