Birthday Haibun

Suction! Push! Now! -- PUSH! He's stuck! Turn him! Heartbeat's dropping! We've gotta get him out NOW! PUSH!

And with the strength of the hundreds of women of generations before, in one magnificent effort, she pushes him out, birthing our son. Out flops a dark purple, limp infant boy - tiny, without breath or movement - only a faint, slow heartbeat.

You're not dead.

As you're whisked away to neo-natal intensive care, "Go with him," she insists, and I leave her bleeding to follow you in search for air while over and over again I call you to earth by name:

"Elijah.... Elijah.... Elijah...."

after many days
and promises to help you
fear gives way to Life

Shadow Secrets

If I have no shadow
what does it mean?

I claim my shadow
just as I claim this life itself.
If I have no shadow falling
behind me, falling
before me, falling
next to me, attached
to my feet - never separated
from this bucket of bolts,
this hooptie I call home -
If I lose my shadow,
if it loosens and flies away
free, unfettered by mortal chain,
then, also,
this bucket of bolts with its
rusted wiring, worn parts and clanking machinery
sputters and chokes
steam rising from every orifice
yawning wide in desperate gasps
for air and freedom.

Sometimes, reaching for freedom
instead, it finds release,
becomes obsolete, no longer
needed
to walk the dog
to tend the garden
to hold a loved one....
shocked, I recoil
watching the shadow
as it makes a break for it
escaping the fleshly prison
decorated so nicely.
[a pleasant place to be really, until it's not]

Until that final moment
of ultimate release
I claim my shadow
as mine - all mine -
as few things truly are.
I wrap it like a warm blanket
over my body, wrapping
around me its
delicious secrets
about my living or
lack of.

It whispers in my ear
secrets,
knowledge for no one else -
the secrets of this life
this mortal frame
this bucket of bolts
and fancy wiring
and pregnant dreams.

Poetry of Daily Life

When I was a kid, my Mom would buy used furniture from the Goodwill, bring it home, strip it, then repaint the piece of furniture. As a kid, I really thought it was kind of weird. Nobody else's parent painted most of the furniture of the house with folk designs depicting roses and grapes and bringing in of the harvest; cowboys with lassos and all the family cattle brands that had at one time been part of los ranchos of some far, distant place called New Mexico. It was very strange this brightly colored furniture with designs of daily life - somewhere - where there were gardens, fields, harvests and cowboys.

Tonight I'm writing you from my front porch in the North Country. My new writing table was purchased on sale from K-Mart, manufactured in a factory in Viet Nam, put together on my deck this morning with carefully chosen design painted on the table, underneath. It was a tradition of Mom's. On her pieces of furniture she would paint a poem, or a saying, on the back or underneath, somewhere where it would only be seen very occasionally, like when cleaning or moving. Following In her tradition, one day when someone is moving this table, or cleaning underneath, or on their hands and knees looking for a lost something, for a moment they will see this and remember one of the odd things 'he used to do' - paint words on his furniture and on the walls of his house.

The other day I spoke to my youngest son, Popeye, living on the North Sea, building a tall ship in the north Netherlands. He's being put up in abandoned nurse's quarters of a former hospital [fancy squatters]. He says to me, "Dad! You'd love my room! I've painted poetry all over the walls!"

He's come by it honestly. We come from a lineage of graffiti artists - a family tradition.

Leave your mark. Leave it Beautiful. Leave it Strong.

Dangerous Truth -"How Does Tomorrow Dream?" by John Trudell

"He is extremely eloquent, therefore, extremely dangerous."
FBI dossier on John Trudell

John Trudell has fathered more children since 1979 when three of them, his wife and his mother-in-law died in a fire. But he
doesn't like to talk about them. "All I will say is that I have many children and they're not in the same place. Nobody's going to come in and kill all my kids at one time ever again. It's just not going to happen, it's not going to happen."

Prior to this tragedy, John Trudell had been the spokeperson for the Indians of All Tribes occupation of Alcatraz Island for 19 months, 1969-71; he was the national chairman of AIM (the American Indian Movement) 1972 -79 including being an AIM leader during the occupation of Wounded Knee in 1973.

His activism drew the attention of the FBI, which compiled a 17,000-page file on him.

Then, in February 1979 -- a few days before his 33rd birthday, he led a march to the FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C. He had received a warning against speaking, but instead, he delivered an address from the steps of the FBI building on the subject of the agency's harassment of Indians. Less than 12 hours later, Trudell's pregnant wife, Tina, his three children, and his wife's mother were burned alive in a fire that destroyed their home on the Shoshone Paiute reservation in Nevada.- the apparent work of an arsonist.

"Murdered," Trudell said. "It's very simple. They were murdered."

><><><><

I've had the pleasure of hearing John Trudell a few times. He's an extremely intelligent man, a bit of a loose cannon, someone with little to lose. After the murder of his wife and children to 'influence' his leadership within the Native community, he came forward as a man with nothing much more to lose - stripped bare. To me, he's always appeared as a very free man, making him quite dangerous.

Out of this experience he found his words in poetry and songwriting. He hooks up lines of truth. Dangerous truth. This one is a recent one of his and it comes with the usual warning to the sensitive: This is a hard one. Truth often is.

"I'm just a human being trying to make it in a world that is very rapidly losing its understanding of being human."
- John Trudell

We Can Do Better

I 'stumbled upon' these photos back in the survival days of March, when the Michigan winter had already been cruelly endless. I decided I would hold off and post what I considered to be important, historical photos on April 26th, the 23rd anniversary of the worst and most expensive toxic disaster in our short history as humans creating toxic disasters - the nuclear accident at Chernobyl. Well, come April and spring flowers, and finally relief, these photos and the subject seemed too 'dark side of humanity' at a time when I and many others in Michigan, were simply trying to not be washed down the drain before the days lengthened with sunlight. So I waited. First the mass depression needed to lift.

Then, North Korea began making some noise testing newly-found toys of war and destruction - of the nuclear type. It seemed timely to raise these photos as reminders, but I still couldn't bring myself to it. It made me recall Sunday mornings back in 1982, our baby boy strapped to my back, riding high in the baby backpack. We would go to Williams International, a company not far from here that made engine parts for nuclear cruise missiles. The cruise missiles were relatively new back then; refined nuclear warmaking destruction that some of us weren't keen about being manufactured in our own backyards. People cared about such things back then. It wasn't unusual to be worried about nuclear destruction. It was a time before the term itself became an artful joke with that wild and crazy, tongue-twisting caricature we called a president.

"Hmmm... How are we ever going to get the people to lighten up around the idea of nuclear proliferation?"

"I know! Let's have him say it in some whacky way - over and over again - like nook-yu-loor! And let's make it so he never can say it right! It'll be a riot!"

And so we stopped thinking about it much, the cruise missiles, the earthquake fault lines, the old equipment, the highly disturbed world leaders with their finger on the button, the toxic waste piling up with no proper storage. It was a bit overwhelming to consider I suppose, and anyway, the way he said "nook-yu-loor"! That shit was too funny!

I'm not sure what was so different in 1982 that people would gather on their Sunday mornings in sun, rain or snow to protest at the front gate of a tools of war facility. It was better than any Sunday morning church I'd ever attended in my life. We felt like we were putting 'faith in action' or some such ideology filtered down from the likes of the outlaw priests - the Berrigan Brothers. I remember a bright, crisp, Sunday in January, my baby bundled in his snowsuit, just a bit of pudgy face peeking out from under his hood, hat and scarf. He was having fun, smiling and laughing, looking down at the people. (He always loved to ride high above the crowd, peering over his Papa's head and shoulders.) We were out there for him; we were out there because of our complicit guilt: we had so recklessly and selfishly brought him into this world of ours - maybe, just maybe, somehow, we could make a difference for his life, for his future.

Who knows? All we can do is to try our best; do what we can do for the next generations coming up. Hopefully they'll get a chance to have a crack at it, and maybe do it a tiny bit better. I place a lot of hope in evolution.

But not if we forget. Or never even look in the first place.

Here's a look. Time froze in Chernobyl on April 26, 1986. Twenty-three years later, it still stands there, exactly the same as the day they left the schools, hospitals and homes abandoned. These pictures are very eerie. They need to be seen. They need to not be forgotten. Just as Williams International was in my backyard in 1982, so is Chernobyl in 2009. In the end, there is no good time to share pictures such as these. They've haunted me long enough, nagging at me to put them out there. Flor y canto is about inheritance. Unfortunately, this too is a part of the inheritance we leave behind.

I have to believe, we can do better.


Deserted secondary school near Chernobyl, Illinsty, Ukraine
(Image credits:misterbisson via:villageofjoy.com)

Chernobyl Today: A Creepy Story told in Pictures
By Village Mayor

In the 'Zone of Alienation' in northern Ukraine, Kiev Oblast, near the border with Belarus. Its population had been around 50,000 prior to the accident. Today, the only residents are deer and wolves along with a solitary guard.

Prypiat used to be proud for being home to the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant workers. But something happened on 26 April 1986…

It took three days before all permanent residents of Chernobyl and the 'Zone of Alienation' were evacuated due to unsafe levels of radioactivity. People from around the Soviet Union were forced to come and work here in order to liquidate the danger and evacuate the residents. Many of the workers died or had serious illness from radiation. My father was also recruited for this operation, but he bribed corrupt local officers with some good sausages which were rare and a valuable item at those times, so he’s fine and alive today.

Let the story be told by these magical pictures taken ~20 years later after the accident.


“The sign on the road to Pripyat, the town where the workers of the nuclear plant lived.”
(Image credits:Pedro Moura Pinheiro via:villageofjoy.com)

The bridge of death (Image credits:Vivo (Ben) via:villageofjoy.com)

“After the explosion at Reactor 4 the people of Pripyat flocked on the railway bridge just outside the city to get a good view of the reactor and see what had happened. Initially, everyone was told that radiation level was minimal and that they were safe. Little did they know that much of the radiation had been blown onto this bridge in a huge spike.” They saw beautiful rainbow coloured flames of the burning graphite nuclear core, whose flames were higher than the smoke stack itself. All of them are dead now - they were exposed to levels of over 500 roentgens, which is a fatal dose.


“Pripyat Funfair was due to be opened on May 1st. The Chernobyl disaster happened April 26th. No one ever managed to ride the ferris wheel. It remains one of the most irradiated parts of Pripyat since the disaster, making it still dangerous today, 23 years on.” (Image credits:Vivo (Ben) via:villageofjoy.com)


“Nursery in the creche/kindergarten”. (Image credits:hanszinsli via:villageofjoy.com)

><><><><><

I took these photos from a link I couldn't link directly to here, but if you'd like to see the complete portfolio of photos go to this webpage (which includes many other fine artists): http://www.stumbleupon.com/s/#6sJQYe/villageofjoy.com/amazing-graffiti-art-by-bansky//
and scroll down a very short way - under '10 Most Commented' on the right hand side you will find the link to more of the Chernobyl photos.

Renewal

again, the blossoms
open, fade, die, no hurry.
come, sit next to me.

Revolutionary

i stagger
falling forward over
arid
brittle desperate ground
wondering how far
to the next oasis
to the next watering hole
wondering
can i last
that long
when I do not know
how long ‘long’ is
can i last
can i go that far
can i go the distance
what is the distance

when suddenly
it begins

clouds gather in the distance
the bank of low gray
comes closer
lower
darker
heavier and
overwhelming
(in the best sense of the word)
it rolls in
cloud on top of cloud
sky breaking open
hitting my skin
sweet cold drops
moisten me
taking me away
far away from arid deserts
and all that is painful
brittle and unholy

it lifts me
body and soul
soul and body
lifted
spirit lifted
all wounds closing
wet silky mystery
life’s nectar
pouring
primal honey
all upon me

I am
lifted up
drawn in
surrounded by
there is nothing more
than this
this wonderful

from here sprang
rumi’s rapture

from the darkness
that shadowed over him
before the light found
his feet spinning
on the earth
and the earth met
his feet
kissed them
felt his weight
and accepted him
as he pressed his
flesh in

yes

when I open
my breath sings
across the fields
through the trees
with the birds
all praise
all praise
I find myself
in a reverie
while those
who speak my tongue
sleep
not knowing
a few perhaps
but most
they sleep

I receive
this mercy
this rain
gratefully crying
you can’t bless me enough
I can’t take you into me
enough
I can’t be taken into you
enough
all other taking
pales to this
my love

would it frighten you
if I were found
spinning in the park
singing with the birds
in the rain
would it frighten you
if I were found in a
rapture
of spinning
of spinning myself
a place on the earth
would it frighten you
if I were overcome with joy
if I were fraught
with happiness
would it frighten you

this world of misery
it is not mine
it is not of my making
it is not of my doing

would it frighten you
if I relinquished misery
if I took a vow of poverty
to live without its abundance
would it frighten you

would I trouble you
would I be too free
would you want to lock me up
because I’d lost touch
with reality
or
chose joy
rather than misery
would you lock me up
if I were found this way
spinning in the park in
the rain

life is winding
life is unwinding

round and round and round
and round
spinning faster
the world spilling
all that is
becoming what was
now
for a moment
and
gone
now for a moment and gone
now for a moment and gone

and i spin
finding myself
alone
in a world
of
non-spinners

the children know
the children know

to touch this world
is not to touch poison
it will not harm you
it will not cause you
to be a sinner
damned to hell

to touch this world
is to feel
like a newborn
warm love
giving us our very breath
living us
in magic
while we touch it

the poet Giovanni says:
I know that touching
is
was
and always will be
the true revolution

in this frightened world
I know she saw
something bigger
all poets always
see things much bigger:

touching
is
was
and always
will be
the true revolution
a revolution
takes place
a revolution takes place
with every moment
passing by
a revolution takes place
with every song of the bird
a revolution takes place
with every step that I walk
a revolution takes place
with every breath that I take
a revolution takes place
a revolution takes place
a revolution takes place
a revolution takes place

I am a revolutionary
I spin
in the rain
in revolutions of mercy
in revolutions of water
fire
and spirit
in revolutions of earth
the earth is a revolutionary
the sun is a revolutionary
the planets the stars
all revolutionaries
a galaxy of revolutionaries
spinning
I find my place
in this revolutionary universe
I am one
with its magic
this revolution
rising up inside of me
it seeps into every corner
finding no place it cannot fill
and I become the container
until it overflows me
and the container dissolves
and
I and I are one
the ground watered
the drought passed
the revolution
of
living
begun

'touched'

The goal is to live
with godlike composure
on the full rush of energy,
like Dionysus riding the leopard,
without being torn to pieces.

-Joseph Campbell

->>><><<<-


Touched


A bit of madness?

Perhaps.

Falling,
crashing, careening,
drunken abandonment;

swooning I fall;

I must -
down to earth
always, down to the earth
falling
again and again.

That wheel of rebirth?
That fucking endless loop of frustration?
Just slit my throat!
Be done with it.
What? It makes no difference?!
Always was, always will be?
Takes the rip out of a
rippin' good suicide.
shit! a man can't even kill himself anymore.

a "bit-of-madness"?
~ perhaps ~
but I wear it well,
don't you think?

Who's that outside the door --
peering in the dark
through the window?

I hear your voice calling
my name; or a voice
calling a name. Voices.
I hear them. They're calling.
Don't be alarmed.
They always do that.
Ask the others.

A bit of madness:
perhaps,
the ghost talkers.

They keep secrets: about you,
whispering whispers
late at night
whispered secrets
once
most are

suspended

in sleep –
dreaming mysterious worlds.

I watch this one -
a guard
in the middle of the night
in a really good game of cards,
talking with ghosts,
sharing tequila
and secrets
with ghosts --

my ghost,

who stays up all night
painting the sky orange for morning.

All Storms Pass

[this is the fourth in the series on water and the Great Lakes dedicated to the Water Walkers]

All Storms Pass

It’s a beautiful spring weekend in Ontario. My family – my wife, oldest son and his girlfriend and myself have come to Toronto for the family sail; a day when the teenagers who comprise the working crews of Toronto Brigantine take their families out for a sail on Lake Ontario. This is my youngest son’s passion and he has spent the past 4 years devoted to this boat that is the first serious love of his life, apparent when he refers to her as ‘she’, with a look in his eyes usually reserved for a ‘girlfriend’. He is a loyal and devoted young man, filled with a young man’s single-mindedness about the object of his love and passion. Her name is Playfair - a brigantine tall ship – a reproduction of days gone by. She is a rare beauty, especially when her sails are full out and she skims silently along the Great Lake’s blue waters with only the sound of wind and the snap of the sail to be heard.

The young, all teenage crew have spent the previous winter breaking her down, laboring hard over her, repairing, maintaining and doing all the work necessary to keep such a gem afloat. A winter of every weekend living on the unheated boat in the icy harbor, sewing sails, tarring shrouds, varnishing wood and other tedious time consuming labor is rewarded on this day with the first official sail of the new season. Soon they will be back out there doing the thing he loves the most: sailing the Great Lakes. The ‘Family Sail’ is the initiation of the season, where parents and families are taken out into the open waters of Lake Ontario with the young crew in command. They work as a well-oiled machine, listening for their next directives shouted out by those in command – the captain and the first mate. Having worked his way up from the bottom as a trainee four years before, my son has worked and earned his way to be second in command: the first mate. I’ve watched him grow through the years from young and green, to confident and seasoned. As we begin our family sailing venture out into the beautiful waters I watch him closely, proud of how he takes charge and leads by example, how he constantly is watching for a teachable moment to help one of his crewmates tighten their sailing skills and become even better sailors.

This is a culminating moment for us as a family. The previous two years had been spent navigating our own personal storm of crisis of Dad being laid out with life-threatening circumstances of stage IV cancer. Throughout the harsh winter of fighting death back, it was all the more important to maintain this island of sanity outside the turmoil at home for him. During that time I had two jobs only: to heal, and to get him to the train station an hour away so he could take the four hour journey to Toronto each weekend to be with his love. Both were proudly accomplished. I got stronger and so did he. There’s never a good age to face the mortality of one’s parent, but a teenage boy facing the loss of his father is one of the harder ones. Playfair saved him. She loved him strong and he loved her back, traversing the storm at home. Now, two years later, here we all are celebrating all of the hard work of the journey taken, the healing I’ve been able to find and the manhood he has found. I couldn’t be prouder, happier or more grateful.

Now he stands as the first mate of this fine sailing vessel, looking like an old salt; feet planted widely in a stance to keep balanced as he steers the ship with its large, spoked, wooden wheel, over the waters.

The wind carries the ship high, the bow reaching upwards as it heels its way forward. I stand with my cane in hand, grabbing anything that will help offer support with my other hand. I lean into the wind to keep from falling down.

Dark gray clouds that formed a bank across half the sky when we started out, now sit heavily upon us, completely overhead. The air is thick; the pressure pushes down heavily. Lightning and thunder begin to scatter across over the cold, now gray water, made grayer and colder by the blanket of cloud. Small boats, birds and people head to shore to take cover. But not us. These kids are tough. This is what they’re made for - to meet Nature and her forces on her terms.

The sails are full; the wind is high and full of life. Electricity floods the air; you can feel its crackle. The rain begins and we continue on unfazed. Then, the rain begins falling harder and everyone but the essential crew takes cover down below. I remain. I’m mesmerized, unable to remove myself from this moment, watching my son steering the wheel of the ship, over the waves, with the wind, with the powerful invisible forces he’s come to know well. He works confidently, carrying his precious cargo of families through the storm. It rains and blows harder; my face is pelted with hard spray flying at me horizontally. Quickly, I am drenched – my face, hair and clothes – thoroughly drenched, to the core, but what do I care? All I know, see and feel with every cell of my body and every corner of my soul is that I am alive. I am here to see this – to reap this reward of all the hard work. The hard journey is forgotten and all that remains is this:

I am ALIVE!

Riding high on this sea, I am being steered through this storm by my young son and I am alive and strong – and so is he!

The thunder cracks. In the same split second, lightning bolts shoot to the water, slicing the air with electricity from the heavens. The sky opens, pouring out its contents. Again and again, lightning pierces the dark sky, the thunder cracking it open, encouraging the clouds to release more and more of their contents. Sheets of water are hurled down from above.

I am here to witness one more storm; to be as alive and electric as the storm itself; to feel the wetness fiercely blown, hitting my face. Huge drops crash harshly in the wind – there is no hiding from it. There is only immersion – being drenched by the holy waters; blessed straight from their Source above, straight from the sky and the providers of all that is good, holy, moist and ALIVE! I am drenched thoroughly - every inch of flesh - living, breathing flesh - nourished, watered, renewed and alive!

The exhilaration and ecstasy are so intense, lightning is no threat to my aliveness. There is no fear or worry that can find me. I am protected by the sheer vibrancy and power running though me. We have survived our own greater storm in our lives and there is nothing here on the water that can endanger me more.

I am in a very ecstatic state of mind and body when suddenly through my reverie I hear my son’s sobering, yet gentle reminder: “Don’t touch anything metal,” and reality quickly makes its appearance as I appreciate the danger of being on a boat on a Great Lake in a powerful thunderstorm. I do a quick inventory looking around cataloguing what is metal and what is not; what’s safe to touch – and what’s not. It doesn’t lessen my ecstasy any; it can’t. Instead, the danger heightens all the more the ecstasy of being alive – in this moment – ALIVE! - More than ever – ALIVE! The wind, water, waves, rain and danger all mix with this being alive in all its rawness – in all its spectacular Beauty. It is all that exists.

I smile. Down to the core of my being, I smile. Taking all of this in - reflecting on all we’ve been through, how far we’ve come, and what I’ve learned today from my young son the sailor. First, in a hard, ripping storm – to face right into the storm - lean into the wind; and if lightning is involved literally or metaphorically, don’t touch anything metal: don't flirt with disaster. But most importantly, remembering every moment of every day – to live full out, as if my life depended upon it. It very well might. And lastly, in the midst of all the storms in life to remember:

All storms pass.

>>>> <+> <<<<


for more info on Toronto Brigantine's Youth Sail Training Program: http://www.tallshipadventures.on.ca/

Storm From the Mountain

A Nahuatl poem, read at the beginning of the Zapatistas Fourth Declaration of the Lacandon Jungle:

><><><><

Now I have arrived
Now I am here, present,
I am the singer.
Now is the time to celebrate,
Come here and present yourself,
those who have an aching heart.
I raise my song.

><><><><

From out of the jungle communities they caravaned to Mexico City - to the seat of the government. Campesinos, farmers, poets, artisans, activists, they gathered in numbers as they crossed from Chiapas to Mexico City, a storm gathering. They entered the city in peace, yet strong. They made their statement about peace, justice and dignity. Tlakaelel, mi maestro (teacher), was one of the elders to receive them and offer his blessings when they arrived. I had wanted to be there physically; I was in spirit. They made their statement: they are a force to be reckoned with; they are survivors; they are not going away.

After their peaceful appearance in Mexico City in 2001 they returned home. They are quiet now. They are patient. They are not gone. It may be many years before we hear from them again. They move in indigenous time; they know how to wait. Meanwhile, the forces of oppression continue at work. Meanwhile, the resistance continues. We, safe at home, unaware, have no idea of what really goes on with our closest neighbor. Here? They keep us busy thinking and worrying about swine flu, illegal immigration, drug cartels - and Mexicans. Really? Do you not believe that their well-being is our well-being? Do you really still believe that there is a border that separates us and keeps their troubles there, and our safety secured here?

There are fathers and mothers - forces in the mountain jungle: villages of farmers. What lengths will they go to for their children? What lengths would you go to for your children?

Exactly.

The fight continues. Quietly and patiently, it continues. Listen to the winds. Their voices carry. A revolution takes place, every day, quietly - right under our collective noses. They disappeared back into the jungles of Chiapas, but they are far from gone. Do you see how strong they are? Quiet strength accumulating, gathering. Zapata lives. There is not one Subcomandante Marcos; many are Subcomandante Marcos. Behind every mask another Subcomandante lives. Do not fear the mask that protects the identities of fathers, mothers and children. We are many under one mask. Zapatismo will never die. Dignity is never out of fashion.

Peace, justice and dignity - all rights of EVERY individual, and every community. Nice words, but how do we make it so? Listen; keep your eyes wide open. Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid when instead of from the jungles of far-off Chiapas, the call for dignity and justice comes from the streets of Chicago, Detroit, L.A. and Nueva York. That would be a start. And then, if you want to do something really radical - maybe show a Mexican some love.

Yeah, that would be a start.

[As I finish writing this, coincidentally (?) the music in the background is the great American songwriter Steve Earle singing] :

The revolution starts now
When you rise above the fear
And tear the walls around you down
The revolution starts here
Where you work and where you play
Where you lay your money down
What you do and what you say
The revolution starts now
Yeah the revolution starts now
in your own backyard
In your own hometown
So what you doin' standin' around
Just follow your heart
The revolution starts now

god is alive; magic is afoot

This is my fourth spring of renewal; a commitment to healing and whatever that means or brings. Healing - too many words have been spoken and written on a mystery we all would like solved, but that will forever remain a mystery. Perhaps it's more about what can't be contained in a word. I like how in the old Jewish way the name we know as God is spelled G-d - the reason being to show there is no one word that could possibly contain the concept or name of the unnameable; no defining of Mystery. I like that. To me, they're saying: "We don't know.... It's too big for us to 'know'."

But I digress...

Each of these four springs, at one time or another, this old song of Buffy Sainte-Marie's [Cree Nation] has come to mind. As we break out of the looooong winter and Michigan is abloom with flowers and every flavor of flowering tree, as the air is perfumed with the scent of apple blossoms and lilac, at some moment of reverie this song will float into my head.

It just popped in again. This spring it arrives along with well-wishes for writer - friend, teacher - mentor, Luis Alberto Urrea, whom I dedicate this to. His latest book, a novel: "Into the Beautiful North", has just been released with good and strong reviews. If you've never read any of Luis' books, I highly recommend them. I mention him with this song because he is one who understands how and when magic is afoot - call it god, God, G-d, or nothing at all; he weaves magic with words, be they about immigration, border-lives and crossings, stories of his ancestor, Teresita the healer, in the days of the Mexican Revolution, or being the chicano haiku-master. He is a kind and generous person; and the highest of compliment in the indigenous world: a good human being. And, he tells a good story. Check him out. Look over here -----> under Links of Interest. Click on his name; it will take you to his website. Like I said: good man; worth checking out.

Lastly, this video contains much artwork of Huichol Indian artists. Their work is visionary; each painting ceremonial in nature - full of magic and mystery.

Enough said about the unspeakable.

Enjoy the blessings of Spring and Renewal.

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Song: Buffy Sainte-Marie
Lyrics by Leonard Cohen:
Video by gewajega@yahoo.com

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Nibi

As the Water Walkers arrive to the end of their journey I offer this found poem written by Sue Erickson. It's a hard poem, reflecting their hard, arduous journey taken with strength. This is their mission, as the 'keepers' and educators. I thank the people of the Mother Earth Water Walk and send a healing balm your way for your feet and legs. Strong as they may be, they've worked hard.

Also, there's some new photos at their website listed again at the bottom of this post. This is the third of four posts on water here at Flor y Canto. These three have had a hardness, I know. Hang in there. The last one will be a little different take on water. But for now, in honor of the Water Walkers, one last difficult one.


NIBI – by Sue Erickson

Anishinaabekwe, the Daughters,
You are the keepers of the water.
I am Nibi…water…the sacred source,
the blood of Aki, Mother Earth,
the force filling dry seeds to green bursting,
I am the womb’s cradle.
I purify.

Nibi, the lifegiver…
forever the Circle’s charge
I have coursed through our Mother’s veins,
Now, hear my sorrow and my pain
in the river’s rush, the rain…
I am your grandchildren’s drink.
Listen, Daughters, always,
you are the keepers of the water.
Hear my cry,
for the springs flow darkly now
through the Heart of Aki.

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www.motherearthwaterwalk.com

Canary in the Mine

I think of myself as a rather large canary in the mine.

When I was a kid we would play daily on the Kalamazoo River that flowed near my home. The town was one of those small industrial towns that had quite a few factories and a couple of foundries. Upstream from town was one of the foundries. We would follow the river on long summer days, on the hunt for adventures, critters to discover, animal prints in the mud to follow, frogs and crayfish to catch -- kids on the river kind of lazy days. There was one spot on the river just outside of town that we'd stop at that caught our attention; a place where warm water trickled down a hillside from the rear of the foundry property.

I'm sure few people saw this riverside part of the countryside except for maybe the occasional hunter or fisherman, but being kids walking and exploring the area, we stayed. We explored. We played. The water was warm and inviting --  fun and intriguing because if we waded in past the bright orange-colored shore and into the collecting pond of warm water to the side, we would sink down past our knees into the sand below. We called it quicksand and would spend hours splashing in the strange water pretending we were in a Tarzan movie rescuing one another from quicksand.

Years later I learned this site had been cordoned off by the EPA in the late 90's as a toxic wasteland. The earth of the property is contaminated with a long list of long ago buried carcinogenic chemicals that over the years seeped down into the ground and drained into the river. The EPA document shows this spot on the map as the same pool of orange, warm quicksand water we played in years ago.

The waters were poisoned, along with the earth, and my young body. Back in the early 60's there wasn't much thought given to the dumping of toxic waste beyond putting it into barrels and burying it. Today, the foundry sits empty, the land declared "brown land" - land that must sit idle because it can't be sold, built upon, or used. The land, the water, animals, plants, and myself have all been the recipients of the consequences of dumping toxic chemicals into the midwest countryside - unfortunately, nothing unusual in small towns across the land.

My body reflects the earth's. The same tracks cross us both. As a resident of the Great Lakes region one of my responsibilities is to be a guardian of the fresh water - your grandchild's drink.

This is the only water we get. What we see is all we get. There is NO new water. It's the same finite amount of water that's been recycling on our planet for thousands of millennia. The same water the dinosaurs drank millions of years ago ago was pissed out onto the ground, evaporated, and eventually fell as rain re-entering the earth's water cycle. This process has been going on for eons without problems until our modern industrial age.

What can we do?

We can start by appreciating the fact that over 1 BILLION people TODAY do not have clean drinking water. If we appreciate this limited resource we won't squander it. We'll protect it because there's a high probability that the 1 billion without clean water today will grow to become more tomorrow.

We are the lucky ones. We are the privileged ones with clean, treated water. We share in collective responsibility to our children, to our children's children, and to the children across the world, many of whom will walk many miles with buckets and jugs to a dirty watering hole in order to carry some precious, suspicious, brown fluid home for their family, grateful for the only water they have - the only water we all have.

The Water Walkers

I often think it was a very big mistake that this body of mine, made of generations of high desert, chile-fired blood, was born in these wet lowlands of the Great Lakes region. But here I am in this land of abundant water. Whatcha gonna do? Best to be thankful for what one has; it's a good place to start. We are fortunate here in the Great Lakes region to not have to worry about drought like many places of the earth. You see, we sit on twenty-two per cent of the WORLD'S fresh water. It's a great privilege and even greater responsibility.

In 2003 a small group of Anishinabe women and men led by two Anishinabe Grandmothers began the Mother Earth Water Walk to raise awareness of the responsibility we carry as caretakers of almost one quarter of the world's fresh water supply. Each year they have circumnavigated on foot, one of the great lakes. This year they are walking along the St. Lawrence Seaway as this precious water makes its way to the ocean. They are out there walking right now, through rain, cold, sun or heat; daily they continue their walk, praying, honoring and awakening people along the way. They do this for their children, their grandchildren and the next seven generations. They do this for all of us, from those of us who live near these great bodies of water, to those of us living in some urban setting far from any fresh water resource. In the most basic sense, they pray with their footsteps, each one a step of gratitude - for water.

Please take a moment to stop by their website. Visit their daily log of their journey for water. Leave them a note of gratitude and encouragement in their guest book. They need the encouragement as they are ordinary folks with ordinary feet, with legs and backs that ache. They sacrifice their comfort to offer this prayer so we all may benefit. Let them know that we care; that their poetic prayer with their feet is heard throughout Turtle Island (the Americas); give them a "megwetch" - a thank you.

At the very least, the next time you pour a nice, clean glass of water, take a moment to notice and recall how fortunate those of us who have clean drinking water are; much of the world does not have this most basic need satisfied. For this, we must not forget, but instead, remember and be grateful.

For more information: www.motherearthwaterwalk.com

para mijo living on the north sea

When you tell me of all the history in the streets and buildings when you leave the comfort of your North Sea harbor and visit Amsterdam, I can see you, young man, full of life, vigor and strength, walking tall. Carry your ancestors with you. They too, walk those streets with you; they will walk with you down every road you go throughout the world, and every sea you cross. But you knew that.

Although we've all heard her story before, this video brings Anne, the writer, across strongly. This is one answer as to why we write. Keep writing mijo.

And may All Love surround you - always.
You know ours goes with you.

Music by Jochan Pachelbel-Video by Teodor The Glass Man



"I've found there's always some beauty left in nature, sunshine, freedom, in yourself; these things can all help you. Look at all these things, then you find yourself again, and God, and then you regain your balance." - Anne Frank

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Info for when you visit Amsterdam again: www.annefrank.org

spring morning haiku

morning birds calling:
wake up. greet the day. it waits
for no one, old fool.

Today's Message brought to you by The Rats

by London Street Artist - Banksey

I have a special fondness for public art, especially art in the public domain - here today; gone tomorrow. Here's a link to Banksey, who I just discovered, along with a lot of other good stuff at stumbledupon.com

www.stumbleupon.com/toolbar/#url=http%253A%252F%252Fvillageofjoy.com%252Famazing-graffiti-art-by-bansky%252F

Banksey's website:www.banksy.co.uk/

When I was a kid I used to pray every night for a new bicycle.
Then I realised God doesn’t work that way, so I stole
one and prayed for forgiveness. -emo phillips

Ghost Dance: We Shall Live Again

In the 1800's, as the population of the First Nations people was being decimated, a Paiute medicine man by the name of Wovoka had a vision. During an eclipse of the sun he fell unconscious and remained so for several days. When he returned, he brought with him the vision of the Ghost Dance. This was a vision, a message to the people that they would rise again. Despite the death and destruction that had fallen upon them - through the spreading of the dance and a dedication to righteous living, the people would live, the buffalo would return and the old ways of life before the conquest would return. The People would live again; a resurrection of a different sort. This message spread throughout Indian Country, lifting the People with hope for a return of the old ways in a new day. As the message of hope spread among Indians, the same message struck fear in the new inhabitants and with an equal zeal; the Ghost Dance was outlawed. When several hundred cold and hungry, unarmed Lakota dancers were surrendering to the Seventh Cavalry in December of 1890, they were massacred at Wounded Knee, South Dakota. Thus ended the Ghost Dance Movement. But not the spirit of the Ghost Dance or the determination to live again.

You can kill my body,
You can damn my soul,
You don't stand a chance against my prayer,
You don't stand a chance against my love....
We shall live again,
We shall live again.

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In this video of Robbie Robertson's song "Ghost Dance", we see some of the history - along with some of the hope of the future: young shawl and fancy dancers. My youngest son (the sailor whom I call Popeye in these blog-posts) is a fancy dancer. The dance came to him also in vision, in prayer, in hope. My other son also knows well the determination to live again, to rise above the Death-Wishers. We are not a dead people. We live, and we shall live again!

Ometeotl.
Muchas gracias Tlakaelel for helping plant my dangling roots back into the red earth.

Michigan Spring Renewal

Yesterday at my home, it looked like this:



... and today it looks like this:



FLEXIBILITY!
I was always taught by the elders who knew, the folks who were elders, not just old folk, that flexibility is the #1 skill for aging successfully, for livin' on an insecure planet. Michigan spring gives one opportunity for that. Don't get too stuck, 'cuz life will come along to unstick you. Sometimes it's two steps forward, one step back; sometimes it's two steps forward, a hundred back; sometimes it's an unexpected leap forward. It all takes a certain flexibility - not holding on to what was, yesterday.

One week ago, I was busted. Not by the law, I'm talkin' in my soul. Bad health challenges keeping me down with pain and hurt; bank account slippin' down lower and lower; hole of debt gaping larger; discouraged from shoveling the mountain of social security disability process/cruelty machine for the past two years; and then as we laid our heads down in bed to listen to the thunder of the first spring thunderstorm, through the thunder we heard: drip-drip-drip as the water broke through the old tired roof. Talk about your low moments. After a half day of allowing the luxury of wallowing, it's either let yourself go down or get to working, which in my metaphorical world means get the shovel out; call on the folks who remind you that you're not a worthless piece of shit running down the gutter with the spring rain into the sewer. Get to work.

And be flexible.

Remember who you are, what you're made of, who's got your back.

Three days later....

In the early morning of April Fool's Day, a special day for all clowns, sacred or otherwise, such as el poquito - the Social Security Easter Bunny dropped chocolate eggs into my basket, i.e. all the hard work of enduring a cruel, cruel process and not giving up or dying from frustration, fear or worthlessness - outlasting them and their 500 flaming hoops - shoveling endlessly till finally I can claim the money that i have put into their insurance program all my working years, just in case, someday, I might find myself living with disability and just might need some insurance to survive; it finally paid off. Did you hear the sigh of relief over your way? Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh........ The sound of financial relief.

And if that wasn't enough...

Three hours later at my door arrives my eldest son - "The Lowrider" with five other young men, bundles of shingles, tools and equipment and all their strong hard labor for free. That's how these young men roll. Now, if you saw them on the street, you might, like some others, judge them on appearance, cross the road, maybe even be a bit afraid. Why, you ask. Simple. It's called prejudice, or pre-judging - big, strong, slightly rough guys -with hearts of gold. So there they are, six men throwing a new roof on my house, donating their beautiful sunshiney day to the parents of one of their own, and by early afternoon the job is done, they're eating pizza and I'm lavishing praise and gratitude for what they've done and for who they are.

They're the ones who give me hope. They're the living demonstration that sometimes being challenged under the weight of trouble can be endured when people band together, give the best of themselves with no strings attached, out of pure love. They restore and give me hope.

They remind me to keep it flexible, not just because I might need to brace myself for the storm, but also so I can be open to receiving the gifts of so many good things, good will, good intention. And when I thanked Lowrider for him and his friends he simply said, "Dad, you know we wouldn't let you go down." And they mean it.

Sometimes it's the elders teaching the young, sometimes it's the young teaching us.

Flexibility. Don't ever lose it. Practice it. Remember it. You remind me and I'll remind you.

in the spirit of love and renewal,
gratefully,
el poquito

Free Money (a re-do)

For Gerta and Neese, a little Patti from when we all were young and raisin' other people's children (oh, so arrogant and without tread on the road), raisin' 'em up on Patti and the Ramones; Children's Community Center and all its crazy inheritance - from the Weather Underground folks to the Rainbow People's Party folk to Sherry and Neal-Neal Banana Peel and down to us. All those baby-childs that we raised up on Patti are 35-40 years old now! Yowza! Where are they now?! What a place! What a time! A moment of history. And we were there. Love ya still.