Red Stag

A bottle of Red Stag and your memory
That's all I have today.
No Easter meals, no table side giggles
since you went away.
I do not crave the alcohol
that passes on my lips
There is no spirit that compares
To kissing your sweet lips.
The sweet aroma of my drink
Is nothing to your scent
But I'll swallow burning medicine
And dream of days before you went.

Creeps

There is no room in my heart for another
because you are still right there.
My eyes are only for your eyes,
My fingers for combing through your hair.

I know you're happy somewhere else
in someone else's arms
but my heart still beats just for you
and all your lovely charms.

Someday, perhaps, I'll let it go
but it will not be today
my love is only for you dear
no matter what others say.

But sadness creeps into my mind
it's rooted into place.
Because while I long to breathe you in
I can't even recall your lovely face.

Braves and Tricksters, Gods and Courage : Stories From the Field (RCA 2012)

NOTE: I wanted to add a sound file to this post. It's a tune that is often in my head when I'm writing and thought I would share it with you. I do not own the rights to the song and if you are the owner of the copyright, I will gladly remove it, should you desire. I just wanted people to hear the somber tune that is playing in my mind while I tap out the words coming from my brain.

------------------------------------------------------------


“A Sound Like Thunder”

Many years ago, when I was a young brave, there was a great dry spell through out our land. The plains grew yellow, sickly. The streams were but a trickle and worst of all, the great buffalo was nowhere to be found.

We knew that if the buffalo did not come soon we would have a very sad, very hard winter. We sent men out to see if something, anything could be found. But word came back that there was nothing but death on the plains. Our elders prayed. My warrior friends took other actions.

“I have heard the cries of our women and children for too long, Anaka,” said Manok the Fearless. “We must take action old friend.”

“You speak the truth,” said Anaka the Strong with a slight nod of smooth, red chin. “Let us take up our hunting bows and begin a search. The scouts may not have found anything, but perhaps our luck will be different.”

With that, they gathered up their weapons and what few supplies they could find, and set out.

The two braves traveled for many moons. They searched the lands, living on small birds and rodents, lizards and snakes. They took water where they could find it; near dry river beds, morning dew on the plants. But the meager rations of meat and water soon caught up with them.

One day, as they both staggered along, Anaka stumbled and fell. Manok rushed and knelt at his side. He helped him sit up, and there his friend rested.

Manok’s dark eyes gazed out into the sage covered lands, worry creasing his sweat streaked brow.

“I am not afraid, but I think that very soon we must surely die for lack of real food and water.”

Anaka, sitting deep in thought, rested his chin on his rust colored fist for quite some time. A gentle wind ruffled through the feathers in his raven hair, and his eyes began to light up. He pointed toward the horizon.

“Perhaps not, old friend,” he said. “Look, there!”

Manok scanned the horizon, and could see a shimmer off in the distance. It looked like some sort spirit, wandering the barren land. As it neared, he could see what appeared to be a white buffalo calf.

As it came nearer still, it was briefly lost in a shimmer of heat. But when it reappeared it had changed into the most beautiful woman either had ever seen.

Now perhaps it was that the sun had gone to his head, but when Anaka saw her, he grew lustful.

“If I am to die out here, at least I can go with a smile on my lips.”

With renewed strength, he came to his feet and started toward the woman. Manok tried to stop him, but he was taken by a madness and shoved his friend away.

Manok fell to the ground hard. He saw Anaka put his hands on the woman’s arms and try to force himself upon her. Then there was a blinding flash of light, and his friend was no more. Where he had stood was a maggot filled pile of putrid, rotting flesh. It was all that was left of strong Anaka.

Manok knew that this woman possessed great power, but he was unafraid. He bowed low to her as she spoke.

“Your friend was filled with a foulness of thought that you could not have known,” she said. “I have made him match those thoughts.”

“I am sorry for his actions. I would ask that you allow me to atone for them, lady. How may I serve you?”

She answered by whispering into his ear. The plains were silent and the beads of his necklace could be heard from a distance as he nodded his head at her quiet words. She told him to come back to our village and prepare for her.

As she spoke, she held her hand to his heart.

“Run swifly,” she said before sending him on his way. When he appeared near our village he was running faster than a pronghorn.

He told of what had happened and what needed to be done. And as the final words escaped his lips, his strength left him. He fell to the ground, asleep. He slept for many days.

Some of the people did not believe his tale, but the elders did as he asked. After all, it could not get any worse.

Then the white buffalo woman appeared. She shared her wisdom with us, and told us of good things to come. She stayed with us for many day.

Finally, she left. We followed her out into the heat filled plains. She walked away and once again there was a shimmer in the air. Where she had stood was a small white buffalo calf.

And as it disappeared into the distance, we began to hear a sound like thunder. There was not a cloud in the sky. But there, off on the horizon, was a solid wall of dark, moving forms.

The great buffalo had come back to us.

--------------------

 

“A Time and a Place”

Monkey loved to play jokes on the people of the kingdom. Often, it was just a simple joke; resting a half-filled bucket of water above a doorway was a favorite of his. At other times, his jokes could be quite elaborate, involving months of planning and whole groups of people.

When the trick was played, Monkey would, of course, have a good laugh. And while it occasionally took a bit of prodding from him, eventually, the person tricked would be laughing too. Thinking that everyone loved his jokes he began to play them all the time.

Many of the people grew annoyed by his near constant pranking, but could not bring themselves to scold him for it. After all, he meant well and really just wanted to bring a smile to everyones face. Most of the time, the people of the kingdom would just shake their head and say, “Oh, Monkey.”

Now as you may well know, a kingdom must have a king. And, oftentimes, those kings are very brave and bold. Some are very wise, others are proud.

King Tyrus, while all of these things, was also a great warrior. He had just led his men to victory in defense of one of the far corners of the realm. Returning home, he had called for a great celebration.

When Monkey heard about this, he began to think. He had heard that King Tyrus loved cakes. After some calculating, Monkey decided that this would be an opportunity for his best prank of all. And it would be wonderful to give the king a good laugh.

He decided to bake a giant, hollow cake. He would hide inside and pop out at just the right moment. It would give the king a good laugh. And he could use laugh, thought Monkey.

The day of the celebration came. The cake was made and Monkey hid inside. It was brought before King Tyrus, and he marvelled at how delicious it looked. He approached the cake, a smile on his face and knife in hand to cut the first slice.

Just as he reached out to cut the cake, Monkey burst out with a great whoop. The king, having been at battle so recently, reacted on instinct and slashed out with his knife.

His mind caught up with what was happening and who had popped out of the cake, and he tried his best to stop the blade. But it was too late.

Monkey was mortally wounded. He slumped along the edge of cake, smearing icing all over his fur. His vision was already beginning to fade.

King Tyrus dropped his knife and reached out for his old friend. His heart was breaking as he held Monkey in his arms. Monkey, who had always been so good at making the king smile and laugh.

The people of the kingdom looked on, stunned. Some of the nobles shook their heads. “Oh Monkey, poor Monkey,” he heard them say.

A coldness came upon the king, and his anger began to stir. He glared at all of the people, and shouted out.

“You all knew that Monkey was a prankster! But how could you all have let him go so far? You knew that he would joke when it wasn’t appropriate and yet you said nothing.”

A tear slid down the great king’s face, and the people were shamed.

“You never reproached him,” he wailed. “And now this has happened.”

King Tyrus, who had faced men in armed combat and feared nothing, now had a quiver in his voice. “I have brought short the life of someone who just wanted to make us all smile and laugh,” he croaked.

He looked into Monkey’s eyes. The light of life was fading from them.

“I’m so sorry my young friend. One of us should have told you.”

The king bowed his head in sorrow as he held Monkey close to him. The people joined him in hanging their heads; they knew he was right. Monkey was their friend and they should have talked to him about his joking.

And Monkey, gasping his last breath, realized that the king spoke true. There was a time and a place for everything.

--------------------

 

Like Stone

Many ages ago, the world was a barren place, and great men roamed the lands. These men were giants and were feared by all men. All, except for one.

Over many years these giants had looked down on normal humans as inferior. They treated them like slaves. But the hunter Braga grew tired of slavery and began to learn all he could about these giants.

While the others distracted them, Braga snuck into their great halls and found the books that held their secrets. He learned how they came to be, and found out that even though they were massive beings, they indeed had a weakness.

If ever these giants knelt down on their knees they would become stone. This was why they had enslaved man - so they would never have to bow down. Braga just needed to figure out how to make them kneel.

He prayed for days to the God Who Does Not Answer. This silent God did not intercede on man’s behalf. Rather, when prayed to, he would let a man come to find his own truths, his own strengths. And after days of praying to his God, Braga found his answer.

In the places where they slaved away, the people would sometimes find beautiful, black stones that shined with a strange inner light.

Braga discovered that they could be carved into wonderful ornaments or deadly weapons. But weapons would do no good against giants like these. So Braga had the people find the largest pieces. These they carved into magnificent totems and ornaments. They left them, not at the great altars of the giants, but scattered about, near where the giants would often roam.

As the giants came across the baubles they were enthralled. They sought the humans out in the hopes that they would bring them to the altars, but the people had hidden themselves and could not be found.

Overtaken with greed for these treasures, the giants gathered together to divide the spoils. They all picked their favorites, then knelt down to pick them up. Once on their knees, the slow change began to take them. They were becoming stone.

Their hair became the trees, and their blood the life giving waters of the world. Their breath became the winds and clouds. And their bones became great jewels.

As they changed, the people emerged once again. And Braga, having defeated them, shouted out.

“Just as you looked down upon us, and stood upon our hard working backs, so to will we climb upon your backs. We shall stand upon your stone faces and look down upon you. You have reaped what you sowed. And now you see that even those as great as you must pay the price of treating others with disrespect.”

And this is where the mountains and woods that surround us come from. This is also why we must be respectful of them. For if we fail to show our world and its beauties the proper respect, it is said that the mountains will rise up once more and make us their slaves.

--------------------

Play On

Once upon a time, there was a great fire that raged across the earth. For years this fire blazed, eating away at the vegetation and killing the animals that it caught unaware.

The great spirits of the earth came together and held a counsel.

“We must put an end to this fire,” said the Northern Wind.

“And we must warn our animal friends,” said the Eastern Sun.

“The fire is heading toward my lands,” said the Southern Rain. “I can stop it. But to do so I will need to create a great flood. I can do this, but I don’t wish for my animal friends to come to harm.”

“Then we shall warn them,” said the Western Sky. “But whom to send? The birds of the sky are swift, but they do not speak the same language as the creatures of the ground.”

“Then we will ask two of the fastest animals that roam the land. Perhaps one of them will be able to warn the others.”

They sent word and in no time, the Elk and the Pronghorn came to them. Both were swift creatures who could easily bring the warning to the others. But when asked, only one offered to help.

“I am too large to help you with this,” said the Elk. “And my beautiful antlers might get snagged or damaged during the run. I would much rather roam the open lands than go into the forests and mountains to deliver a message to these others.”

“The Pronghorn is tiny compared to me. And his antlers are laughable. Send him instead.”

The Pronghorn looked to his old friend, wounded. “I had no idea you had so little respect for me,” he said. “Yes, I am smaller and only have my simple horns. But I am swift, even faster than you, and I will help spread the warning.”

The great spirits were very pleased with the Pronghorn, and angry at the Elk.

“Because you have chosen to help,” they said to the Pronghorn. “You will forever be allowed to roam and play in the great plains.”

Then they turned to the Elk. “But you,” they said. “Because you care only for yourself and your precious antlers...you will be hunted. You will be driven from the plains into the forests and mountains you so despise. Now get out of our site!”

With a huff, the Elk turned and stormed away.

The Pronghorn waited for his instructions. When they had been given, he set off on his mission. He ran as fast as he could. He shouted his warning to all of the animals. Those of the forests, hills, mountains and valleys heard his cries.

And as the fires approached the rains began to fall heavily. But all of the animals had fled. The waters poured down, flooding the land and dousing the fire. All were saved.

They thanked the great spirits, but were told that it was not they who deserved the thanks. They said it was the Pronghorn who had given the warning, and it was he who should be thanked. And they gathered the animals to do so.

But when they looked for him, he was nowhere to be found.

After much searching, one of the animals gave a shout. They had found the Pronghorn! When the others came to see they began to smile and laugh.

There was the Pronghorn, leaping and running. He danced and played upon the great plains. It was all the thanks he needed.

Annuity

Jack lay there, staring up at the star strewn sky. The crisp air of winter's slow fading nipped at his exposed face. The rest of him, though warm in his sleeping bag, felt nothing but the chill of the cold lump of ice that was his heart.

He thought about the letter he had written. He tried to remember whether or not he had sent it, but at the moment his mind was a blank.

No. Not blank. But rather too filled with thoughts of Anne to function properly. He saw her face, her smile in his mind. Whispering to the clear, crystal sky he recited the letter and struggled to remember.

Dear Anne,

everyone tells me that time will heal all wounds. Well, I probably repeat this mantra more than anyone else simply because no one knows how I actually feel; I don't talk about it much with others. I'm hoping that it's true. With all of the time that we invested it will take awhile for me.

I've heard differing opinions on the subject. One friend says it will take 3 months for every year. Another says 6. Either way, I've got awhile to go. Maybe I'm more than half-way there, maybe not. Doesn't feel like it though. Feels like it was just yesterday.

There hasn't been a day that's gone by when I'm not thinking of you in some way. I want to look at your face, lose myself in your eyes. I want to touch your hands and hold them in mine. I want to wrap my arms around you and feel your warmth. Lay my head against your chest and hear your heart beating.

Like I used to.

But I realize that's just a fantasy and will never be. You left me and I can't get you back. You left. And I ran away.

My days are all the same. I shamble like the undead, going through the motions. Primitive instincts allow me to survive the day to day, to interact and get by. But instinct can only take you so far when you've lost the piece that completed you. And I feel like it's only a matter of time.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. I know it will likely just go into my drawer with all of the other letters. Unsent. Unread. I don't know what the point is.

I know that you aren't coming back.

This happened to us because of me. I am carcinogenic. A poison. Cancer.

I don't seem to do any real good in this world. And with you gone, my inspiration gone, I'm beginning to wonder if I can.

We invested a lot of time and I'll gladly pay for it with my pain and hollowness. I wouldn't trade a second of the time I spent with you to make it go away. 

I loved you then, as I love you now. 

Jack wouldn't allow himself to cry. He didn't want to wake the others. Staring up at the countless stars, there was some comfort in the thought that maybe, just maybe, she was looking at the same sky.

And he lost himself in her eyes once again and imagined her next to him. It was a pleasant fiction to drift off to.

But it was only fiction.

Rock-a-bye (3MF "would-a-been" entry)

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. Standing, she took a few steps and with shaking fingers, she opened it and stepped through.

It was a bedroom. There was an old rocking chair next to a small table, and on the table a candle, which gave off the only light. There was also a book.

She approached, sat down in the chair and picked up the book. It was soft, bound in old leather. She opened the book and began to read.

I do not have much time.

At the age of 27 I was married to Jack Burke, and for a brief while, all I knew was joy. He was a handsome, good man. He loved me and took care of me the best he could. Together we traveled the world.

During one of our trips I became afflicted with a sickness that doctors could not cure. It was a sickness of mind and spirit.

I became prone to fits of rage and violence. While I could see and was aware of what was happening, I could not control myself. All Jack could do was try to keep me from hurting myself or others.

He did not wish to confine me to an asylum and would resort to tying me to an old rocking chair. I would scream and spit at him. My nails would tear into the wood as I shook and rocked violently.

The madness would pass and he would release me. We were a happy, loving couple once more. But the stress of this over time drove Jack to cope the only way he knew how - with alcohol.

Oh how it must have broken his heart to see me with the scars from the ropes on my arms!

One day, Jack was passed out on our sofa, an empty bottle next to his dangling hand. It was then that the madness took me, and while I could see what was happening, I could not stop myself. I could not stop what I did to him.

I pounced upon him, clawing at his face. He tried, weakly, but could not resist. Finally, screaming, I clutched his throat in my hands. Trickles of blood ran down his neck where my fingers dug in.

I watched at the blood vessels slowly burst and his eyes went from white, to red. He thrashed, then lay still.

When I regained control I was looking at his cold, blue face. His eyes stared at me accusingly.

In my horror, I picked up the empty bottle and smashed it. I took up the largest chunk of glass and sliced into my neck. There was no pain as the warm crimson flowed down my body, and slowly my vision faded.

I awoke on the floor of my room. The rocking chair, table and my journal were there and I knew I must confess.

I’m so sorry for telling you this, because you are me.

And now, a choice. You can sit here for eternity, remembering what you have done, seeing it play out in your mind. Or, you can walk out the door and for the briefest of moments, forget all of this.

But you will read the journal again, and you will remember. This is a penance, a purgatory. Perhaps someday the journal will go unread. Perhaps someday you will know peace.

Now choose.
She rocked in the chair, running her fingers over the grooves her fingers had made, and remembered everything.

Not Even an Ember

Jack had finally achieved one of the goals that he'd set before himself. While he knew that it would be some time before all of his other plans would come to fruition, his dream job was now in his grasp. It was a victory in many ways, but for Jack, it felt hollow.

Something, someone was missing.

He sat down on a creaky old chair with pen and notebook in hand. The dim light of the fading sun seemed a good metaphor for the way he felt right now. Bright still, but growing dark. He crossed on leg over the other and began to write a letter. It was a letter he knew he would never send.

Dear Anne,

I miss you. I've worked so hard to get where I am now and I know that I owe a lot of it to you. Had you never said goodbye, I might not be here now. 

I got my dream job. I'm happy, but the fires of joy can't seem to ignite inside of me. My heart fails to burn with passion, even for this. I guess that I've shed too many tears; my heart must be water-logged. There is no blaze, not even an ember. 

Silly, I know. It's been so long...

I'm looking at land now, someplace that I can build a home. You wouldn't believe the deals out here, though since there is virtually nothing but shrubs, trees, desert and mountains, maybe you could. I don't know if you'd love it the way I do, or see it as I see it. I know that you wouldn't want to be here with me, so far away from the people and things that you love.

It's difficult for me to be here, too. Because the people that I love are so far away I find myself being in two places at once. I feel insane for having these kinds of thoughts and emotions, but maybe that's what my love for you has always been - a bit of madness anchored by the reality that I could be loved by someone...like you.

Or maybe the madness is holding onto something that has long since gone, or perhaps was never there to begin with.

I have no way of knowing these things. All I know is this - when I'm standing outside in the chill mountain air, seeing my breath as I look upon the sky, I think of you and hope that we're sharing something even at such a great distance. When I'm gazing at the moon and the stars, I hope that you are too, and that somehow by some magic of reflection and refraction, I'm seeing you again. 

And when I smile at the sight of the infinite sky, I'm smiling as though I'm gazing into the infinite depths that are your eyes...and that somehow you know that no matter what happens, no matter how far away you are and no matter what life might throw at you, when you look up at the sky you'll always be reminded that I love you and will until all those stars are gone.

Jack paused a moment, thinking of how completely inept his words were and how sappy he must sound. He smiled to himself as he read what he'd written so far. His eyes had begun to water a bit and with a small laugh and a shake of his head he tore the letter from his notebook. He crumbled it up and threw it in the trash.

Just another letter, never to be read.

Home Is When I Dream of You

And though I walk with mother earth through her green mountains
though the chill wind kisses my lips like a lover
though I am caressed by the warm arms of the sun in clear blue skies
though I am free to run my hands down the red rocked cheeks of canyons
though the fragrant wild flowers and mountain air make me drunk with delight

I am not home

My heart is...
...where I walk with her hand in mine
...where I kiss her cool lips on a winters day
...where I am held in her gentle arms and know I'll be fine
...where my fingers gently trace the outline of her rose colored cheek
...where breathing her scent is more intoxicating than all the world's opiates

My home is not here. My heart is lost...

...to a dream that will never be.