Miigwetch

My silence is not tell-tale of how I feel,
My gratitude sometimes hides behind a wall of fear.
I don't have resistance to working these things out with you,
It's worth the discomfort for the growth that ensues.

My inadequacy to completely show,
My appreciation for all that you are,
May hopefully be overthrown,
by this little tune and it's few short bars...

I think it's high time for these feelings of lack,
To be overgrown with abundance,
with blossoms of opportunities not passed by,
For nothing will ever change if I don't ever try...

To make mistakes knowing that I'll fail,
Knowing that failing don't define who I am,
Eloquence is often illusive to me,
But you inspire me, you try for me the least I can do is speak...

I want to grow with you and feed you when your fuel is low,
be your fire when your bones are cold,
Sit and knit with you when we're getting old,
Silence is beauty but words are like gold so...

The nomadic way runs deep within my soul,
but you give me a reason to call some place a home,
It's you, you keep the home fires a-burn,
So I have something to return to...

I want to dedicate to you my poetry,
Wish I could say it as good as Cohen, but this is me,
...Not really knowing, how to say...
Well here I am, I'm trying to say,
Sometimes I just don't know how to say...

...Thank You.

1+1=1

I don't really feel the need to explain,
there's no compulsion to complain,
just to ask for some support...
My heart is tender and sore.

I am grieving and praising,
living and breathing,
dying and shedding... layers of skin.
Like snake medicine, my exoskeleton,
giving way the hard shell, to let the draft in.


My soft flesh revealed, calloused layers peeled back,
no longer conceal, this feeling of lack.
Realizing the door that once swung open wide,
is no longer ajar, and our time has expired.

Grief touches my soul
and flows out through the holes in the stories we told
and the cracks and the folds.
Words felt from inside are blocked by doubt,
refusing to happen upon a way out.

And maybe your right, poetry does come too late,
past due for the time when it could have been stated,
the rawness I feel, statements that reveal,
the issues which made us turn on our heel.
A pivoted foot, not sure where to stand,
in this intimate land, a web weaved strand by strand.

So in letting this lie,
letting the desert be dry,
leaving the blue in the sky,
letting the tear cry,
in allowing to be what it is that exists,
I grieve for what's lost,
and praise what is missed....