Clay Pots and Bones (3 page)

We Fight His Demons

As he gets older he becomes

more child-like.

Simple tasks, like bathing,

eating, dressing are now

hurdles he cannot, will not,

face alone.

Our hands are his tools

to use as required,

our roles reversed.

The child becomes

the doting parent.

Worries, doubts, fear

and finally acceptance.

We fight his demons.

We chase away the bad spirits,

and smooth away the

wrinkles of discord

within the circle.

The Mi'kmaq in him

knows the elders

will be cared for and it

begins with those

closest,

his own.

Over Half a Century Ago

My days are slower now.

In my teens I was fast

like a corvette.

My days are a foggy blur,

as foggy as the Atlantic

over half a century ago.

Mud slows my walk.

As a child I loved it,

as a man in a trench,

I despised it.

Panzer tracks framed in

mud, heart racing.

A memory, just a memory

over half a century ago.

A tarmac with spilled fuel

filling my senses, roar of

spitfires sounding like

thunder at the farm

back home

over half a century ago.

Warriors of the sea,

land and sky, my

brothers and sisters.

We answered the call

over half a century ago.

Mi'kmaw Maidens in Distress

Two young women with differences

as great as their height and colour.

The pair, troubles the same. For now

sharing my castle, shielded from

verbal slings and arrows.

Attacks causing great harm, esteem

damage and identity crisis.

Mi'kmaw maidens in distress like

sheep separated from the flock.

Wolves catching scent, circling.

Funny how the ones professing the

most love can profess such hate

for ones of their own blood.

Four walls getting smaller each

praising-

counselling-

cajoling-filled

day with the visiting

Mi'kmaw maidens in distress.

Armour becoming lacklustre,

as is my enthusiasm.

Beyond Touch

I didn't want to tell you

how good you looked that day.

I wonder if it was the way our

sun attacked your eyes

and saw through a lash or two,

a man who sees you at night

although always beyond touch,

taste and smell.

Lay, lie, lying at night

overhead paint changing,

reflecting our moon.

My space. You stood so close

for a moment I knew you

inhaled our air a molecule

at a time.

How I saw the pride in the

manner of the voice and a

minute swelling of a breast.

It was your dusty white

digits gripping chalk from

our learning-together past.

Now back on soil and water

I must stand and fight

an urge to whisper the words

of a convincing wordsmith

to end our sporadic friendship,

becoming lovers of our time.

For David

Sleep my son, sleep.

Dream of things fantastic

where new snow as

white as a winter cloud

lies like a soothing blanket.

Travel to far-off places,

remain safe and remember

I am never far from your side.

Do all the things young boys

do in their sleep. Touch the

stars, walk the moon, swim

the oceans without a care.

Visit the great thinkers of

time, imagine a language

of your own, teach the ones

you've met and never fear

saying the wrong thing.

Stretch your slumber wings

and fly to the home of the Eagle.

Ask him how he became

so important to the Mi'kmaq.

Tell him about the times

you saw him soar beneath the

clouds and how his shape

was silhouetted against white.

Remind him to come back for

the gatherings and let the

drums lull him to fly lazy

circles above our home.

Sleep my son, sleep.

And tomorrow when the sun

rises, I'll ask you about

your journey.

Your Eyes

Your eyes cannot hide

the message of your

soul. Your manner is

not different, just your

eyes. Things happened

that made your eyes

lose their shine. Now

black pinpoints stare

down on me, making me

uncomfortable. A fly left

open? Something on

my face? I know we will

act differently now. Time

may change your soul and

eyes. Time may soften my

feelings. But for now, space you

shall have from me. Nothing

else.

They Took Your Word

They took your word. How they

twisted, shaped and changed

your truth to their truth.

So easy for the sea of blues

to deceive the willing deceivable.

Intolerant truth seekers

who took away your rights.

Your brown eyes, hair and skin

no match against prejudicial

badges, crimson gowns and rubber gavels.

For four thousand days you knew.

We knew.

And they knew.

Two people, just two, without

fail strode beyond those walls

with stainless razor wire and

self-locking doors. Every month.

The great man, you his son,

we his people.

Each time, each visit

we were there in spirit.

The woman at his side.

a mother to you.

You felt the comfort,

heard the beat of her heart.

“Freedom!” robed ones said. Freedom

with strings attached.

“Admit to our truth. Admit to our

truth. For you, freedom.

For us, exorcism of guilt.”

“No,” you said

in your soft speaking voice.

“My word. My truth. My God.”

So help you God.

You stayed in your cot and

awaited the arrival of your truth,

until a rust bucket galley cook,

impersonator of a master,

sharpened too many knives and

his forked pickled tongue

spat out your truth.

On that last day inside

the man and woman took

your unshackled hands

and led you through those

gates of hell,

to Freedom.

Those in green, not blue,

say the eels are not yours and

you cannot do as you wish.

These swimming broken pieces of

gallows rope, theirs not yours.

Badges, crimson gowns and rubber gavels

say so again.

Can the Creator sign contracts?

Did something happen

while we slept?

Now we wait.

We wait

and you wait again

for truth.

My German Friend

My German friend, for ten years

you have been my neighbour and

now you speak to me for the

very first time.

In those ten years you have been

like a sponge, soaked and bathed

by friendly eager hands,

softly caressing you with dirty lies,

misconceptions and soapy versions

of history. My history. Our history.

Once again someone from across

has judged the cover and

failed to look inside.

The classic mistake.

For ten years you have lived in a bubble,

created by the biases of your friends.

And, yes, I believe you when you say,

“I'm not prejudiced.” That kind of

prejudice is not of your making,

but it is made with your cooperation,

acceptance and willingness to

take someone else's ugliness and

call it your own.

You are horrified when I reveal the truth.

Fortunately I have a solution.

Come. Come see my home and sit at my table.

Let's go and see the people who work

as hard as you and your friends.

I'll take you to the source so an opinion

can be made using the

proper information and not other people's

borrowed eyes and hands and feet.

As a man who creates with wood, you must

understand that in order to make, to create,

you need the proper tools.

Here, I give you the tools. Now

you can use these implements to shape

an opinion of me, my people and our ways.

When you have learned all you can

you'll no longer have to rely on others

for your opinion. You'll have one of

your own.

Na to'q.