Trees

Trees

We whiz down the road lined with poles and wires, boards and pictures,
They hook the eye because they are close and we are whizzing by.

There is green behind all this.
Soften the eye, open the gaze

The trees are waving
Enthusing in the wind.
Soft palettes of every green
Shining in the light, drawing in the shade
They move
And we breathe.

We stop in town for a beer at the bar
And wander outside to sip.
An old music buddy strolls up
And fishes a cigarette butt out of the pail on the ground.
Then he finds another for a friend who doesn't come in.
Small talk. We buy him a beer. He slurs because he has no teeth.
His eyes are bright and blue, his face a little lopsided and caving into lines. 
He is winsome and cordial now.

I look across the street.  Buildings and wires.
Softer.
The trees
They are waving in the wind.  I breathe.

I Hate My Hair. Jan 22 2016

Jan 22 2016

I Hate My Hair


Child,
Perhaps you are disgruntled
With your body and your parents
I tell you,
Your line has survived
All of history, so far!
War, famine and pestilence
Volcanoes and floods
Hungry crocodiles and packs of wolves
Not all lines survive to the next generation
Not that THAT matters

But you
YOU, child
Are here, now,
Squalling in spite of the odds.

Sidney Barthell 2016

The Medicine of the Chestnut Man. January 5th 2016

The Medicine of the Chestnut Man    Jan 5 2016

I met a man
As old as a tree
His feet were rooted in the paths
Winding to the core of the land
When he spoke
Every word a kernel, every kernel a sheaf
Power of Life and Sacred Meal.

Invisible if I look straight on
He appears when I avert my gaze
He evades my logic
With water and corn

A man like a tree walking
Feet rooted in the heart of the land
Practical medicine man walking
For whom they extend smoke
And peace talking

Where are all your people?
We have been cut down
Laid to the ground
Firewood for the furnaces
Of the kings of the eastern people,
Whose warriors came like locusts in swarms
And spoiled us all away.

I cried and cried
Til he motioned to me
Look up, and see what you can see.

A bull, an eagle, a sheep and a man
Conjured upon these graves
Come with thousands spilling like waves
From clouds, with thunder across the land

Hope

                Hope


Everything may be seen to happen in this time of mystery
Even secrecy and complicity
Everything which may be thought of
May be seen to happen

My quick studies of histories convinced me early
That there are no surprises
When it comes to the terror of governments
And their boots
Every thing may be seen to happen

It seems that we lone voices are arrayed singly
Against the vast machinery
Of a very sophisticated iniquity

But in truth, our lonely voices are a huge beach of sand
Inestimable, like the stars
Diamond sand, stretching forward and back
Where the Holies walk unshod.

©   Mar 15 2015 Sidney Barthell