Two from David Fowler......

The White Fence

Scraping and painting
the white fence,
we talked about death
and those we loved
who had gone.

We talked
about the mechanics
of it all;
the family in attendance,
the ending ceremony,
and the facts;
brain or lung tumors,
that she had smoked
or hadn't,
that she had loved herself
or not.

We avoided the other stuff
that creeps among us
in light or darkness
lurking behind
a familiar smell, word, or song.
It comes unannounced
and uninvited
pushing aside
those carefully erected barriers
to our emotions
forcing us to peer
into the deep , dark cave
of our emptiness
remembering those other times
like the brilliance of fall
ended by winter's grays.

It is this we avoid
in our word play
talking about the end
always fearful
of losing it all
right here
scraping and painting
a white fence.

---

Dust

After our discussion
had moved me
to say I love you
and no other,
I remembered
our ageless relationship;
when you nurtured me
in warm , womb liquid
and beyond

Yet I battled
this dominance, this control
fearing the death
of my very self.

Your power is immense,
you my creator
my timeless mother,
and I struggled
with my need
for your love
and the fear
of being consumed.

And now
that you understand
if I do say
I love you and no other
will you not
turn me
to dust?

---

(this one is for Ric)

A Matter Of Style

So,
they tell me
you have cancer;
my father, my wife,
and now you,
my dearest friend.

My dad wondered,
as they scraped his brain,
why him?
And at the end
his hand moved out
from under the oxygen tent
and gave mine
a goodbye squeeze.

My wife's disease,
a melanoma mystery,
was radiated
chemically assaulted
and finally
we took her home.
She clutched an eagle feather
and a sage medicine wheel
to her breast,
gave me
a comforting pat
on my moist cheek,
and the morphine dripped,
and giggling,
she moved
on to another place.

Now it is you
you ,who opened a way
for me and others
to use words
to corral our emotions
our feelings
giving us
a way to embrace,
to enrich our lives.

Life is terminal
but an earlier than usual
reminder
forces us to the question,
how to deal
with this new
and unsettling news?
How does one continue
to play
the final quarter
when the Head Referee
cuts the game short
due to some
inclement conditions?

A true hypochondriac
you overleaped your very self
to put some class
into this unexpected moment,
giving some relief
to the caring.

The jewels gone,
testosterone stopped,
the end of the game
in doubt again,
you moved through fear
to poetry,
once more sacrificing privacy
for your benefit and others.

You are
another of the Creator's children
doing
the gutsy thing
for the rest of us.
When the walnuts
are cracked and counted,
it is, after all,
a matter of style.

More poetry from David Fowler

The Priests of The Parijito Plateau
( Los Alamos,NM )

A new priesthood
lives on the Parijito Plateau,
up against the Jemez Mountains,
in the brilliancy of western sunsets.
They live where the ancient ones lived
and lived again,
a thousand years of human history
on this plateau, the mesa tops
down the canyons to the Rio Grande.

The ancient priesthood of the Parijito
found their answers in the winds,
the sun, the rain, the seasons;
they lived in harmony with the land.
They were priests of the environment
giving man the truths
about living on the high desert.

The new priesthood of the parijito
no longer hold the truths
benefiting man.
They are out of balance,
for they worship and serve
the technology of destruction
leaving to the rest of us
their legacy of toxic waste.

Guarding the secrets of death,
they perpetuate their priesthood place
for generations to come,
Guaranteeing the rest of us
absolutely nothing.

---

The Claim Jumper

Her assertiveness
caught our attention
this short, ample, self-appointed
queen of the bar room.

It was Friday night
at the Claim Jumper Cafe
a place where boys will be boys
and where women
should not confuse the participants
with similar behavior.

Yet bumping and grinding
her way
around the bar room,
she got the attention
she needed
to push away her deep sadness.

The dances came and went,
country western tunes
moved her , only once,
through generous partners
until the last dance,
the dance for lovers.

Now in the arms
of a drunken,
far enough down the trail
cowboy,
she found
in his blurred dreams
who she
really wanted to be.

---

The One Who Is

Black as a night without stars
velvet shiny
this spirit bird
plays on timeless winds
circling, diving, gliding
over mans' glory and foolishness.
Flared tail adjusts
to air currents and the whims
that move this bird.

Men have prayed to the Raven,
Raven The Transformer,
The Divine Trickster,
The Healer,Magician, Hunter,
Messenger between the living
and the spirit world;
Knower of all things
past, present, and to come.

Disconnected from the natural world
human beings would do well
to again listen
to the Raven's call,
to accept the invitation
of the Bringer Of Light,
to once again connect our two worlds.
For Raven is eternal
the one who is, was,
and always will be.

---

He once told me
he had been ashamed
to be
a Native American.
Was he ever allowed
another feeling?
His long, black hair cut,
language forbidden,
religion buried.
Ripped from his parents' arms,
sent to Government and Mission
boarding schools
to learn
America's Assimilation Dance.

Now, after the shame,
after the dehumanization,
after alcoholism,
he dances at Pow Wows
long , gray hair below his shoulders.
His brown, round face
topped with a headdress
of feathers and porcupine fur.
His eagle feather bustle
represents cycles
and unity,
the channel between the Great Spirit
and all things on earth.
Strings of bells
hang down his legs, around his ankles.

He is a Traditional Dancer
regalia personally designed
symbolizing his individualism, his life.
The dances tell stories
of battles, the hunt, the spirit world,
and the kinship of humans
to all living things.

He moves to the drumming songs
the victory song.
He dances with dignity and pride
with the power of resurrection.
All with the approval of his ancestors
and to the applause
of the white tourists.