More Coyote poetry

IMPRESSIONS ON HIS FIRST FATHER'S DAY

by Padma Thornlyre © 2006

1.

Half-dead coyote
reduced to mange and the will to live
finds his legs, some meat
to hide his bones‹road-kill
stag bleeding into the creek
a death to stave off starvation
for another day, perhaps
a week. Deer-blood
and iron ore tailings
produce two distinct
reds this creek must
carry downstream.

2.

Circe’s in between
the fever and the rash
of roseola. Hell,
it’s my first Father’s
Day but what can I do?
Drive Coyote Canyon.

3.

Woman frames the tree:
the Goddess Tree:
Little Owl and me.

In other photos
from the throes

of time and psilocybin, Woman
inhabits this very tree
rare these ecstasies

of bark, the flesh of trees
around flesh, the bark of woman,

& both are seared
by lightnings of dissimilar
natures, the literal/the

metaphorical,

this latter clean, its fire blooming
inside her like my
sperm would bloom daughter
another day.

4.

We give her
what she must carry
to see her through,

Woman inside the tree,
these meadows of mullein,
this harvest of wild
strawberries,

these tufts
of mossbeard & bighorn fur,

and the naming
of our tribal gods: Mountain,
& Rill, & their silences.
Circe Morganna Thornlyre,

know this: learn to still, & learn
to listen, learn to speak.
Each creek wags its own tongue,
each lichened stone, each hollow
tree. Listen, learn to speak.

5.

Pity the stag
his honest death
by SUV, the Blackhawk gambler
those last three whiskeys
that pried open his wallet

three times too often
for the stag to stand a chance,

pity the pious creek
its unwelcome stigmatas.
Listen. Learn to speak.

Pity most of all (still yourself,
and learn to speak)
Coyote’s hunger.

Coyote

© 1990 ellen klaver

coyote in the country
dodging traps and barbed wire and poisoned bait
laughing at the fences
footprints by the chicken coop and pasture gate
down along the river, almost out of sight
yellow eyes are shining by the road at night
glowing like the embers of the firelight, coyote

slipping in the shadows, a shade of grey
in a grey, grey city, running down the alleyway
melting in the darkness, howling at the wind
coyote stops, and runs again

coyote in the city
hanging out in places where they told you not to go
down at the station
he's bumming smokes and scheming while laying low
coyote in Denver, coyote in LA
hits you up for money that you know he'll never pay
always has a story, you believe it anyway, coyote

slipping in the shadows, a shade of grey
in a grey, grey city, running down the alleyway
melting in the darkness, howling at the wind
coyote stops, and runs again

oh at midnight when I hear him call
I pull the blankets close against the sound
and though I think I'm safe inside, and part of me thinks I can hide oh I long to join him on his ground

slipping in the shadows, a shade of grey
in a grey, grey city, running down the alleyway
melting in the darkness, howling at the wind
coyote stops, and runs again

No coyote in my 'hood.


by Julie Cummings © 2006

Red fox mates for life I saw her running frantic across my neighbor’s yard then down the street she was scared scared scared her wild eyes fearful gaze bouncing off the cars parked there she didn¹t stop didn’t stop tongue hanging dripping saliva from the thirst the run the hunt for him the search eventually she saw the ramp saw him there on the side of the ramp hit hit hit in traffic and left on the side of the road of course he suffered the driver frustrated at the construction didn’t see him not this night not ever never saw him the driver was too rushed too selfish too wrapped up in himself didn’t feel him hit the bumper didn’t stop never really stopped just rolled through the stop sign Red crawled over to the edge lay down his head watched the car pull away felt the car run over his memories his family his family lived near here for generations wandered nightly searched for food rabbits rabbits rabbits played games in the grass peeked their heads out in daylight hid in drain pipes the construction had stolen the only place they called home and now it had raped him of his last thoughts of her and she ran frantic searching for her mate she found him turned away ran home ran home ran home

coyote in central park is
sleeping on cardboard is
sleeping on newspaper is
walking, a ghost
in old shoes is
hungry is
wary
tired
is alive
and alive and
alive
coyote in central park is
on a bench in the brush
on the move with
shopping carts and
everywhere is home.

—Gary Lawless © 2006

Coyotl

Are
not
"ki-otes"
a nerve deep
into this pain
called America?


—Art Goodtimes © 2006

Our Coyote Resistance

by Mark Koslow © 2006

How do you hold the face of living so close
to you when it is slipping away?
You can't ignore the cracking mirror of time
that image of death's silver nothingness.
You can't ignore the sadness of your face
or the darkening ring of age that closes around your eyes.
All you have is memories of all that you love.
I remember when I ran away from home at 15
and I had no place to sleep
and I laid down next to the highway
and the grasses smelled like car exhaust
and the car lights whizzed past,
blinding my eyes
and "there was no place like home" was a cliche
but I was lost and homeless
longing for those who care
just like I am now, 30 years later
holding on to an inner homeland in the midst of all that is lost.
So many beloved hands are lost to me now
and still I keep I keep reaching.

I was a coyote then as now
and in the end the coyote runs in front of the car lights
and he escapes the definition of the city dwellers
who know nothing of the strength it takes
to accept the loneliness of starlight
the emptiness of the wind that blows sand in your face
and what does it matter
that who they thought I was, was a person I never knew?
They condemned me falsely for things that they actually did,
I'm still running from the car lights like Coyote,
and I know the sting of their slanders
and the way their lies still
come back to me years after they were told.
I know how they steam their mirrors silver
with the breath of their hate.


What do they have to do with me?
My hair bristles in the wolfen twilight.
I am not ready to give up caring
I know what it means to have what you love
stolen and denied to you.
I have fought against the killers of hearts,
the jealous conspiracy of the greedy
So remember all the hands that have been taken from us
and imagine this then –
Imagine finally being free
of the lies of the critics and the overlords of restraint. This is the way it really is,
We are not alone on the road.
I want you to join our resistance.
I want to run with these coyote-beloveds
and be strong with sage plants in the desert.
I want to run with the pronghorn
contemptuous of trucks and human highways.
Never mind all the harm they have done
It is the desperate strength of this loneliness
that loves the smell of wildflowers.
I blossom in the fragrance of defiance.
Let our love of beauty be our revenge.

Visit Mark's website at www.naturesrights.com