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Tribal Fires Journal
Volume 2 Issue 2
Titled: Maple Sugar Woman
Contents
Reflections of a Reservation - Poetry
Untitled - Poetry
By Stacy R. Gardipee-Dueker
The Spiral of Relationship - Poetry
By Joe West
Hollow - Poetry
Treaty Talk - Poetry
Muy Amigo - Poetry
Crullers - Poetry
By A. Rodney Bobiwash
The Child Bride - Story Story
By Janice Command
Dance of Remembrance - Poetry
By Tammy Bailes
Moostoos - Short Story
By Don Lewis Lee Cardinal
Pause - Short Story
By Agnes Randolph
Ghigau’s Song - Poetry
By Raven Hail
Untitled - Poetry
By Kelly M. Worth
Mother’s Sugar Spoon - Short Story
By Anne M. Dunn
Maple Sugar Woman - Short Story
Seeing your image - Poetry
The Red Road: Plant’s & Bark - Cultural Preservation
By Cherylin Z. Martin-Wade
The Lost Warrior - Poetry
By Phil Duran |
Pause
The old man wandered into the dim orb of the streetlight sweeping the
pavement with watery and bloodshot eyes. His hair was windblown and
unkempt, his face gray and unshaven. His whole aspect indicating a
long affair with "Lady Grape".
The suit he wore if it could be called that, had long ago lost any
semblance or respectability. The jacket was shiny in places and much
stained, short in back and long in front. His pants were ballooned
out at the knees, faded and streaked with old spills and with something
else hinting at periods of incontinence.
He bent over and picked up an object from the sidewalk, perhaps it was for
this he had been searching and straightening up he put the cigarette to
his lips. He began to systematically search each pocket of this
clothes to determine if one contained the means of lighting his find
although the spartan contents of all could have been ascertained with just
a moment of mental inventory.
After finding and using the matches the old man inhaled deeply and threw
back his head to survey the night sky. He stood there for a few
minutes smoking and looking up, then removed the butt from his lips, tore
off the fire and placed the ragged cylinder into his pocket. He patted the
pocket once as if to assure himself of the item's security and himself of
a later reward, then the old man's body settled into it's memory mold and
he shuffled off into the night.
***
Written by Agnes Randolph. |
seeing your image
i am tired
my eyes are hurting
i don't want to go to bed yet
i keep wondering about you
writing poems for you
in my heart
you don't know about them
i won't tell you
what i write
my words stay here with me
at night i sleep with them
dream with them
sometimes you are in my dreams
feeling you close beside me
i don't like to be haunted
seeing your image
seeing your image
seeing your image
seeing your image
i am tired
of wanting you
seeing your image
***
Cherylin Z. Martin-Wade
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