Poetry

Eduardo

He woke restless

The faint memory of the dream

still on his mind

He could still smell the sweat lodge

He reached to touch his naked chest

and rubbed the beads of sweat gently

He was awakened by the early sounds

of the birds singing

This was the fifth night of light sleep,

of reslessness,

He waited for the sounds of the trumpet

for the call from his tribe

but none was heard

He yearned for the sounds of familiar men calling

again there was silence

In silence he thought about

the fresh stain of red war paint on his face

or the ancient smell of the earth

and the sweat of the horse

In his youth

a fierce warrior he had been

But he tired of the broken bones

and the blood on his hands

He looked at his rugged hands

aged now

but still strong

He told war stores at times

the quickness of the knife

His broken and now healed fists 

were testaments of times gone

He yearned for the call to war

and the surge of adrenaline

Louder than the pounding of horses hooves

Reaching for his buckskins 

he put on pants

He reached for the paint

and grabbed the razor instead

The razor became the knife

in the early dawn

Brushing his hair and teeth

civilization pressed in

and now to the chore of getting deep satisfaction

from the smell of strong coffee

the computer

and the remoteness of

not the wilderness

but the office

Surrounded by strangers

a dysfunctional tribe

lured together by the promise

of the dollar

Bound

Bound hands and feet

by the mind.

Torn asunder by free will

and the limitations of the light.

Shooting for the moon

settling for the setting sun.

The path though well worn

disappears in its darkness.

If but the heart could think

and the mind feel.

Storm

We will wait until all storms subside

We wait in the eye of our hurricane

Where still waters are calm

While all about we see storms whirling

and I but one

grasping to hold onto our center

reaching out in our yearn for more

sweet soul prevail thy wind

that fallows this earth so pure