Thursday, June 21, 2018

Solstice of Summer 2018

© 2018 Turtle Heart

clouds of time
rivers of dreams
mountains of hope
valleys of questions
oceans of tears
winds of change

and memories of what has gone before

solstice of summer

Turtle Heart and Silvia Santi

Sitting Bull in Philadelphia : Commercial Artist

























finis

Friday, May 18, 2018

Thunder Fire and a Beating Heart

©2108 Turtle Heart

Once America actually seated Donald Trump, I have become very nearly speechless. While it is possible to express outrage, it turns out it does not matter now. The political right (GOP) has changed the very nature of reality as I once understood it. Facts no longer matters. Accusations of being a predatory criminal no longer matter. The truth is not important. The FBI is corrupt now. The National Intelligence community makes things up. No more regulations please; poison the water, gass the air we breathe, send all the animals and the trees and the minerals to the market. Keep no promises. Change your mind when the wind blows. Spit in the face of your enemies if you cannot outright punch them in the face. Let the poor eat cake. Let the Palestinians eat a bullet. Let's pump even more oil and by the way, let's elect Vlad Putin the King of the World, and then we can all take a pee-pee on the bed Obama once slept in.

That is where we are. It may not be entirely hopeless but this scenario is correct. Right. Now.

And that's OK with millions and millions of actual people.

My only solace is that I live thousands of miles away from this disaster, in another country. Out on my veranda everything is just right. Off in the distance we have a government that we really know nothing about.

Seeing it. Day after day. I don't really know what to say. So the blog has been silent. A.Long.Time.

I don't know who I am talking to really. Are you all Russian Agents? Any old Indians out there? Are you on the take or looking to see if I have any evidence against Hillary Clinton? I don't. Just a lament. For what might have been. What does any of this have to do with the world journey of a sacred pipe?

I remember once there was this idea: the indian pipe in the hands of a fool and the indian pipe in the hands of our most alert and awakened spiritual elder is the Same Pipe. The way Allah and Jehovah and God are the same deity, author of the same creation in which we dwell along with Buddha and Sitting Bull and Mike Pence and Yaphet Koto. The same place. By whatever name, blessed by whatever deity.

I am living thousands of miles away from home. Cut loose. But still attached by that thread of that Sacred Pipe that brought me here. Just at edge of going to sleep and breathing with the setting sun I embrace that ancient spirit wrapped up in that Sacred Pipe and I measure myself against it. As if it could see me or feel me. The absolute silence of god, the silence of that sacred object is the answer. I can find myself in that space, that sacred silent space. I can see all the way back and I can see ahead. I can feel myself in the actual world that surrounds me. I continue to do that. Every. Day.

Silence is not what it used to be.

Ahnishinabeeg Particulare

Saturday, November 18, 2017

Tobacco In the Flower (Far Away)

©2017 William Posey

Tobacco Flowers in the garden, 18 November 2017.....that is all.

Friday, November 03, 2017

A Light That NEVER Was : Dennis Banks Dead


©2017 Turtle Heart : Garden Detail 3 Nov 2017
Death of Dennis Banks : A Light That Never Was

Ed Note:
It brings me no satisfaction to have nothing good to say about Dennis Bank$. It would be so great to have American Indians to celebrate and honour in these pages. There are so many fine American Indians...but they never seem to attract the American press. What is so frustrating is the sad mythology and obtuse nature of American media reporting and its fascination and morbid obsession with criminals like Dennis Bank$, Russell Means and fat Leonard Peltier. We all really wish the American media would just pay attention...(ed)

SEE also this link: Conflicted Legacy of Dennis Banks

Serial criminal, self-promoter, philanderer and suspected murderer Dennis Banks has passed away this week. Across the uninformed, clueless national media the myth building has proceeded relentlessly to copy and paste their absurd observations and celebration  of the life of an unworthy and pathetic symbol of the American media’s absolute failure to show even the slightest interest in telling the world the truth about American Indian people and history.

The media tells us he was surrounded by his “family”. But who was his family? He has one wife he abandoned in the middle of an Oregon highway, pregnant with his child. Numerous (dozens) women over the years gave birth to Bank’s illegitimate children, children he never recognised or supported. So who were these “close family members”?

Banks remained un-indicted for his part in the torture and murder of Anna Mae Aquash. Yet most American Indians, if not the actual media and courts, know he was involved closely in the decision to murder this young mother. No one mentioned this story.

There are only a handful of American Indian people who get covered in the national press. The Americans seem desperate to have some sort of American Indian to write about. They have made up stories and given them a face. Banks is one of those. The media never talks about his crimes, his scams, his embezzlements, his illegitimate children, his domestic abuse allegations, none of it. When it comes to American Indians it seems the truth is not at all important. There are so many fine American Indian people who have never been discussed. When the media talks about these people they always have Banks or Russell Means or Leonard Peltier, a trio of gangsters, cowards, thugs and killers who were photogenic and manufactured from white guilt to stand in for the thousands of honest, decent but utterly forgotten American Indians who strive with dignity for their lives every day. The actual obscenity of Banks obituaries stands in direct contrast and a horrible one at that in the face of the deep struggle for truth against the corruption and lies of Donald Trump. Perhaps people don’t care about that either, but at least there is what some call real and actual journalistic “search for truth” in those stories.

The truth about American Indians does not matter at all to the media. Not. At. All. The writers at the NPR, the NY Times, the Washington Post…the information on American Indians at all of them is just made up. Reporters who have professional credentials and actual reputations are employed to just make things up, to gloss over the truth, to pen platitudes and empty biographies as they move on to the next big story. And everyone is OK with it. How is this aversion to the actual known facts of the absurd fake life of Dennis Banks not at all known to these people?

I have said for years that American Indian people are literally drowning in a vast ocean of bad information. The lamentations in the press about Bank$ is yet more evidence of just how putrid and sad this reality is. No one on earth can point to a single useful accomplishment or act of so-called “leadership” by Dennis Banks. Yet there is a volume of eulogies rolling in that imply something was there. When there wasn’t. How odd is that?

I don’t often think of dead human beings. Most of my lamentations are for the animals I knew. Cats. Birds. John Belushi. My old friend Red Horse, my friend Ralph Verde. I am a bit furious Banks dropped dead before he could be indicted for his part in the murder of Anna Mae Aquash Pictou. Her torture and murder will weep for justice for eternity now, while the dirty little Dennis Banks gets eulogised as some sort of hero by a culture that loathes and despises its American Indians. The last of the criminals and cowards that “founded” AIM are dead. Each one of them got away with it. Escaped into the shadow world. 

Empty people resurrected into icons of a light that never was.
©2017 Turtle Heart

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Sostice Summer : 2017 : 5:24 am CET



















©2017 Turtle Heart
Summer Solstice: 5:24:08 CET am


a good dream
is like a song in the morning
just as the light rises
it is a surprise even though
you wished for it all night
the rising light pushes the shadows away
in front of the light
or behind it
​...​
that is where all shadows belong
how much do we remember?
how much have we forgotten?
you dreamed all the night
this very night
and now spring has passed into summer
and the next dream waits for you
the dreaming that carries us
between the shadows and the light

Turtle Heart and Silvia Santi

Monday, March 20, 2017

Equinox of Spring 2017



©2017 Turtle Heart

©2017 Turtle Heart
_______________________________________
water turns into poison
wherever we have set our hand
dreams turn into taxes and penalties
the lines go around the block
there is extra money and time for fire
that burns without heat or light
deep into our well.armed nights
the belly of the earth is drawn and quartered
with dividends paid upon the dust itself
as it floats into the sky
carried by the winds
yes, spring arrives again
an old memory from the roots of time
the seasons go ahead and change
even as everything else remains the same


equinox of spring 2017

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

The Tears I never Cried













©2017 Turtle Heart

i remember deaths
that I did not die
ancestors I never knew
and the names of
strangers 
I did not bury into the waiting earth
I remember mothers whose sons
I did not bleed or maim
and I remember prayers I never made
to gods I never named
in wars I never fought

all that I do not know
yet not knowing is not the same as unknown
or unmoved, so I remember all that
by dreams I never had
and the stories that men will tell

if the tears of heaven were to fall
would my faith swim or drown
sinking to the bottom
where those actual feelings lay screaming
in sacred silence
that silence no one has ever heard
or would I rise newly named
and blessed
and rise up to the sun once again

is it easy to remember what has never happened
in that life where the body never dwelled
and the bells never ringed
where water and wine
dripped from the rainbows
onto time’s old bones grown shiny in the dawn
where light begins to leave the shadows
and the shadows become children once again
remembering everything
trusting everyone
I am forever the one who never knew them
the one who has counted shadows
the one known only to the wind

the one who remembers…everything

Turtle Heart...©
Winter 2017

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