Firebird Woman’s Dream Song
Rekindle now, and truly become
That ecstatic global dancer and dawnbreaker
Of your spiritual birthright;
Joyfully flashing through winter darkness
Whirling around the flame-tongued
Heart of this new Sacred Fire
Be midwife to the dream of a people’s destiny
Spanning seven generations;
Rooted in the disputed soil and myriad coveted lakes,
Snow-fledged mountains and table mesas of Native America.
Arise and soar in the wake
Of those Grandmothers of red pine and cedar
Who will always protect these forest strongholds
Teacher, ignite here your healing torch—
Scattering seeds of light and truth to each nation.
Pass it on to the eternal children of the night.
For Drew Cleland
My friend, see if you can unravel this mystery.
The stars and moon guide us in our night journey.
The sun faithfully follows us each morning
And all day long.
The golden eagle swoops down and reckons us—
While, in turn, the Twin Holy Messengers
Peer right through us.
It’s possible that even the small white pebble
Under the bridge of the Wild Rice River
Watches us when we’re not aware.
And if we only took a deeper look
Into that unplumbed, moss-entangled well of the true seeker,
Our own face might appear.
Yet, when the heart of our Beloved
Looks upon us, with such clairvoyant green eyes,
We are sometimes slow to gaze back.
For someone is always seeing us
And someone is being seen.
But we still don’t grasp the mystery of this New Day.
SHEEP HERDING IN THE CHUSKA MOUNTAINS
for the Baha’i friends in Navajoland
& diverse seekers in all regions
It’s at such an early hour when you arise to go
And gather all the sheep, alone at dawn,
Climbing up grassy hillocks, to sing and call
Out across the mist-torn red rock canyon below.
Humbled before the vast sky, you sing and pray,
Mingling your voice amidst the ringing sheep bells—
Echoing loudly: hoozhoo na’aash glee
Far, far across the valley of this gleaming Day Star.
Coke Town, Summer of 1968
One day there was a girl,
Standing before a dilapidated noon depot
On the edge of the Rainbow Housing Project,
Waiting for a bus.
Soon, ghetto rats crept up out of a blind alley.
They started slinging mean taunts at her back
And calling her dirty names.
But she didn’t see them or hear them.
They didn’t see her either. They flung
More words. Their words seared right through her.
So she decided to hide her reeling head
In the cage of her hands, and became a dove.
Next, they began pelting her with mud balls,
Garbage, shards of glass, and angry missiles.
But she just kept on pretending
To feel nothing, like a stone girl.
Ten, twenty, thirty, forty years later,
She’s still there on that same street corner,
Waiting for the headlights of that belated Greyhound,
And wondering why she’s been frozen so long.
Jeff Jentz, 2012