November 24, 2011
Native American Heritage Month
Board with music I pushed the scan button. The next voice I heard was that of the radio when I walk into the local steel supply. A steady rant on why it wasn’t Indians who were hurt in the selling of Manhattan. The voice went on and on as if the spilling of words would make his thoughts the new truth. But I rush on…
Why rage against the poor comes so easy for a wealthy urban person the day before Thanksgiving I don’t know. And I guess I’m really not up to putting up with it and want to go on a tirade myself. But instead…with some steadiness?..it is good to take time and appreciate today’s sky, John bundled and sitting in front of the P.O. before the sun rises on a freezing morning smoking a cigarette, a mountain white from yesterdays snowfall, a dog sniffing a paper bag across the street, and the wealth of a warm car as I drive by.
© David B. Bell 2011
Thanksgiving
Turkey, blue head on the ground
body in a gleaming white tub
with lion claw feet.
Heat rises in the yard
melting crystals of ice
and there are feathers, bronze,
metallic blue and green
that were his strong wings
which never flew away.
And we give thanks for it
and for the old woman
shawl pulled tight around her
she sits
her teeth brown
her body dry
her spoons
don’t match.
Some geese, last stragglers
trickling out of Canada
are flying over.
Noisy, breaking the glass sky
grey
they are grey
and their wings are weightless.
Linda Hogan
Chewing the Cud 