Coyote celebrated in poetry

fifth world coyotes

by t. zoEy benally, Shiprock, Navajo Nation © 2006

they sniff bushes
linger and lean on guardrail adhesive reflectors
to catch some evidence thread's frayed end
to lead them on their next adventure

"good morning" i pass
"ooh' good morning!" they return one by one
they call out "where are you going?
let us follow you & see how far you travel!"
i wave, laugh and continue my journey

you must be careful with these coyotes
never rude, never too friendly
just help them find what they don't know they need

many think they should be killed
run down by swift automobiles
tawny gray blood smear on asphalt,
shot between jaundice yellow eyes
dried, rolled pine pitch lumps vacant

but they are messengers
sent by those that understand universe curls
those that repeat and trace patterns
subatomic particles to solar system and beyond

they are those foretold of in emails
sent to be examples
to teach the value of family and home
face covered by mud, hair filled with nits
thank you, holy ones, message received

Visit zoEy at http://saaniidotcom.blogspot.com/

Coyotes

by Wally Swist © 2003

Coyotes Two a.m., howling begins
on the edge of one of the farms left

in this valley, near the wetland
a developer has mown.

Such pure sound pierces the night,
this bloodletting beneath Orion,

this ghostly choir of thin cries
that tremble like Shawmut and Massasoit

come back to haunt us.
Then the baying of one hound

sets another hound baying
from the far rim of the opposite ridge.

Porch lights flicker
on the water of this delirious music,

and the wild pack in each of us
rises into song.

This poem is in the book, "The New Life,"
available from Small Press Distribution
in Berkeley, CA / paperback / $12.00.
Wally Swist, Copyright 1998, 2001, 2003

Pilgrim

by Robyn Hunt © 2006


While here the coyote
take turns playing
easter bunny, dog named
butterfly, white shrine on a dusty foothill

Here coyote is an old tale
that many do not remember
to tell their children
any longer, cartoon

though the pricked ear
hums inside
each woman, each
man craving

faith
and a chair in the middle
of the road;
invisible.


Robyn Hunt lives in Santa Fe

CENTRAL PARK COYOTE DEAD

by Kit Hedman © 2006

A coyote was spotted in Central Park.
Any reasonable person would celebrate,
assume the Mayor would proclaim
Coyotes are sacred in New York City.

In a city where rats
the size of house cats run in packs
why not have hundreds of coyotes
to keep their numbers in check?
Coyotes are much more attractive.

Maybe the city officials thought
coyote's feral good looks
would challenge fashionable Fifth Ave.

But I grew up in the suburbs
and I saw this phenomenon
just like the officials of New York,
when ever deer appeared, boys chased them.

That's what park maintenance people
in golf carts did, and park police with guns
and TV choppers hovering at treetop, for days
they chased the brazen coyote.

They had him surrounded once
according to the New York Times
near the carousel, but he escaped by leaping
illegally over their heads.

Coyote kept them searching with
their night vision goggles
and radar until a ranger
shot a tranquilizer into the scavenger's rump.

The dangerous one year old was drugged,
his swift legs bound like a thief,
his snout hooded, eight million
citizens breathed a sigh of relief.

As a final humiliation
they pierced one ear
his pointy delicate feature
giving it a number, a criminal career.

Like the man beside me
on a Guatemalan bus once,
who cried when soldiers took away
his friend at a check point, I cry now.

Like coyote some of us explore,
with little heed to boundary
and fear, arriving by chance,
like coyote, not realizing
we're already the enemy.

I CHING COYOTE

by Laurie James © 2006

your tail drooped
midway in stream
got wet
as you turned
looking back
ears perked
eyes wary
sensed the outcome
realized your tantalizing slyness would
be matched
knew they would
scout your trail
sniff you out
force you
into the undergrowth
your own blood
upon their tails
drooped
and wet.
inauspicious.

Laurie James lives in Salida, Colorado

LITTLE COYOTE

by Danny Rosen © 2006

I sleep with Coyote's little brother, Little Coyote.
We drive together in the truck. Sometimes Little Coyote
takes the wheel,
just trying to help out.
I grab forty winks.
Woke up in the ditch
more than once,
Little Coyote licking my eyes.
Woke up in New York City once.
Little Coyote was gone.
The radio was on, some left wing meshuganah was coming down hard against Man-Dog marriage.

On the Mesa


Three nights I listen to a coyote
calling long distance
from across a dark field.

My own cry I keep to myself,
cradled in a pillow of goose down.
I never answer, afraid

we’d talk all night, sharing
some loneliness without
a language to describe it.

—David Feela © 2006

Visit David’s website at www.geocities.com/feelasophy