at the Edge of America

There is a voice in the trees

i can hear it from the asylum window

the priest is at odds with himself

about my condition

there is a voice in the trees

it hovers just beyond the river’s bend over there.

the world is at odds with itself

about situation like this

there is a lady in a room of no windows

there is a lady in a room purged of love

i am at odds with priests and worlds

there is a humming lady,

in a room,

in the trees,

where the river bends,

over there. – T C Cannon

Cannon, who died when he was just 31, made enduring and vibrant works melding Native American and more mainstream artistic and pop culture imagery.
Cannon, who died when he was just 31, made enduring and vibrant works melding Native American and more mainstream artistic and pop culture imagery.

Homegrown Sunday

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Unwittingly, what have I done…

With every quiet song not sung.
With every lucrative thought.
With every step I walk along and not, among.
Mindlessly, what have I done.
 ⇔
These days not for treading moderately.
A some Sunday, today.
Even now, as I walk,
Sunday’s wistful streets,
it is not myself that I greet.
 ⇔
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With an outlook of flora and fauna.
There is no frenzy.
No need for rivalry.
A recluse traveler.
Worshiping wanderer.
 ⇔
Not an apple, nor a buck.
I am an indigenous woman.
Cherokee on bent knee.
In the middle,
only breed.
Pawning my blood to meet my needs.
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In contrast, I walk between…
hallowed ground and…
vetted towns.
 ⇔
There is no sabbath in this,
the new frenzied silence.
Only falsehoods with an affiliation of dictating violence.

“Whether we walk among our people or alone among the hills, happiness in life's walking depends on how we feel about others in our hearts.” Anasazi- 7 Paths
“Whether we walk among our people or alone among the hills, happiness in life’s walking depends on how we feel about others in our hearts.”
Anasazi- 7 Paths