# The Fatal Exchange



## SilverMoon (Jun 29, 2010)

Ancestral footsteps, roofed by deposits of epochs,
once danced to the gaping pulse of native drumming, 
heard only by the new generation whilst in sleep.

Charms and chants of the Cherokee 
slip like native sand into their dreams
where the Myth Keeper is heard 
for a night and a morning. 

Then sanctifying by the water
from the homeland mountains, 
before the porridge. 

The new generation slumber smiles.
Reverie of forefathers 
gathering marsh elder, shell gorgets
for the family before sundown.

And then yet blessed 
by the vision of Laughing Eyes,
whose nighttime hair 
shines blue beneath the sun 
where verdant hills hunch.

Cherokee elders, priestly healers,
men of purification and prayer
gather round in flute circle 
where weeping from the wood
makes the sky rain.

It’s this tender rain 
which harvests native squash, 
tomatoes and corn for the mixing,
for the feeding of pious lives. 

Medicine men smile, mourning no one.
healing with the scratching of rattle snake teeth, smile;
for it's their mystery which makes for the holy

Primordial hymns heard from hilly mountains 
resound all that is nature and its stirrings,
while brothers below dance round blue red fire.

Small sacred animal stories, passed down to generations, 
taught to children in vivid colored tepee’s, 
make for tiny smiles in the summer's sauce.

The new generation toss in sleep.

_
Heaven minds, now,_ 


Deer skin is traded for the rum. 

Empty bottles scattered by harvests,
bluffs and the trails of life;
echo like fiendish con shells.

Wild fruits, vegetables, shrivel
untended beneath the sun once worshiped,
now dried like eyes too blind to weep.

Colorful feathers, gems and sea shells, 
no longer gathered from the drinking.
Orphans lost, no longer treasures for a family.

Strings of animal hides, 
no longer worn, speak of no identity.
Necks now naked of leather, stripped. 

Cherokee, once at one with nature,
now stumble and fall near the marshland.

Young men of the new generation wake startled.
The reservation is breathless from the wild night before.

They dress in 
plaid shirts, worn jeans, cowboy boots. 

Before lighting up
the first morning's smoke,
they reach for the bottle
and take a swig.


----------



## Nellie (Jun 29, 2010)

Laurie,

This poem tells well the  story of the Cherokee "nation" here in America. Their homeland stripped from them and left with no identity, so many turn to alcohol. 

Nice job.


----------



## SilverMoon (Jun 29, 2010)

Thank you, Nellie. I have much compassion for our Native American Indians.


----------



## Robert (Jun 30, 2010)

I am part Native American, myself.  My Mother's Father was Lakota Sioux.  He ran away from home at 14 and lived on a reservation for a couple of years.  I can identify with your writings.  Well put... but sad.  They have so much to offer.


----------



## SilverMoon (Jun 30, 2010)

Thank you so much and, yes, Robert, they do have so much to offer. They are such a spiritual people and I'm fascinated with their customs. I forget the name of the book, it was so long ago, but it was fiction centering around the North Western Indians. I have a huge book at home titiled "Indian Heritage". So glad you liked the poem. Laurie


----------



## HaroHalola (Jun 30, 2010)

Laurie - You have captured the imagery in stark & startling manner (for those whom are unfamiliar with the plight...), I especially am taken with, "like eyes too blind to weep," & "the reservation is breathless from the wild night before," of several in pointed contrast to the "traditions" no longer extant, a mini-history lesson, one is reminded of "The Trail Of Tears," _The Timeless Land_ - Eleanor Dark, & the redeeming _Seven Arrows_, which places into stark perspective,_ Messing with the Forces is always a losing game_.  And of course Estes' "Wolves."  I have dedicated in my writing in no-small-amount to the dissemination of _Indigene_ plight, TY for upholding these crimes & notions of egregiousness, It is the _classical_ M.O. of conquerers-_cum_-Empyre to strip-away the culture,_ i.e_., a peoples' _identity_ (Nazis through tattooed numbers; Iraq "shock & awe" which FIRST looted the antiquity from the Museum), crippling & breaking the back of any semblance of tradition to which to return - _neutering!_  Place _any_ viable creature in a cage & it will ultimately self-destruct into madness.   _H'H._


----------



## SilverMoon (Jun 30, 2010)

Thank you, Haro. I wanted to portray, in a very penetrating way, their love of nature and customs and then starkly as you mentioned, the demise of such. They were done a great injustice and because of the "trading" our Native American Indians are still in squaler and spiritual tumult having inherited, through bloodline, alcholism which I point up at the end.



> They dress in
> plaid shirts, worn jeans, cowboy boots.
> 
> Before lighting up the first smoke,
> ...


 

Thank you, Haro, for your attention and apt comments realting to my poem. Laurie


----------



## Chesters Daughter (Jul 2, 2010)

Hello, love. You already know how much I like this piece, the imagery swept me away. I believe you've edited. If I remember correctly, the lines were longer and the ending was more generalized. I prefer the directness of this one. Not sure about the short lines, though. It may be a bit too choppy. Longer lines may be more suitable to enhance a feel of dreaminess, if that makes any sense at all. If I've failed in conveying what I mean, I'll try to say it another way. It may just be me, though. A sad plight brilliantly related.


----------



## SilverMoon (Jul 2, 2010)

I hear you, Lisa. I will have to take another look. I was experimenting with this one structurally and the ending is entirely different than the first. As always, thank you for appreciating my imagery. Laurie


----------



## Firemajic (Oct 3, 2011)

Laurie--I found this bewitching, melancholy poem in the back of the archives ,and dusted it off and read it---and I am so glad I did. Now, I am more than half Cherokee Indian {Great grandmother was full blooded Cherokee}And she could not speak English, This tragic story you so elegantly told is one that is near and dear to my heart, I am writing a poem about a Medicine Man, And when I found this --I was thrilled. you handled the subject matter with such elegant dignity--and I thank you...Peace...Jul


----------



## Willow (Oct 16, 2011)

Obviously I can't really compare, however in my opinion the shorter sentences allows the various images to flow into each other, each adding onto the other for greater effect and creating, at least in me, a great sense of scale and depth which I would relate to the amazing sensation a native american must have felt as being part of the land. I love how you manage to describe and yet retain a sense of mystery regarding native american spirituality - something that I think is also helped by the shorter lines.
The emotion instilled by your words, a feeling that is both vast and earthy, is what is so beautiful to me about this poem and is what makes the second half of the poem describing its loss all the more tragic.


----------



## SilverMoon (Oct 17, 2011)

jul, I'm glad your found this near and dear to your heart. I just hope that I gave justice to such a spritual people.

Willow, I did want the shorter lines to bleed into each other. A kind of visual onomatopoeia "teardrop". Their spiritual customs fascinate me and do those from all the varied tribes. In the end, the beauty could only point up the tragic. Thank you for such an insightful and beautifully written review. Laurie


----------

