I Cannot Be The Great Hunter

I cannot be the great hunter
You wanted me to be, grandmother
I have ridden the raven
Saw the whales do loops on the waters
The white man's sickness
Made me spit blood on the snow
A white man took me away to his homeland
I found myself amongst victims
Wanting to be cured of a spirit
You haven't seen in the forests
Living in rocks, living on water
It is like a tree growing in my lungs
I have no spear with which to kill it
The white man calls it a name
Our tongue finds strange
He says warm weather
and his world's medicine will cure my illness
They cut me open, placed me in a room
white not quite like snow
I feel stronger now
(My heart is hard and sharp)
But I cannot be the great hunter
You wanted me to be

Butuanon

The ripples are not the afterthought
of a child with a pebble,
or that of fish swallowing a bug fallen on water.
They are the spirits of the river made insane
by unnatural filth.

They scramble and fall.
They gambol and crawl.
Nothing makes sense anymore.

Long ago, all they knew were fish
and shrimps and crocodiles,
grass on the banks, bamboo clumps.
Wading through to the other side
was an adventure ripe
with fairies and sprites in the mind.

There were no bridges then.

Mewhat

Scales fell from my eyes
when Saul gave Paul up
the down staircase.
Kiss Grace goodbye,
my friend, my lever.
Kiss your piece goodbye.
Night has fallen forever.

For two years
the number 3
has held magic
between the lines
of the mind.
All it takes
is the knowledge
of the cry,
and the jags of the dance
cease to flirt
with blind lying bravado.

How can I get back to --
for myself -- the land of promise?
Of fields verdant fruits abundant.
Reveling in innocence pure.

Shall I exile my soul
tonewandbetterfutures?
Will we ever know which is better?
Bitterness blinds the search.