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Tribal Fires Journal
Volume 2 Issue 3
Contents
The Guitar - Short Story
By Agnes Randolph
Cherokee Olde - Time Religion - Essay
By Raven Hill
Tattoo Expectations - Poetry
Freedom Flight of the Hawk - Poetry
Aztec Ancestors, I. - Poetry
By Andrea Hernandex Holm
This road was made for one. - Poetry
Unbalanced World - Poetry
By Shawnee
Of Prairies and Falling Stars - Poetry
By Kenneth Poe & Tania Littlebear Smith
Wake Up Call - Essay
By Tania Littlebear
I Chase the Sun/Tania’s Place - Poetry
By Kenneth Poe |
Of Prairies and Falling Stars
For Reece
Tonight, in my backyard, I saw a shooting star.
A fanciful ball of yellow and red, blazing across a clear dark sky.
I reached for it to capture a memory.
A memory of a vast prairie covered with a colorful palette of purples and
reds and greens and yellows. Of wild flowers and sweet grass and sage
dancing in the cool wind. Their haunting scent as sweet and alluring as
fine perfume.
A wonderful memory of night sky ablaze with the lights of a million
fireflies.
A sky so vast and open it was without a beginning, or an end.
As ongoing and timeless as the moments of that day shared with a special
friend.
Where atop mesas that seem to touch the clouds, in a place of earthen
walls of stone and sand, I stood in awe among a vanished peoples home,
frozen in time.
A sacred and holy place.
A single memory of a single night on the dusk of a summer that was forever
changing my life.
A single memory that touched my soul and awakened a wonderment and
excitement of life that I had locked away sometime between 8 and 18. An
amazing wonderment of being alive.
A grand reminder that the greatest wealth I would ever know was in that
prarie, on that night and on this night, in my son's eyes, when he reached
for that same falling star.
"Did you make a wish daddy?"
***
Written by Kenneth Poe and Tania Smith |
Tattoo Expectations
Crawling across the surface of my body
she carries the world on her back.
She moves slowly,
careful not to lean too far
to the left,
careful not to slip
as a muscle ripples beneath
her ancient feet.
Imprints of our stories line her shell patterns of eternity
stretching across her back
and pouring over
the outline of her form,
staining my flesh
***
Written by Andrea Hernandez Holm
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