Archive for November, 2012

Winter’s Hush



December in Glacier National Park.  First snow!

Winters Hush

An endless lonely row
Of city street lights glow
Casting a midnight show
Upon the sleeping snow.

Out among the naked trees,
Along the rocky ledges,
The wild Laurel leaves
Frame the winter’s edges.

As with the Evergreen
Covered in one snowy day,
Dreams rest peacefully
In the hush of winter sleep.

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Rainwater Sky

Photo taken in Porcatello, Idaho September 2012

This poem was inspired by my Lakota language and history classes.

Rainwater Sky

The rainwater sky
Finds Grandmother
Weaving clouds
Of white thunder.

As her needle
Of bone
Draws the remembering,
A tear slips down
The ridge of her cheek.
Another has found
A faded bead
On her deerskin gown.

Grandmother sees
Beyond the storm
A vision of lights,
The lights of
Native Spirits
Haunting satellites.
She has lived to see
Red words turn white.

Grandmother leans
Against the wind
As it whispers
“It is too late
To repair the fabric
Of death,
Of trust misplaced.”

A tourist dollar
Falls from her hand
Like a leaf off
A dying tree.
A green bandage
Too small to cover
The pain she feels.

Still she prays,
Asking why the world
Does not see
That all bones are white
And the same
After death becomes
A memory…

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The Last Apple

Fall in Stevensville, Montana

The Last Apple

Oh, to be a kid again,
Riding with Jack Frost
Through leaves of gold.

Just a kid on a bike
Stopping to pick
The last apple of summer,
Lost in the moment
Sweet with memories.

Just a kid on a bike
Not needing to know
Where the trail ends,
Surprised when it does.

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Midnight Tide

Photo by my late son Scott Tucker

Midnight Tide

Steps upon the dunes.
Dark skirts along the beach
Reaching for a wave.
Sprays of ocean mist
Taste the waiting

The beach
Listens to the
Sibilant whispers
Of a long, cool breeze.
Scattered specs of coral
Slip through
Tangled hairs of grass.

Gathers in swells.
Echos of mirth sweep
Into the surf.
Shells hug the shore
Like lonely widows.

In dream sleep,
How the sun might trace
Their spiral lines,
Their minds
Curled up inside

To be taken
By the next
Midnight tide.

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