Obsess with the color of skin
do you ever see a person
Judge by perceived beliefs
not by a conversation
Every person has a soul
each created by God
in His image
Yet base all emotion
on skin color.
Walk a mile in his moccasins
or only see a pigmentation
with judgement based solely on that.
I myself am not perfect
I am a blend of humanity
trying to live and let live with peace.
Cannot see what is seen by some
to know everything about an individual
just by skin color.
Simple minds believe simple things
When you fall in love, true love
do you see a person, a spirit, a soulmate
Or are you busy checking off
a skin color match first.
Love is blind
Hate sees what it believes
Safety in comfort, similar, likeness
Color of skin important
is it everything
The mind of being human within Divine
our heart is who we are and to become.
The road was built by moccasins and hooves,
wagon wheels and oxen,
then came carriages & Model T’s.
A long abused track
that once pounded buckboards, and axils
winds and curves into an uncertain tomorrow.
Now the crumbling foundations
of an old-time gas station mark
where a paved road begins to end.
By chance I found its destination,
a shallow creek crosses where the track dwindles
you can see where wheels meandered on
only to bury themselves into ruts
too deep to climb out of.
I stood there peering forward,
scrub and brush obscuring my view.
It seemed like the beginning of nowhere
but it had to be pointing to somewhere
and so I walked on past where once
hope had died.
After a brief illness, some dry toast
and the turgid sloshing of rehashed thoughts.
Slowly the former becomes the new now.
I bathe in new invigorating light.
This is how we recreate our world;
with carefully paced electro-chemical reactions,
brittle notions are chewed soft like moccasins
until they fit new feet and legs.
This is how we create a life
no sudden catharsis or evolution,
just one thought hammered to another
until a scaffold is erected,
something that resembles
the bones of a recently absented God.
Leaning low to softly whisper
wisdom only listening hearts can hear,
leaves lisp lifelong lessons
stored in rings of years.
Centuries of observation -
surging mortals on the move
from the silent moccasins of ancients
to the raucous modern milieu -
captured and absorbed,
in distilled elixir cleansed in nature’s veins,
exhaled by forest giants,
their sage revelations
of human gain and loss.
May 22, 2022
After a brief illness,
some dry toast.
This is how we create the world;
with electrochemical reparations,
enzymes to melt monsters.
We chew moccasins supple enough
to travel on to evening,
One thought must be
hammered to another
until a scaffold is erected,
a bone ribbed archway
for onward journeys.
After the toast, a part of me
goes for a walk,
another part stays home
repairing a straw life, in case
the big bad wolf returns.
Rainbow Forest
Indian maiden, resting on the verdant, grassy, shore.
White leather, beaded dress.
In moccasins, does dream, she would confess, longing
for my happiness.
For now, dreams of days of serenity galore!
She,of unknown beauty, does not know.
Of how lovely, she is, truly as gorgeous as the
diamondesque sparkling stream.
She, was created of glistening metallic dreams.
As an ultramarine light show.
Amazing Star is her name, in this universe aglow.
She of ebonied, flowing hair like a waterfall dream.
She is my Spirit Guide in the land of peaceful, moonbeams.
I meet with her, and other animals, who seem to flow.
Oh, a most fulfilling, flute filled show!
6~7~2021
LATE NIGHT ADVICE
He was trying to fall asleep
She was thrashing about, sore shoulder
on the right, sore hip on the left
discomfort all over
Ever of service, he said this to his wife:
“Think of yourself in a birch bark canoe
paddling downstream on a small lazy river
through an old-growth forest, dappled
sunlight falling through the mid-summer
foliage, an old gentle song in the back of
your mind.”
Just when it was clear that the image was
working, he could not help himself so he
added these words: “…..a lazy woodland
river, slowly gaining speed as it moves toward
the rapids and the foaming waterfall with the
hundred foot drop and the deep pool below,
roaring and sparkling in sunlight and noise,
deep shadows in motion, full of sleek water
moccasins, dark brown and writhing,
maybe agitated and waiting.”
She was now wide awake,
the arthritic demons disseminating pain,
her head full of snakes and treacherous waters
in a landscape of doom!
Ever the good husband full of empathy and
advice, he drifted off to sleep in a birch bark
canoe, paddling upstream on a small lazy
river, a gentle song on his mind
The Black Hills are crying,
our Mother forsaken
Enemy boot prints
where moccasins claim
To live just to die
in noble futility
All drums beat in silence
—He Sapa in shame
(Pine Ridge South Dakota: July, 2019)
------------------------- Baby Steps
Tiny moccasins
buckskin tanned soft as butter
guide me on my path
GINSU-KNIFE EASTPORT , MAINE USA
She was a wise woman, a natural being, a female shaman
Her magical ways were known by most, especially the Lakota
We came to her for truth, guidance, spiritual wisdom.
The men revered her as much as the women, maybe more.
She had a connection with the Great Spirit most do not garner.
Respected and revered, we trusted her to guide us along our path.
She was a fantastic listener, who enlisted the spirits to help
Always encouraging us to make our own connections,
So we could follow the path we had set in Father Sky
Before we ever put our moccasins on Mother Earth.
As we left her campfire or her teepee, we always felt more in tune
With brother deer, sister rainbow and cousin lake.
We are at the junction of the Little River and the Ottawa River,
journeying into the Canadian wilderness by canoe, the
paddles stroke slowly into the water, paddles heavily incised
with vines and flowers, and I am dipping my hair into the deep blue.
Spirit, is a native man in a crisp white shirt, his head shaved
but for one braid with feathers, his blue leggings enthrall
me, intricate beaded moccasins are sublime, his leather
pouch and glass jewelry lovely, I think I love him.
Falcon, a beautiful man with raven hair falling down his back,
his feathers are fluttering in the wind, he has dangling earrings,
a red cape edged with gold threads, his beads are exquisite,
and he is telling me stories and smiling at me, I could love him.
And I am dipping my hair into the deep blue
in this dream _
____________________________
March 6, 2020
Poetry/Imagism/Dipping My Hair Into The Blue
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1233-568-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Submitted to Strand Choice C contest
sponsor, Brian Strand
Honorable Mention
After a brief illness,
some dry toast.
This is how we create the world;
with electrochemical reactions.
Some enzymes melt monsters,
some chew moccasins
to make a morning supple enough
to make it to evening,
One thought must be
hammered to another
until a scaffold is erected
into mind-bones.
After the toast, a part of me
goes for a walk,
another part stays home
repairing a straw life, in case
the big bad wolf returns.
In
a
dream
all
i
see
barely
audible
stealth
are
my
moccasins
running
through
the
autumn
woods
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Moccasins crunching on crusted snow,
wolf-fur hood warming what I breathe,
jogging with lance and tomahawk,
other friends spread out, left and right.
The wapiti run before us,
big elk, eight or so moving,
no chance with fleetness of foot
to run down or diner out here.
They approach a wood bound by steam
and a corral we built last night,
funnel into a single, beige line,
when arrows slice through cold air.
A half-dozen of our tribesmen
let loose with stone-headed shots,
elk bleat and scream, some go down fast,
living ones trample them to flee.
Frantic milling, blood and hooves and snow,
then they’re gone, dashing through the spruce.
Eight lay on the ground, two alive,
I plunge my lance to end one’s pain.
Send a prayer to the creator,
words are vapor in the winter sky,
obsidian blades start to cut,
a runner is sent to the village.
All will help butcher this meat.
Add Murder to His Sins!
A man who sleeps behind the wheel
And kills someone, it's a big deal,
No clear intent to kill a child,
Still criminal! Trump drives me wild!
Abortion haters love Trump's sin,
These racists who share Satan's lair,
Love stripping child from parents care.
Mistake? They're poor, have colored skin!
Trump does not err, not carelessness,
He's traitor too, though won't confess,
His greed, at last, will bring him down,
For sane men grok Trump's just a clown.
At birth, Trump won the lottery,
It blinded him so he can't see
That evil is his Midas touch,
A Popeye fraud with no spinach.
No compass guides our ship of state,
Trump eats own children and their rhyme
With treasonous, self-serving crime!
May Justice live to seal his fate!
Though brotherhood Trump cannot serve,
May all who love Christ find His nerve!
Let's turn our backs on wanton sins
At least try brother's moccasins.
Long Tooth
December 15, 2018
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