Dancing Hawk (short story)

"Get a good smoke going," he said, looking intently across the circle.

She held the shell, gingerly and firmly, and blew into the pile of white sage smoldering in its pearly interior. Finally understanding she was indeed to claim a name, she smiled in disbelief, ashamed she'd doubted her prayer.

"Washee Naktahe," the words so familiar as Ten Bears said them, but strange in her own mouth, "Dancing Hawk," so relieved she was not "Ten Gnats" as she'd feared, and yet resolved to maintain that as a shadow name, and wondering how she came to such a name as "Dancing Hawk." A medicine name, at last!

Ten Bears spoke. "Washee Naktahe is a greeting, 'I am.' When you talk to Spirit, identify yourself."

She nodded, deeply honored, and taken aback at the beauty of her own name.

Spark (poetry)

My funeral pyre is the fire
of my rebirth.
It glows as twilight deepens into
moonlit ritual embers;
Friends witness, build the
silent celebration;
Fire and fireworks

Spark.

I Am All Who I Am (poetry)

It's not linear. The lessons,
moments and lifetimes curl up like smoke;
all the women I am exist at once.
Twins shipwrecked in time, one scattered, one strong;
Stranded magical beauty gripped with fiery extinction;
Warrior woman on strident horseback
(don't fuck with me).

All the deaths
revolve until I am at my core,
then spin out seeking beauty.
Excited adolescent, wide-eyed adventure, possibilities;
and the Grandmothers, who know just how to enjoy presence.
I am all who I am to the end of time:
my eyes hold all my secrets.
I am all who I am
right now.

Mt. Tam (poetry)

There has been ceremony here;
I feel it in these medicine stones.
Every atom vibrates with ancient knowing.
The peace eagles make it pure,
But the song rings through the air just as it did
The day I was born.

There is ceremony here;
My song, my people, my privilege.
Peering at family who've carried the wisdom
of beauty and celebration -
Circled through space to let me through the door -
My infinite privilege to know your presence.

Even my courage to let you in -
and out and in like tidal waves in my teeming universe -
Comes from the wonderment
I've caught in glimpses.
My longing overrides my fear;
I prey to be devoured by your grace.

The Sound of One Hand Clapping (poetry)

Gong!

My hand hits all the atoms
of everything there is
and ever was
and ever
will
be.

Huntress (poetry, 1997)

Watchful:
Lancing a glancing blow
with every daintily pawprinted step,
she glides, solitary,
drifting;

Glimpsing:
Whiskered tail switching,
dodging a forgotten hunger,
confessing empty,
alert and

Longing:
Not for solid sunshine warming
through ancient rock (long held
for well-deserved repose);
but for

Seduction's faintest scent,
Drawing her
as gravity
draws
water.

The Warrior, The Meditation, The Red Road (poetry, 2008)

Part One: The Warrior

What happens after you
Birth a planet and
Rip out your heart to
Create a sun?

Nothing to do but
Follow your Heart into the
Center of a
Maze of possibilities and pathways
Blazing, each one, with
Atomic energy
Radiating
Swimming
Producing
Heat and Light to your
Beautiful Birth Child -
a Planet of possibilities

waiting for care.

I was a
Woman once, in a
Vision, covered in
Mud that was a field of
Primordial ooze, new,
Unshaped, but holding the
Seed of ancient beginnings.

Awakening by some
Spark, sitting up, letting the
Ooze slide off my
Two-legged form
Standing to reveal a
Viking, an armor-plated
Warrior with
Horned helmet and
Fierce boots.
Muscular
Rock-solid -
A fine progenitor of
Body and Mind -
Square-shouldered
Long-haired and
Blond, Practical
Braids dripping from
Ceremonial costume,
Ready for
Battle, or Exploration, or
Love. Ready for Action.

Surveying the fecund
Wasteland around me,
My freshly raised form
Bends to pick up a
Sceptor with my right hand.
My left picks up a
Globe of
Beauty and Mystery,
Worlds within Worlds
Barely contained
Within its form.

I place the Orb on the
Staff,
Hurl it into
Space, and
Fly up after it, like
Superman, or Wonder Woman,

a Viking prototype
of Supernatural ability.

Every thought is an
Orb
Hurled into
Space.

May all my Offspring
Walk softly and with Gratitude.


Part Two: The Meditation

I have sat in
Meditation, the
Light at my back through
Windows that overlook a
Scene I cannot recall.

I remember sitting in
Meditation, my
Robes and
Status around me, perhaps
Smug in my situation,
Hair in a neat ceremonial
Bun, when the
Doors before me
Opened and disgorged a
Warrior, a Soldier with a
Sword, that
Cut me in two as I sat.

The mark still appears as a
Line down the left side of my
Face, an ancient battlescar only
Healed by Forgiveness.


Part Three: The Red Road

The man Jesus knew
Love has no room for
Other. Choose love or
The Black Road will
Swallow us in
petty concerns and isolation.

The Red Road is the
Path of the Heart, the path of
Connection, the
Ribbon of blood that
Traces the one path of
Genetic fulfillment.

Within you, you
Carry the seeds of
Unique greatness.
Unlock those seeds and
Share them with your
Brothers and Sisters.
Find the fire within you, and
Bring that fire to the people.

That fire, your seeds of greatness,
Are your Red Road.


The Red Road is
Narrow. The path of the
Heart is specific. You
Know when you are on the path.

And you know when you are not.

Sacrifice your ego, and your
Heart will lead you to
Treasures only you can find.


I know these things to be true.
Your fire is needed.
Answer the call to greatness, and
Let your heart lead you to riches.