Poetry of Love, Resistance, & Solidarity

Posts tagged ‘Dixie Lubin’

36. Dixie Lubin

This prairie dirt is rich with bones and stories, bodies that fed the wild morning glories.
Step outside your box on frozen evenings, hear the spirit whispers carried on the wind.
Those who came before us, those lost voices chorus cries of pride and grief and joy.
Before the desolate windswept farms, the empty little towns
Before the smallpox took its toll, and the wagons rolled over the ground
There were those who walked so lightly, taking only what they needed.
People of the south wind, brown and red like Kansas earth
They danced the circle of the year, accepting life and death and birth.
They fell as we will fall, the Mother took them in.
This prairie soil is rich with blood and stories, no beginning and no end.

— Dixie Lubin

149. Fat Tuesday, 2011

The rain falls, falls

Icy and grey in ragged early March.

The sky is not a color but an absence,

Weeping, inconsolable,
Forlorn as music from some dark century.
Rain falls without a thought of stopping,
And underfoot, the yellow brown of wintergrass
Imperceptibly dreams a green beginning.
No crocus or snowdrop has emerged.
The willows by the river are old women
Shivering and naked, no eagles in their branches.
The Kaw runs silty brown, sullen and swollen with inedible fish.
The rain falls, falls
Even the red cars are grey, the dogwalkers
Grim beneath their ponchos
There is a dark, wet light shining everywhere.
The aging bones beneath my flesh cry out
With the knowledge of pain not ending,
Pain raining and falling, cold without end.
— Dixie Lubin

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