Prose
Poem
Prose
Poem
Sketch
Painting
I DON'T BELONG HERE
By Johanna Levesque-Hartsog, Army
Writing Type: Poem
don't belong here ... too much violence,
And they say we natives are violent.
11ike the quiet of the desert,
The wind and the mountains talking,
Telling me secrets of long ago,
Whispering to n1e of journeys not taken,
And places not seen,
And visions yet to come.
To sleep under the protection of the ancestors
With a clear mind,
Drifting into the past so easily.
So, think of me, when you do,
And remember that I mn there
Walking in the desert with the ancestors
And sitting watching the mountains that surround me,
Changing, ever changing, as the minutes pass.
Different, but always the same,
Giving me comfort in that sameness,
But revealing the past in its many faces.
As the need for sleep overtakes me,
I lie gazing at the mountains.
Grandmother Moon shines brightly
And 1 drift off to sleep
Surrounded by the ancestors,
With a clear n1ind,
Slipping into the past so easily.
Starting another journey,
Leaving the city in the past.
So think of me, as I do you,
And feel no sadness ...
1 walk in the desert with the ancestors.
I sit and watch the distant, horizon in the tnorning chill,
Behind me the dark, so deep,
But before my eyes, the light begins to creep.
First, a silver of light so thin
It seems almost not there,
Then that silver begins to spring
Encircling me gently
With a promise of warmth to come.
1 watch, glued to the spot, unable to move,
No leaving this grand light show.
As time passes, the desert wakes
But wait, she does wake, she never sleeps.
She changes, offering a new show to behold.
Those creatures who hide themselves in the night's chill
Waken to lie in the warmth of their glow ...
Thus, the day begins.
Notes: Writing Aide: Phyllis Bibecut
