Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

The old gun was a front loader
an Indian rifle because of the decoration
of tacks on the wooden butt
the tacks had been removed

when I picked up the old Indian rifle
I had a feeling that the gun was an old friend
that it had a life of its own, it whispered
I could sense that some Indian held this piece
once felt proud to own this marriage of wood
and metal,with the rod attached along the barrel
to stuff the lead ball and the gun powder down
the long neck of the fire arm

For a moment I seemed to recall another lifetime
wondering if I could have rode with a tribe
and used this weapon to shoot animals to eat
or to shoot others that were trying to shoot me

the poet comes through and the gun turns into a writing
implement, the pen shoots lead balls at the moon
and the yelps and hoots in the full bright star night
enfold another time, the moon bleeds ancestor illumination
down on a flesh and bone writer of projectile words that
fit the warrior to the dark trace of movement
through the scrub brush holding the tongue of fire
to the sky and releasing the ball of light

all that came through the old front loader
I did not feel that it was only a messenger of death
I felt that because it had that power, but it also
held magic that the Indian once had in his hands
that held it to his shoulder, the magic to tell the truth
to speak of feathers of lightning and waters of flame
to fly like a round bit of earth to the happy hunting grounds