Truth tells Wisdom


I find myself with old man,  wise-man,


We divine on a curb, street-level together,

we sit.

I to his right and he to my left,


I give way my fear and my knowing,

in thought.

Free-falling to sheol and his pit,

divine secrets.

All is curled into my palm, so small is this box,

with two open sides.

And ashes to see in a small glass sphere,

fully exposed.

Fear returns and grips at heart,

magic and power.

Confined to disclosure, and the old man bends,

with a knowing nod.

Wraps his Elder arm gently round Truth,

with eyes full of spirit stories.

Light orbs to and fro, like wind that curtsies a salute,

to the wizen eyed.

Believers heed to the wind, see dust that is ancestral,

and wave time by your side.

Here to guide you, we are all your relations,

Truth tells Wisdom.

Where the Berries Once Grew


Meet me where the four winds greet and the berries once grew

North on Mountain Road, you will see Old Ones by a bubbling hot spring

Turn right

I am Fire

Swimming to enable

Waves of imbalance

Wading to live

Seeking truth behind eyes that cannot see such things

Prolific and radiating

Expressive and free

I seek to love and be loved

Cared for carefully, protected

We play outside and I give myself

With all the love I know to exist

Give to everything I touch

Give to everything my breath

My reason for being

To love

I begin to withdraw from the lighted path

Worse, I can no longer see it

Show me, show me

Where the berries once grew and the four winds meet

By a bubbling hot spring, where the Old Ones sit, North on Mountain Road.

Where the Red Receives Me

Each day I drive by the place I am born.  Neon red crucifix set atop on high. Cross over the Assiniboine move down Sherbrook and find my way East on Broadway where the Red receives me.

Backwards I think.

“Your Mémère was the only one who could settle you”, she says with love.  “Your colicky ways kept you from me.  But mum knew what to do, wrapping you tightly in flannel cloth, safety pinned into your little self, you would settle, stop crying and fall asleep.”

Forward I move.

Where the Red receives me, day by day, I build and wrap in layers of light that shield from those who seek to harm.  Saturday morning finds me.  Rolling out and over to unravel and find myself intact, safe, soft, and supple.  Grateful, I return to my mother and grandmothers.

I stop crying and wake to myself.

Plan, Red River and Assiniboine in 1836 (1863)

out of the sweat


out of the sweat

woodpecker greets me red feather under wing

one ceremony, two ceremony, on three a thrust to tap

songs on a little boy drum with courage underfoot

quiet I crawl in the autumn dome down on damp hands

find smooth aster to guide my giveaway

fire burns near poplars where they listen row after row

and shake truth out of trembling leaves for a westward wind

to carry north messages born out of the sweat

I smell blood

dramatic dream

I smell blood and follow the line of light.
It is you, who came out of the water that dreamy day.
Sun soaked on the back of Mother-Earth, salivating.

Echoes of the first-story wake me from this nightmare.
No one else will hear it is just for me and you.
Sketches of your face emerge on Turtle Mountain.

I return to nest and time does not exist.
Before land is land, and souls tilled in ground.
A steady shift of change etches future into stone.

Shadows return and blur vision to a sharpened tongue.
A dusk blue sky drops slowly behind the steep cliff.
I awaken to the feeling of love that matters.

On Ellice we savour the Chinese Zodiac.
Thank middle ground for guidance and seek mystery.
Confirm our fit-up and honour what we know.

He Calls Me Niinimoshenh

The Great Spirit

Watchful is he, like the eye of a raven
Dropping each call in time onto the line of the horizon
A consummate path, I drink the water and sky
Eternal is my search for his footsteps

Watchful is he, like the eye of a coyote
Trailing blossoms on east wind of a new life possible
Swollen with verse, he softly whispers niinimoshenh
And opens the tomb to my being

Watchful is he, like the eye of a sturgeon
Ever-present, waiting patient for a ripe berries moon
Ancient in depth, talking old story into new tale
A regal reunion is our ceremony


where a yellow light lives

where a yellow light lives

thoughts vine out to cling and curl to and from my being

water gushes onto concrete pond pooling round decaying lilies

and the smell of pine needles a way into my past

plays house with my senses, where death smells right and good

velvet black berries hang heavy and low beneath the branches bare

crunch, crunch, crunch, go my feet along the gravely path

caw, caw, caw, speaks the crow pretending not to notice me

a thunderbird clouds red that cardinal winged-one who follows me

downward with the current his nest pulled undertow then

pushed back to surface holding life on river’s muddy edge

picked piece by piece and carried high to where a yellow light lives

Drops and Dreams

Wheel of Time

Persistence of Time

Image by pietroizzo via Flickr

Wheel of Time

I am a white girl
with a Métis Savoir
One that does not claim me
but that I do claim

Brown eyes, tanned skin
pulsing viscid blood
Conceived on the open prairie
by the wanting April moon

Thick-tongued English and broken French
mon orielle craves les enfance le jour
where the fiddle played often those Red River tunes

If only all that is lost
could be re-claimed
never knowing it would all soon end

The wheel of time
relentless and unforgiving     
robs the prairie fire its raison d’etre

Returning now to this century old battle
rips at my heart, thirsty for that Manitoba air
I inhale deeply

Riel lays there still, as still as the night
waiting for the song of the Whippoorwill
Gently he speaks en francais
to the necessity of fortitude

Sun-kissed dewy mornings
tattooed on my mind’s eye
knowing where my greatest roots lay
anchored tightly in the Manitoba earth, I am here

Panoramic view of the universe at night
stars line-up to reveal something great and yet to come
I call upon the people to see the many moons
crested, full and round 
Grandmother speak to me! I am listening

And the sun rose up
while the moon fell down
traveling along that gravel road
Take me home oh wheel of time


Cypress Hills






The Golden Prairie grasses
whispers my name to The Cypress Hills of Saskatchewan
who whispers my name to The Ringing Bells of St. Boniface Cathedral
who whispers my name to The Gilded Bronze Match Plate
who whispers my name to The Miracle of Eighteen-Sixty
who whispers my name to The Protective Prairie Fire
who whispers my name to The Rising Red River Resistance
who whispers my name to The Instigator, Thomas Scott
who whispers my name to The Colonizer JA Macdonald
who whispers my name to The Northwest Rebellion
who whispers my name to The Judge Who Hangs Me
who whispers my name to Justice For The Métis
who whispers my name to The Truth Be Known 
who whispers my name to The Dream Pillow Under My Temple
who whispers my name to The Pencil On My Night Table
who whispers my name to The Metisgirl Asleep In Bed

Fire & Water

Sparks on dark water

Image via Wikipedia

Fire & Water
Dust from a gravel road lingers
Tangled, whispers of love burst
Under, a panting full moon
Fire and Water
Match to over flow  
A fiery love that binds,
Sparks illuminate and shimmer
Fire and Water
Surrender, love purest in form
Discover, dual within nature
See, the universe makes it so.
Fire and Water
Licked entirely by the flame
Watery, a life inside swells
Red River carries them north.
Fire and Water
A pact to honour
Wilful dreams unearth
Spirit Winds to gently waft
Fire and Water


« Older entries