In a Mississippi Night
You do not expect me I am going to describe the stands
Or the moon that is reflected on the river's water
Or the ghostly tribes running along Winnibigoshishi Lake,
Up to the Shakopee and down to the Sioux City,
But the holdings and the last fragrances
Thatt have been grown along my Mississippi Nights.
Since my childhood, no shadows, no scarlet
Has been broken, and back I go:
I was five years old, teeny and dark, so beautiful around my mother's arms,
All proud and bough, and I sung all summer
As I was watching my Mississippi Nights.
Long tales as they had been told through the stripped dance
And drowsy learning, yet it already has been told by wrinkled faces,
And by those toothless mouths, that arisen sun has gone,
In such fashion of pain and smoke,
But no one could tell me after the long ceremony
How beautiful and still my Mississippi Nights.
From the South to the North; from Granite Falls to
Prairies Island, I knew every stone and leaf, the flavor
Of the smokes and shine, the cute young Indian girls
Who were best known, that by June
I fell and hit -- even though I was skinny and dumb --
Every girl in delight but there was nothing like than my Mississippi Nights.
As a man now so unique and coward!
From whom I have got no Indian Blood Left,
Princely I bent. Not to risen against the Great Spirit
Even perhaps by pain and love I should say
But I was still looking at myself through my Mississippi Nights.
Graceful and healthful to the tradition I call you too my strong boy.
Along with my Indian woman, now fifty-two, and caring spring she has before;,
Through the lower Sioux, and the higher St. Cloud and beyond,
And somewhat south and north, I must demand
To myself to see once more my Mississippi Nights.
Copyright © George Zamalea | Year Posted 2013
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