X___________________ Dec 18 2016

X_________________________   Date Dec 18 2016


I do not know where I am from
Because I live here, far from my origins.
I live scrambled amidst so many cultures
Slowly dissolving and amalgamating.
The long story of resource war and incessant migration.

It may be why we lose God, God being replaced by younger rulers;
With all this turnover, God always belongs to someone else;
Is elusive, or terrifies you
And your God, the one you grew from,
Has been either denied any language, or very badly quoted.

Eventually, all Gods names are dropped
And the only one indicated is
X______________
Marking the place for you to fill in, or sign.

Anyway, X____________, I have become
Very honest with you, transparent,
Because I think you are better
Than many have been led to believe
And I am still talking to you.

So the worst is avoided.

We are still together, X__________ and I
Perhaps nameless, sort of refugees in the big exploded culture I grew up in,
Or, I shall say, secret
As in, Secret Name that No-one Else Shall Know.

Hard to pronounce. 

But this much is true.

Underneath it all, there is a ground upon which I was made
It hasn't mattered where
On earth
My ancestors have all walked the ground of secrets.
And I am a secret of blood and water
Of the River beneath, 

Inside the clay on the wheel.

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 gaze
The trees
They are waving in the wind.  I breathe.

I Hate My Hair. Jan 22 2015

Jan 22 2015

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

2015.03.15 Hope

                2015.03.15  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

Farewell 12/22/2015

12/2015

Farewell, I'm off to the woods,
Where the little birdies are

To the river,
Where the crows and the eagles are

To the grassy meadow
Where the Deer people paw the snow
And no-one is blown in wordy winds of war

Farewell, I leave you arguing for your crown
My diadem is made of leaves
That have floated to the ground

River of the Heart. December 4 2015

Do you remember freedom?
How the men of our people walked in their splendid nature
Before the captivity of their disappearance?
Do you remember?
How the women walked in their noble beauty
In the waxing and waning of the majestic moon
Before they were reduced to cattle?

Little more than seven generations
And the memory in the blood
Still mourns the bodies in the dust

I ask now,
Do you remember freedom?
How we walked barefoot
In the holy place
Wearing cloaks of skin and hair?

Bark and flax

Seven times seven generations
And the memory in the blood still moves.

Can you remember before this here, now, came to be?
It is a long walk back
To where we were free

Yes, I can remember, but only because the blood informs my heart.

The blood informs my heart
With the memory that flows beyond seventy times seven
All these generations of the people before this:
When we were free and walked where we would, unafraid.

And now!
We are all sectioned out, lined and crossed out
By denial of blood and ransacking of the sacred ground
That holds the dust that once drew the breath down
Into the blood that informs the heart.
The heart, which carries the torch of the splendid nature
And the noble beauty
The one who stood, and of whom it was said,
"By the hand of the Creator."

We must all walk through our times
But to surrender memory?

For a brief eternal moment
The soul fluttered in the hand of God.

Memory fords the river of blood
The life of the people
And I must walk forward
Walk forward
With the river pounding in my ears.

We were once a little stream
A rivulet in the high mountain
Now a river coursing to the delta
Rich in fertile mud
The delta
To the sea.

12/4/15