Crow Woman Dances
Dancing on the pavement drunk
Dying earth thirsty
Dying earth thirsty
Pavement in between.
Praying with her feet
no lasting impression.
Crow Woman Tries to Explain
I cant be sure when it will overtake me
the sense of not belonging here
when the ancient spirit overpowers
And my foreign heart protests
And runs for it.
Runs out into the streets,
looks for the signs. the hawks or crows,
Confused then annoyed to find the trees not there.
I know what pulls my heart so far
wildly into the night time woods, a little angrily
So as not to be held back, or not understood,
visiting the rocks and spirit places
like a lost animal or child
looking to go there, to go
home, but where?
There is a dark bird in my heart
that keeps on looking.
It was so long ago,
the old Mother.
Crow Woman wears odd socks and feathers
And they think she's half crazy with her talk
of how to dancè to change the weather
or sing to the Moon inside a rock.
But just because she sits here
with her bags and feathers
Making sacred fires in restaurant ashtrays
don't think she hasn't many eyes
has not flown in her sleep
has not something to say.
But Crow Woman is sick of saying
Drinks her tea, leans towards me
Unfolds black wings
Becomes a Crow.
Making further conversation
Crow Woman is Having a Dream
She is strong
She is done with lost mothers,
old stories of trees.
Crow Woman SEES.
We are in her SEEING
Sees us, blue sky spirits, left
our bodies far below
Knowing at last,
remembering our song,
a gift from the beginning
the poem that we were given
mocked or hidden,
Never shared with
lover child or friend
in all that killed time.
This one true poem of our hearts
hearts to become
a drum a drum
And all of us and all of earth becomes
A drum becomes a power
a power in the dreams
who wish to place their feet
on their earth mother
walking in a sacred manner
according to the original rhythm
Crow Woman and the Blue Collars
Crow Woman feels her way into dark factories
A loud red heart embroidered on her sleeves
She writes poetry on their blue collars
Extends the coffee break to 3 hours
And screw the boss man's mighty dollar.
Crow Woman Talks to the Porcupine
even though we keep to ourselves
we can be friendly
harvesting the lavender clover
side by side, picking it over.
Someday I'll be an old grandmother like you
avoiding the city, waddling in my long skirts
or I will be like the nimble-fingered raccoon
smiling roundly like a little moon
rattling my tin pot.
In my cooking apron, happily white and clean
I will dig and gather and glean,
feed my little fire with sticks,
feed my practical pot with bits
of meat and herb
Old woman, stirring with a bone.
Let the ancestors hear my songs
High nasal tones, some deep and strong
in a comfortable way I will let them be heard
As I stir my pot
At home inside that old body at last,
having gained the simple confidence
And earth knowing.
While pale girls lift their fine chins to the moon
for the goddess to appear,
Guessing she is hid behind a cloud
or should be back soon
She is down here where she ought to be
on the ground, with her sharp stick
for digging, and gathering her roots.