Pen in Motion

** This is a product of my grad poetry class – writing about my father is always a bit complicated, but I suppose that is why he keeps coming up. The title is written in Pawnee – our language.

I was thinking of you today,

watching the sky

and admiring the slate blue clouds.

I saw a broad-winged shadow

and thought of your name.

Not the one on your tombstone –

the one that was branded on your soul,

the name that came from your blood.

You told me once – it meant Hawk Chief.

Bird of prey. Protector. Hunter.

You did both, I think.

But isn’t that what hawks do?

And now, in the slate blue clouds –

I think I see you.

Two beasts –

powerful and mighty mammals –

mangy hair matted with sweat,

swept away like lovers

in the throes of combat,

each brute struggling for

dominance and the right to rule.

Is this what I am inside?

Horns locked with fierce

determination, wild and raw,

each side clawing to be king.

I could name a victor

and be done with it,

but the beauty of the battle

stills my hand.

Probably an odd post for one’s birthday – but given the little spazz attack I had over being that much closer to 40 without having any real writing accomplishments yet, I think it’s fitting.

Happy birthday to me.

We shook hands

in our minds

and smiled

as though no time

had passed.

We talked for hours

on that old porch

where I keep our memories –

with the two old rocking chairs

and that painted sunset

that always hangs in the sky.

Maybe someday

those words will live

as though we actually said them.

Maybe someday

we will greet each other

as old friends,

and move beyond the porch

to walk in the grass

and laugh at the wind.

Everything is red –

his eyes, his blood,

his skin, his life.

Seed of the stars,

born of winged graces

with feathers

stained in scarlet.

And white –

purity in his legend.

But now he survives

in crimson hues

as he moves like

the great birds of prey

through the world.

Rest will come eventually –

for now, he must soar.