cars in the sky
flying by
rubber throbbing along, over the concrete and
blistering blacktop
riding in and out the painted
lines
over the dull colored snatches of
raggedy wigwams
scattered about
beneath the shadows and shades
of the great strips of
interstate
with their festering trails of fetid
strewn
trash
piles of trash
folks, and failed cynics. half - ass cynics
who can't cut that final tie
to those lingering inclinations of
signs seen and
understood. inferred to the
good
wanting others to hand over their small
change
and I
stacking blocks across
the eyeless sockets of a
thick brick skinned
fossilized
shrine
sweating like a pig
in the late october
heat
wondering where the hell
the fall
is
Well-established wonder-stricken wayfarers will work with wizards,
who worry worm-eating warblers will wander by with Wyandottes.
Witchdoctors wallowing with Weiss beer will widen willowy wonky
widow’s walks. Who? What? When? Why? Why not?
Wonderful wearisome woolly Willies whose wrinkly wiggly whatchamacallits will weigh whizzing wingfish whipped wildly within Widow Williams’s whirlybird’s window wells. Who? What? When? Why? Why not?
Why wayfarers? Witches? Wizards, Wolverines? Witchdoctors? Well, woks, workbenches, wobbly wickiups, were wildly wanting whiffle ball’s wishful wildcats, which is why we were willing to wind up wolves, women, and worst-case woodcocks into worthy wayfarer’s winter wineglass widgets within wonderful, wise-cracking
woodland’s wee-folk who reside within wizardly wigwams.
Who? What? When? Where? Why? Why not?
Warm whoopee wayfarers welcome willing witchdoctor's whizzing whatchamcallits on Wednesdays with wonderfulness.
Young Hania carries her tiny baby.
Her Nation was forced to relocate.
They had to disassemble their warm Wigwams
and walk away from their Sacred Grounds.
Hundreds of miles, she walks,
holding in her arms, baby called Achachak
for many days. At nights she sleeps on the ground
close to the fire, covered with skins.
Days grow cold, weather is freezing.
Cold and hungry is her son.
Then swift as wolf comes the sickness
and takes the son from her hands.
Should she burry her son among coyotes?
Where should she burry her son,
far away from her Nation’s Sacred Grounds?
She asks Wakan Tanka for help.
Their misery is forceful resettlement.
She asks Elu Wilussit
to save her Nation from madness.
Where should she dig the ground to burry her son?
Her Nation lost its land.
She lost her baby.
Her warrior husband was killed in the fight.
Her despair grows wild.
Minter Bridge Road to Burkhalter Lane
Alpaca farms dot the hilly terrain, baby llamas
Wear thick curly fur, until the shears come
They look really funny when the fur is all gone
From the top of Chehalem, a significant drop down
Now into Newberg a quaint little town
Velvet moss cloaks the ivy in emerald green
Entwined through a forest of Juniper trees
On to Spirit Mountain, Grand Rhonde’s old legend
Where old spirits dwell, their holiness beckons
It’s best to go slow in a horse powered engine, that
Would have impressed the Pony Express, the
Ghosts of Rogue River's tribes of Kalapuya
Smoking peace pipes in wigwams
On the banks of Nestucca
KA/ 2003
Note: A place where you can truly feel the old spirits dwell. Kalapuya (Calapooya) means “wealthy way of life”. A semi-nomadic people who lived in permanent winter villages (near present day Portland, Oregon) and traded with their neighbors of Northern California, Oregon Coast and Columbia River tribes.
ROMANTIC ENDINGS
Leafy are the forests whispers
Ancient are the pipestone quarries
Where Longfellow set his wigwams
Wrapped around his valiant stories
Tho the prairies sprouted cities
In the world of techno wires
Still the quarries bear their peacepipes
Still are blessed by holy fires
In these woods the magic lingers
And the stories told at night
Of the maidens and their lovers
As they steadfast troth their plight
There is high above the forest
Split rocks with a mighty gap
In despair when love was over
A man would leap into Death's lap
Quickly would his life be over
Proclaiming life is love’s own price
Romantic endings seem much kinder
Than becoming God’s lab mice
Victoria Anderson-Throop
12/30/12©
Askuwheteau meaning he keeps watch was a French speaking Indian who came
from the Algonquin tribe head aching from braids he lay down his long hair and sit
propped against a tree not far from the wigwams he lived in there he played his
flute to soothe his tired mind watching for any signs of harm to his people he had a
knack for spotting out shadows of other beings well before the figure came into
focus but this particular night was calm and peaceful knowing this he played with an
echo enticing the spirits to come and dance for this was a rare occasion where there
need be no worry of attackers to pleage them his people not far hearing the joyous
celebration skipped across the woods to join him song turned to feast and feast
turned to stories being told around a new built fire feeling eased and secure no
need for shelter they soon fell into a heavenly slumber
Contest : Tell His Story
By: Virginia Frayer
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