James Blue Wolf, U.S.A Bio: James is a mixed blood Oklahoma Choctaw, Spent his early years in Oklahoma, Texas and New Mexico. Since then he has lived all over the Western United States. James poems have appeared in the Alura Quarterly, the Sierra Journal, Hungry Poet, Native Realities, and the prestegious Monseratt Review, among many others. His first Book "Sitting By His Bones" was published in 1999 by Earthen Vessel Productions. He is currently Poet Laureate of Lake County, CA. He is father of five children and grandfather to seven grandchildren. He and his wife Bernie (Northern Cheyenne) live in Northern California.

Cinnamon Toast Medicine Achafa (one) My nightmares are afraid of cinnamon toast. Grandma says the sweet does it with the spice. She hustled us from damp sheets when we awoke, pale and running from spirits. As I got older, and roused myself - - I'd find her gathering her skirts by warm coals, drinking coffee smelling of spice. She won't admit to bad dreams, though I know she cries for her father, who was part horse but died in an automoblie fight. I didn't know him in this world, yet hear his voice from the next. He tells me not to fear and to put the cinnamon on thick - - whispers that "poverty is passing for Indians, while the colour of our world is getting lighter every day, nut brown bleaching to latte' - - and what will be left in another seven generations only the wind knows." Tuklo (two) My dreams overflow with language, a babel of three, competing for my mind. At 51, I don't need cinnamon toast too often, except when i read Owens or Alexie. Their work is a poltice drawing my poisons, shadows that push and prod me toward cliff's edge, urging me to jump for fear, for anger, for grief. Mixedbloods should be able to sit above it, ennit? We don't reflect in a fullblood mirror that charges a scalpers price for Native Dreams. Getting no discount for their suffering, generations shuffle in endless sacrifice - - dancing in this Earth-Round-House. I stand at the door, neither fully in, nor out. Nodding my head to the drum, shifting from foot to foot, smelling of cinnamon. Sacred Stones Grandfather says, Those Who Support Our Feet, Rock People, are alive. Everywhere he sees family. caresses shrub hugs tree Leaves shoes to feel grass water rock. Civilised men, bound to blood and flesh, never acknowledge their relationship to silent relatives. Grandpa says, "Cigar-store Indins looked that way 'cause they were practicing to be rocks." doesn't it hurt? "doesn't it hurt to fail?" Young Boy worries Old Man cautions "every body tumbles" "doesn't it hurt to love?" Young Boy grimaces Old Man comforts "every heart breaks." "doesn't it hurt to pierce?" Young Boy demands Old Man admonishes "every body bleeds." "doesn't it hurt to die?" Young Boy weeps Old Man smiles "every heart is freed!" For the Love Of Old Words Thousand year stories arguing war, calling spirit, crooning love, describing Earths birth hid our history in the mouths of old men to heap flame on a night fire. We loved those rich earth words, each gruff or tinkly sound. Lips clung to high wavery lilt, minds made contests of oratory giving our universe familiar face. A pale wind emerged from the sea clinging to a different sound. Fearing our unknown, arrogant and sure, it despised how our eyes loved this Turtle World. Then those beautiful sounds were denied the mouths of our children. Penguin nuns slammed small fingers in desktops, slapped faces, and threatening hellfire - - crushed our sweet spoken word. Sun climbed the mountain, fell into the Sea, so many times our whitened bones could not remember and new words began to echo between Turtles ocean mothers. Our Children, wandering mute, made no proud oratory. Trapped in a voiceless cage their red-earth minds searched silently for echoes of an ancient song Eyes are not the source of Vision - - language shapes the mind, molds us into harmony. Old words balance us on the precipice of fear and triumph with an easy faith. So from that subtle river of our blood we search for power to fill fresh mouths with fertile sounds, hummingbirds dipping into flowers - - sipping  the nectar of old words. Cowboy Indins Uncle says - - "Indins make the best cowboys." Necks already brown, legs got a natural bow, toes turned in from scrunching-up in too-tight boots. Grandpa talked politics with his horses, told them jokes, commented on the weather. Dragged Uncle to races against half drunk cowboys and indins, bet heavy on those small Oklahoma ponies. Afterward, they had to sneak away to keep their winnings. I matured wearing a southwest uniform... boots, snap shirts, jeans worn at heel. Those were leaner days only Thunderbird and beans for dinner - - (unless we went home to face Grandma's frown). Today, my belly hangs over the wolf head buckle my kids gave me. Jeans cut me in half or theaten to drop to the ground, only my old scarf fits. Wouldn't think of punishing a horse with this tonnage, but I know that somewhere someone's stepping into my saddle. White or brown, there's not much difference. We love the smells, four hooves, and a tail - - big sky stretching horizons for stars we've been admiring since the season we were born. Tamed and settled, I've got a hole in my heart for that life. That dry tumbleweed, racing toward the mountains, used to be me. Love Poem (for Bernie) "Aren't Poets 'sposed to write about love?" Was a time my lyrics sang no other tune, before we raised five children. Wa-a-ay back, when Oklahoma rivers ran red and Shiprock sailed from Four Corners bringing me dreams of soft lips and earthy skin. When Thunderbird wine soured my mouth, baseball seemed a way of life, and the Road opened her legs wide to our adventuring. More than one pretty face drew sap from my pen to flood a sticky page with Love. But only one offered me her spirit and her youth. I took it from her, like Americans stealing our land - - without reservation. After twenty- five years of her strong heart, brown skin, and gentle hands we live at the end of the road - - with only occasional nightmares. I write, from a crack between worlds, of darker themes that draw blood, fester and seep. Freed from alcohol, but still a slave to sugar, I am both conquerer and victim, wishing I were one, or neither. She won't let me dwell on it, comforts me, drawing down on the end of my life. Listens, face pressed tight to rib, feeling the drum of my heart. We two-step to that throbbing, side by side, softened by rain, kneaded by experience, baked by a ruby red sun - - two pieces of human frybread, praying to be eaten - - together. All works Copyright James Blue Wolf.

BMP nzpoetsonline

BMP nzpoetsonline