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The Best Chinook Poems

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Spirit In The Flute

I walk an already trodden path...
Uncertain, of future lives that lie ahead

But, in faith I close these earthly Ojibwa eyes
In trill, thus, I hear the old ways in your presence amidst Chinook winds
As harmonic they play across the plains, from sacred astral pipes
Mimicking cricket songs that echo abstract out of the season's last autumn mist

I also hear your fifes in the rustle of the leaves, rising into writhe
And almost see your spirit aura as it accompanies the Algonquian breeze
Ancient ghost of proud, but now lost upon a dying nation tribe
Your music from beyond is narrations of a mystical language nature speaks

Sweeping thrush calls, chirps through weeping willow weeps,
Unto past September sounds, beating down on war drum clouds, of thundering maelstrom claps
And babbling brooks going on and on until narrowing creaky creeks
Alas, whooper wills warning and morning loons mourning, hidden amidst the swaying grass

When I see you, I imagine spectral legends majestic high across horizon's sky
Snowy silhouettes in headdress, drifting in flowing rainbow crowns
And with the night, I see you in my mind dance as the "Will-Ó-the-wisp" just might 
Then, my body shivers from the distance, where your flute imitates the cry of the lone coyote's sound

As for all of your Mishomis (grandfather) traditions, I accept there is a greater essence
Kindred I am, son to your spirit and without partition from an Ojibwa eye
And I stand here staunch in cattail marshes, pondering my place in ancestral questions
Now, your answers again begin to play upon the wind, but this time traveling through the November... Whispers on needles of the pine

I walk an already trodden path...
But, each new step before me keeps this culture alive...

Written in honor of my Chippewa family ©2012 Michael G. Smith

Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2012

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Huge mountains massed and  cliffs  sheer.  It’s  March
And endless  blue  sky  cold is held back by the Chinook arch,
Snowy prairies rolling into their  thousand-mile realm  -  
The landscape  is gigantic, majestic, orchestrated to overwhelm.

But I stand and watch the lake-ice thaw,
Surprised by the tiny delicate music  -
Descant  ice -  jingling,  jangling,  tinkling
In delicate accompaniment  to the giant symphony.                                       
Ice chunks tangled in slow waves with the wind
Tiny  tintinnabulation before total ablation.
There is silence  and  harmony  around the sound,
The small melody of the ice breaking  into spring’s  chorus.

Note:   Crowsnest Pass is the southernmost way through the Rocky Mountains in Canada

Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2010

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Kananaskis is

Kananaskis is 
four-fifths a line of  haiku
Kananaskis is

With spring’s sudden warmth
serial avalanches thunder
one triggers the next 

Winter’s snow melting 
laughing, leaping, running to 
valley far below

Green slopes banded red
dying lodgepole pine,  memories	
of last year’s Chinook

Golden larch quivers	
as the first storm of winter
passes close tonight

As a boy, I came
to know this quiet valley 
father's special place 

Leaving highway to
where mountains reach to heaven
we drove the stone road

Fishing beaver ponds
dad came on bees, lost his specs 
on return  just bees

One night as we camp
a timberwolf comes to call
returns to dark night

On the upper lake
clouds mask the solar eclipse
but fish go crazy

One spring’s discovery
drawdown pools, teeming with trout 
who won’t touch anything

A five pound rainbow
beached chasing Peter’s lure
red stripe - jealousy

Late autumn, Lake B
big browns cruise downwind beaches
only we know where

A ski resort appears
wonderland needs paved roads
we protest in vain

Twenty years later
returning with my children
to an unknown place

If you slow to look
irate traffic leans on horns	
rushing to their lodge

My kids and I fish
a borrow pit now a“lake”
tourists' put and take

To a grizzly bear
roads are barriers wider	
than flooding rivers

Kananaskis is 
four-fifths a line of  haiku
Kananaskis is


Copyright © D.W. Rodgers | Year Posted 2014

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Butterfly Beach

so this is where butterflies go to die
atop this burning ochre beach
amidst the palomino stones
party streamers 
chinook bones.
Chrysalis flutes swaying
beyond dunes, blue and gray
under a plush velvet shroud
they fold their powdery dreams
awaiting the pouty pallbearer tide 
toting emerald caskets, silver lined

Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2013

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It arises out over the Pacific, sweeping east over Vancouver Island, down the Strait and up the Coast Range.  Cooling now releasing moisture, as it flows over the first summit before warming as it  drops, sucking moisture from the dry interior. Up again, first the Selkirks, then the Rockies. Pausing at the divide poised for an instant, before falling, laughing, tumbling to the continent below.  Warming now, dry now, it courses over the foothills – a fast warm sponge.

never can forget the heat of that first smile nor the light in your eyes
Arced across the western mountain , brilliant turquoise sky behind somber gray clouds. Temperatures rise twenty degrees in under an hour; a foot of snow vanishes overnight and lake ice heaves. Life quickens, buds are tricked from dormancy; animals emerge blinking from secure dens. But all too soon, the ephemeral wind passes and winter returns.
for a brief moment reconciliation was perhaps possible

Copyright © D.W. Rodgers | Year Posted 2015

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Soul Stance River - 34

All we eat is elk meat, boiled elk, roasted elk, elk jerky
sometimes fried elk if we get bear or whale oil,
oh, and sometimes elk soup,
for four months we've subsisted exclusively on elk
except for occassional dog meat, candlefish or duck,
the elk have become our saviors, and our culinary suffering,
yet it keeps us nourished like some kind of ape predators, 
Clark has officially named the massive boulder at the front of the bay
Cape Disappointment on account that its now March 1806
and since November no one has spotted a merchant vessel
nor has any trading post been discovered along the coast in either direction,
frankly its astounding, has the world done gone forgotten that the Columbia exists,
everyone is gettin uppidy as bull frogs
and we've had enough rainy hours here to last ten lifetimes,
to hell with the sailors, we've gotta race to finish
and we ain't gonna get beat by a disappointment or by a sinister suprise,
Load'em up!...

Since coming out of the Rocky Mountains
like a migrating pack of wolves pursuing the scent of a bloodied den
I've been spending more time away from the river's rigors
providing fresh meats for the mission that we leave hanging along designated banks,
for the first time I feel liberated from the fear of failure
winter can no longer hurts us,
the great mysteries of the continental crossing have been revealed
through their savagery and splendor
the tribes have been touched with a new spirit of survival
animals ferocious and exotic have been tasted and classified
we have learned what these landscapes can lend to farming legions,
the mountains no longer menace us, we know how to travel their pain,
as my horse feeds on the grass of unowned soil
I reflect on my moments of intemperance with the natives
when I thrashed a Chinook thief into bleeding shame,
the order I gave to burn their village to silent ash when my dog and saddle were stolen
fortunately that was not necessary because I got them back,
the time I was meanly mocked by a Nez Perce Indian for eating dog meat
and threatened to split his skull with my tomahawk if he ever insulted me again,


Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2015

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Soul Stance River - 33

Fort Clatsop is up and true,
50 feet square, with a smokehouse, pallisades, barracks and two gateways
furnished from the aromatic and reliable wood of the great Fir trees,
we keep busy by scraping elk hides for clothes,  making moccasins,  hunting
and boiling sea water in kettles to manufacture a nutritious salt,
the Clatsop Indians are not the onery thieves that the Chinook are,
in fact, they are merry hustlers with fine things to trade,
the Clatsop chief, Coboway was in fort today, smoking and learning how we leather stitch
when I began negotiating for his sea otter robe,
a fur of extraordinary waterproof warmth and deep colored beauty
several layers ringed, overlapping one another like roof tiles
with a thin elk hide underneath
the length of a knee cloak with the incandescence of morning mountains
snowy whites, granite greys and cool browns,
I believe that is why Clark and I are contending for it,
that rare robe reminds us of the Rockies, the rugged majesty,
Coboway isn't being simple though, actually he's being a prick about it,
refusing all sorts of neat and valuable things
and then Sacagawea comes into the room shakin her meaty hips around
and the chief comes to life and says he'll trade for her beaded belt,
Clark looks at me like hey, not fair
because he knows I can get Janey, Sacagawea's American name,
to give it up for my blue velvet coat that she just purrs for,


Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2015

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Soul Stance River - 30

The Columbia is a smooth beast that has introduced us to a semi tropic clime
that produces a bewildering humidity even for November
and a panoply of tree types that canopy the mossy turfs
from a sky that is often sullen,
the Flat Head Indians say the sky cries much from missing the ocean's song,
these people tie boards to their infants soft skulls to make them grow conical, 
the more sloped the forehead the more attractive those are esteemed,
the Flat Heads are a shy, meditative people
and are the only Indians we've encountered that collect and value gold
this custom has caught the attention of many but Clark and I dissuade
our men from enquiry or barter for raw, unworked nuggets,
covert gold scouting is a priority that thy he President gave me personally, exclusively, 
no one knows that I've been studying mineral deposits,
charting gold veins in the mountains,  prospecting for the U.S.
like a spider in the night,
up to this point its been a non issue, it must remain that way,
the Chinooks actually build wooden huts, some resemble shacks,
this is probably from being in contact with European merchant ships,
trade abounds on the coast, even the Russians have made periodic landings for furs,
the coastal tribes have been considerably influenced
evidenced by the red and blue fabrics they possess
along with jackets, hats, axes, handguns and curse words they've acquired,
these Indians are very shady, scoundrels with hands and haggling,
stealing is an instinct and seemingly a pathological sport for them
we constantly have things stolen from us as they rove around the camps
yesterday Cruzzatte found a boy attempting to snatch his fiddle
and today Thomas was yanking a teenage ruffian around by the hair
in an attempt to retrieve his axepipe from the culprit's friends,
its a surreal situation,
the Chinook are providing us with efficient foods
and the sugar of their women for those who crave,
the prices for both are extreme but acceptable to keep the canoes skipping,
so their business is welcome
but their justice is seldom
and we can't afford to lose our currency piecemeal in knives, fishing hooks, beads, guns etcetera
if we are going to return through here in Spring to the Mandans and survive,
we want to be patient and kind
but a harsh hand is sometimes necessary to avert loss,
and the mission is always outnumbered, vulnerable to savagery,
we just want to get to the Pacific
every one of us has an epic in our eyes
and the blue blood of that ocean will give life to our glory
it will validate everything we've endured, put success in our mission as soldiers,
hopefully we will negotiate a ride with a trading ship
that will sail us around the continent back into the rituals and routines of civilization, 


Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2015

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Chinook Wind

No lies to the heart she says only 
ties will do to the lonely, To
make a union of two hearts that makes 
a reunion of a feeling called love.

So lets rejoice and throw 
the doves to the wind 
and look to the pictures in the sky.

Now we can kick off our shoe's 
and take off our golden wings 
and send off in a chinook wind.

so now you can tell 
no lies as we are tied 
into one,Our reunion has just begun

Copyright © Cheryl McCall | Year Posted 2009

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The Old Red Barn

The old red barn seems to grow up through the dust and brown
Along the vague dirt road that mars the sage.....

The rhythm played by rain for wait of seeds, still echoes here
Erect and proud, it stands somber as the purple shadows that surround the hills

A faint whistling song is heard within these derelict arms
A song of faith....a song of sweat...a song of contentment and tears

Someone fitted the beams, and squared window panes, ....and built a life 
Hope and pride filled to the rafters, as it overlooked rolling fields plowed, tilled and furrowed

Now weathered gray, it creaks and groans under dark prairie skies
It leans inches more with each Chinook wind that sweeps and sways the grain

Where now only wind whistles through the eves, and stiff grasses grow
And bats and mice find a place to live, and white stars shine down on loneliness

Abandoned and forsaken, while gaunt hills stand silently by
Day after day, under the prairie sky, this monument that is left alone to die

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2010

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melts the lying

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007

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Unquotable quotes: friends - XV, Part One

If you stick your neck out for a friend, you’re likely to lose your head.
A friend is a potential enemy in disguise as a loving wife just before vowing ties.
Friends are of all kinds but the kind you want them to be.
A friend you use is a friend you abuse and who has no use of you.
The friend you call upon in need is always in greater need.
If you give a friend an helping-hand, make sure you take it back as soon as you can.
If you trust your friend with your girl, you’re the biggest dope in the world.
When friends meet, they always talk about beating meat.
If you take a friend to dine, make sure he leaves his horse behind.
The friend with daughters is the kind you wished sported blinkers.
A friend who works in banks, we always drop in - in person - to say thanks.
The friend’s wife even if she’s a bad cook is no chinook to hook.
If friends go on vacation with their wives, they always know who connives.
Friends who live close-up always end-up in the lock-up.
A friend with an axe to grind always uses it on some friend’s uterine.
A friendly father is one who takes a lasting interest in his daughter’s girl friends.
A friend who loans you some dough is always knocking on your door.
Only a friend who walks his dog picks the hour your wife goes out for a jog.
A friend at your beck and call must be wondering why you don’t him enthrall.
A friend by any other name is a still a friend you can put to shame.
A friend is someone you can entrust your shame with, but never your fame.
Keep your distance from the friend who shouts in your face for it’s a downright disgrace he spits in your face.
Friends who work for rival companies tend to share daily work memories.
Friends who work in different embassies are thick as thieves.
The greatest friends are those married couples with very large families who realize far too late they are/were really homo-sexuals.
Friends who give one another too many presents ought to look for friends who only give presents.
The best friends are those who need no psycho-analysts for they can see each other without waiting for appointments.
Childhood friends always end-up wishing their friends on other friends.
A friend of a friend always turns up for a spend or a lend.
Long lost friends who meet to go out for the night leave behind wives happy, whallop-py and tight.

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2016

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

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When the final Autumn leaf spirals to the ground,
and a warm Chinook breeze is no longer found.
Bears retreat to their seasonal slumber,
as snowflakes approach in abundant numbers.
Mother Nature steps down from her post.
As old man Winter prepares as new host.
A starving North wind arrives in his horseless carriage,
preparing to join hearts with the Earth in marriage.
Thus for many eve's they shall bind in wedlock.
Till Spring rises from the shadows to create a new flock.

Copyright © dale kruper | Year Posted 2008

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Killed in Action

Enlist list
Signed sheets
Quick and easy
It's all so cheesy

Come home soon, please
Chinook ride overseas
She sends a letter
I've felt better

Night raids
Humanitarian aid
A spade's a spade
All this just to get paid

Improvised Explosive Device
Repeating "love will suffice"
Injured soldier
Never colder

White flags
Lines of sight
Bodies to drag
A fire to constantly ignite

Longest war in history
Victory is a mystery
Endless gunfire
Situation dire

In our blood
Till our blood spills
And our casualty joins the statistic

Copyright © Bilal HB | Year Posted 2010

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Born in the mid west, a long time ago
in the sunflower state where the prairie grass grows
she would spend many days, sharing stories and dreams
Tho' my own feet have never been blessed to step near the place
I would watch as she told  me, with glistening eyes 
I pictured each message, while I quietly listened....

Some might have seen it, in much different hues
but the Kansas I've seen, was from Grandmother's view

It awakens in spring with new sprouting grain
After brittle white frost, or slush under the rain
I have seen just how golden a wheat field might grow
I shall know how a wagon, dark-framed, work at rest
Waits by a shed, and how two horses will stand
Waiting  and grazing where the fence-line might bend

I can see quivering trees, and stiff shocks of corn
The amber of the noon, and the warm sun-cured hay
Milking cow barn, and the old chicken shed
And a barn filled with pigs wait to be fed
A lone, white farm house, with a big front porch
And how a bible rests...on the nightstand, next to a bed

How harsh the weather, how the Chinook wind shakes the roof
And how fast a family gathers, into a cellar when tornados are due
And the sound of a meadowlark, and a hot wood stove and coal black soot
The kindness of folks, and the loss and heartaches
And the smell of roasted chicken, and bread as it bakes

In this place of her birth..... is the scent of the earth...
I see the brown and green
I see what she has seen.......yet only through her eyes
As I stand by her side...under a Kansas prairie sky....

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2010

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Alaska, The Last Frontier

Alaska, The Last Frontier

Alaska; the wilderness state, the last frontier:
Where majestic mountains, 
Deliver streams into flowing rivers: 
Down slopes covered in forests 
Of Sitka Spruce and Western Hemlock
That dominates the landscape.
The name Alaska originates 
From the Aleut word 'Aleyska,'
Meaning the 'mainland' or literally:
'The object toward which the action of the sea is directed.'
Home to barren-ground caribou, lemmings and polar bears,
Willow ptarmigan, moose 
And the stately Chinook King salmon, 
And home to the nation’s only herd of wood bison:
Thought not to exist but, reintroduced  
And brought back from extinction!  

Hence, ages ago when glaciers grew and melted,
A land bridge was formed between Siberia and Alaska:
Where the ancestors lived and eventually walked over,
To settle the great land and coastal waters.
The indigenous peoples of Eskimos and Indians
(Aleuts and Yuit; Athabaskans, Tlingit and Haida.)  
Believe all places, objects and creatures;— 
Possess a divine presence and Shaman:
Are spiritual healers who can meditate with them.
Under the aurora borealis, 
From the North Pacific to the Arctic Ocean,
They conduct their way of life.
Engaging in hunting, trapping, trading and fishing:
At peace with the world!   

March 30, 1867, marks the day history changed, 
When the Alaskan territory was sold,
By the Empire of Russia to the United States of America:
An area twice the size of Texas,
For seven point two million US dollars.
And for the next three decades was given little attention,
Until gold was discovered near Nome in 1899. 
Then a stampede of sourdoughs left the Yukon’s
Klondike gold fields for richer claims, 
Of placer and bench gold,
In the streams and soils and rocks of Alaska, 
Via the American only route and Canadian trails.
Today, gold is the State’s national mineral.
—And when war came to the Aleutian Islands;—
After the attack on Pearl Harbor,
Alaska proved its worth and came of age. 
Due to its strategic importance in the war effort;— 
Growth took place at a rapid pace: 
Roads and towns, naval bases and airports appeared overnight;
Alaskan pride in the fight for freedom prevailed!   

Every March, since 1973, 
The Iditarod (the last great race on earth) is run:
From Anchorage to Nome,
On a trail just over a thousand miles,
By mushers and their Alaskan Malamute and Siberian dogs.
North America’s highest Peak
And the world’s largest rise
Is Denali (formerly called Mount McKinley),
Located in the Alaskan Range:
And a lake (Ilamna Lake), the size of Connecticut!

The state flag bears the North Star and Big Dipper;—
On a background of blue that waves in the wind.
'North to the Future'
As its citizens sing 'Alaska’s Flag Song!'
And pays homage to the early prospectors 
In their quest for gold,
And in honor of achieving the forty-ninth statehood, 
On January the third, 1959;—
As the ‘Forget-me-not' flower blooms in Spring,
When the season of love begins.
Today trawlers leave the ports to catch 
The prized Alaskan King Crab.
And the Iñupiat spear the Bowhead whale
In managed traditional fishing waters,
And net Coho and Sockeye 
Swimming upstream to ancient spawning grounds.
While a bustling oil industry thrives, 
With offshore drilling  and land exploration.
Alaska, jade of the North, in the twenty-first century! 

Copyright © Dennis Spilchuk | Year Posted 2018

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Too Much

I like talking to you too much
the way you think and dream and dare
I like talking to you too much
drawn like a flame pulls in air

I like talking to you too much
your depth and passion and charm
I like talking to you too much
unexpected wind the Chinook disarms 

I like talking to you too much
spinning in your smile, catching in your laugh
I like talking to you too much
momentum of a wave caught in a photograph  

I like talking to you too much
fingertips scrape for more
but I'm talking to you too much
even if it's only a whisper under the door

Copyright © Krystal Cochrane | Year Posted 2016

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Two rivers flowing; one is warm and pleasant like a chinook wind,
While the other is cold and swift and boulders roll with the current.
One we shall call the river of love, and the other, we shall call it the
River of discontent.... And since no one has ever returned to confirm
Or deny which one flows into paradise, we can only wonder,...
Until we test our faith.

Copyright © larry colvin | Year Posted 2011

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i’m crossing fingers
mild february thus far
blue skies    atlas smiles

blue bird on the wing
color against winter’s nap
harbinger of spring

Dave Austin

*inspired by “Chinook” – forgot the author

Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2012

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In uneasy rest
He faces west.
They all face west to America  -
So far away from this beach,
So very far out of reach.

He no longer feels the chinook
Nor the glance of mother’s knowing eye
Over the range on his Utah farm.
He is the son and brother
Of Omaha, Nebraska, and the Sandhills
Beckon him home.

Silence now 
The tolling of the trolley
Car bell over the Bay.
Hear only the swish of beach sand.

He dreams endlessly
In the cold Channel breeze,
From the ocean
Between him and home.



Colleville sur Mer  is where the American cemetery is located in France. All names on the   gravestones face west.
Omaha and Utah are the names of invasion beaches on the Channel coast 
of  France where thousands of US  soldiers died in 1944.

Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2014

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Winds of Love

Chinook winds whisper softly
as lover's breath in spring
promises of wanton lust
desires of passion bring.

Summer winds brush rosy cheeks,
his hands smooth tousled hair.
Rapturous murmurs in the night-
her perfume lingers there.

Autumn winds blow dry leaves
fulfilling nature's need,
amassing beds on forest floor,
accepting fruitful seed.

But beware, the winds of winter
blow harsh and bitter cold,
tearing at the heart and soul
as countless tears unfold.

Copyright © Tamara Hillman | Year Posted 2005

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Wind, a Rondelet

We’ve called it names – 
Sirocco, Easterly, Chinook.
We’ve called it names
to match its devastating games.
Del Rio! how the tent-frame shook 
as, twirled on a Tornado’s hook,
we called its names.

Copyright © Taylor Graham | Year Posted 2008

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Star Power

A Little Boy’s gun with a barometric trigger,
showed a Fat Man how to
blot out an Empire’s rising sun.
Proliferation’s need pushed
Sellafield and Kyshtym to trip chasing Manhattan.
Twenty two years later and just
three miles south of Middleton,
failed safe assurances lied again and signed
Pripyat’s some thousands years lease that left
eighteen billion rubles around one elephant’s foot.
Fukushima’s seven year menses – Pacific stained –
west coast tide pool colors an invasive green
as Chinook escapements fill five year graves.
Intractable cesium hangovers bleed MOX cocktails
Nostrils blowing bubbles over damned lips
fused to the tit of a beast we can’t tame.


Contest: Remembering What You Want to Forget
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Date: 09.04.18

Copyright © rob carmack | Year Posted 2018

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Shana and Shano Part II

I turned away and faced the crashing white rapids. My evergreen hunting dress whipped in the wind with my copper hair. I took a deep breath and jumped. I felt the spray before the crushing force of the furious river of Ashtira . I knew. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* The crashing Ashtira swallowed Clarisa up like a famished Lunadford scourges a helpless fox before a feast. I don’t know how long I stood there before the Seeker placed his firm hand gently on my shoulder. I looked up to see his concern. “Where is Clarisa Shana? The Chinook whispered that she was with you and in some marvellous peril,” he spoke with care. Despite the fact that I was Shano, I still had a keen friendship with the Seeker. It was perfectly normal to break down. He wrapped his solid arms around me in a protective way that he always did whenever I needed someone, for big matters or small. “Come now young Shano. Dry those tears. Clarisa Shana did what she had to in order to save Lishon. She knew this day would come.” His wisdom did nothing to salve my hurt but I knew that he spoke the truth. It was only because of this that I quieted. “Come. The time to grieve is not now. The Kwana are gathering and they need you to be on the ready for battle. We need you now more than ever. “Aye Seeker. You say the time to grieve is later but now is the best time. I will use my grief to vanquish the Noli and spread their ashes in the Ashtira. “Still your blade Shano. To use grief for your sister as a tool in war is to shame her. It will be a murders victory, not a warrior. I felt shame for what I had said. To wield the power of Shano is to be merciful. I should have known. The Seeker put his hand on my head and tousled my hair. I was his Shano but he was like my father in many ways. “Come.” A legion of Noli faced the entrance of Lishon, while the Kwana (who were half the enemy) sat in the courtyard. Waiting. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* I was tossed as far as the River of Ashtira could throw me. My breath left me as I landed with a brash blow. My breath came back in spurts. My heart stumbled with my constant effort to start my breathing. Why couldn’t I get air? As if she had always been there the Spoken appeared beside me. She placed her webbed hand on my chest. Air.

Copyright © Brianna Picard | Year Posted 2012