Highland Visitation

 

                     Highland Visitation

 

a visitation of cloth draped about you; a pearl

to link the lady therein –

a weave of highlands revisited,

more than just name can give –

 

amid water of memory cast shallow,

long shadows promise

of virtue filled –

beauty concealing a thread

of unwritten …

 

word you hold in concord  -

presented by course of the highlands,

the hound stands in 

watch of a maid,

draped in a weave;  a the cloth worthy

of life in binding cause -

 

be it the tartan revealing

my namesake; your heart entwined 

that I succumb -

to the bearing, my lass,   

my lady, I bow to

the highlands in

pause

 

 

bkmackenzie

copyrighted 2008

Anticipation

 

ANTICIPATION

 

with guile and gold

winds of autumn calling, fall towards

handmaid of winter, sister of spring

 

the child seeks

your self portrait revealed –

the laughter of leaf gone out to play,

sweet frosted kiss

the apples ripe lips

dancing of sunset across harvest field

 

silhouette days sketched – lines

to be filled

your paint brush drips cornsilk and berry -

confessing laws broken

tossed well away; as

 

hearths first log finds young eyes aglow

in warmth of knit, mothers down quilt –

remembering the season  – you record

now as past;

silently imagining, winters

first snow

 

 

bkmackenzie

copyrighted 2008

A Thin Line

 

A Thin Line

 

thin lines

I watched you trace the pages,

methodically

following the faded design -

your hands; the thin bones of your wrist, your fingers long, narrow

unlike I remember –

 

across your face, thin lines draw bookmarks; years written

on thin lines, contrasting the new paint

on a blank wall

 

I trace the lines with my hand,

retrieving a smile; eyes

simulate recognition – one thin line

connecting a fading past

 

bkmackenzie copyrighted 2008

Grandpa’s Indian Wars

Grandpa’s Tee-Pee

 

 

Grandpa was born – half Irish; half Dakota Sioux

Great Grandmother kept a teepee in the backyard

Great Grandfather kept a bottle filled with accounts of battles-

It is said his company left Fort Sisseton to count the dead; the dead

Custer never counted on –

 

Grandpa was a half breed; half Indian; half Irish

Grandma said that Grandpa’s Sioux mother would rub whiskey on his gums

to stop the pain of teething – 

In the late forties – Grandpa left South Dakota, took his family

off the reservation; headed for Chicago -

he heard Chicago had a large Irish population

 

Mother’s skin tone complemented her thick black hair -

She was Irish; she was Scandinavian; she was an American Indian

My Polish aunt said –” your mother never had a chance”

It wasn’t cool to be Indian in the fifties –

The Irish were accepted in Chicago; she

was Irish; she was an Indian

 

Grandpa’s gums still caused him pain;

Mother went to a mental hospital; I am Polish;

I am Irish; I am Dakota Sioux – I am light skinned

Grandpa would watch us when dad worked; he

drove us uptown – he parked in front of the TeePee

we would sit and wait for – for hours

 

Grandpa died; mom died -

the Indian wars ended

 

bkmackenzie

copyrighted 2008

 

I Hate Starbuck’s

It is a late August morning sipping on my third cup of coffee

my gut  says enough, but I keep drinking; lukewarm security.

Tomatoes, sweet corn, pan fried ground beef – dinner I thought,

it will be a good day, simple undefined life; the sun flakes

through the wooden blinds.  Leaves- still green, barely a movement- the light flickers,

calm in contrast to dining room overhead.

There is a tap on my left shoulder; annoying.  The produce stand, then the market after dressing, after another cup of security.

The shadowed light tells me not to ignore the tapping – I will not acknowledge it.

I have a plan, it taps again. Refusing to look – another cup of java, its not Starbuck’s, thank God, I hate Starbuck’s, I hate sameness and I hate this tapping. 

I look up at the window, words; letters fade in and out of the filtered light.

“What do you want from me”, I screamed,” leave me alone.”  They point to my shoulder, the tapping is intolerable.  I grasp my cup, the word JOY

streams across the front, surrounded by peppermint candies, a present from my sister last Christmas, it’s a Starbuck’s cup. It is empty.

Turning to the left I give in –  the words win.

bkm