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The Indians’ Manas
Raymond Neely
The indians’ manas reside
in the seoul of the atmosphere,
as though freshly left,
as though they recently departed,
in the haze
and with the sharpness of the eye
when I stare into the
mountain horizon
with the coming of cold,
in the rocks and trees.
They gather as the
circle of a herd in
the icy fog and fur
is of the wolf.
The squaw and the infant
cry behind the log,
and the warrior raises the liver of the deer,
of this tribe I seem a seer
and the hawk screeches in my dreams.
Breathe In (Part One)
Janan Perkins
She is humble, and she is strong
She is dedicated, and she is wrong but her mind goes beyond the boxes
it can consume
She dislikes walking on the beach, because as the breeze caresses her
soul, and her feet; the sand
she goes back to December as she stands in April with its showers hov-
ering her spirit.
She regurgitated all of her lessons, but she would actually like to clean
up her messes.
She confronts people who declare no or go and row your boat back
where it came from because you don’t belong here.
So she stands, as she bombards herself with spears, and she exclaims
“There has got to be a way out of here!”
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