Maybe it's about being there...(article)

"Long and Wasted Years"
 

It's been such a long, long time
Since we loved each other and our hearts were true
One time, for one brief day, I was the man for you

Last night I heard you talking in your sleep
Saying things you shouldn't say
Oh baby, you just might have to go to jail someday

Is there a place we can go?
Is there anybody we can see?
Maybe, it's the same for you as it is for me

I ain't seen my family in twenty years
That ain't easy to understand
They may be dead by now
I lost track of them after they lost their land

Shake it up baby twist and shout
You know what it's all about
What are you doing out there in the sun anyway?
Don't you know the sun can burn your brains right out?

My enemy crashed into the dust
Stopped dead in his tracks and he lost his lust
He was run down hard and he broke apart
He died in shame he had an iron heart

I wear dark glasses to cover my eyes
There are secrets in them I can't disguise
Come back baby if I ever hurt your feelings I apologize

Two trains running side by side
Forty miles wide, down the eastern line
You don't have to go
I just came to you because your a friend of mine

I think that when my back was turned
The whole world behind me burned
It's been awhile since we walked down that long, long aisle

We cried on that cold and frosty morn
We cried because our souls were torn
So much for tears, so much for these long and wasted years

_ _ _

For me, there is something to doing things out of posterity. That is, documenting here (on the nebulous web) snippets of my life and my times, simply for sake of the future. It may be important to none other than me but in that it seems very important.

In conversation people who know me understand the importance of music, poetry, art in general and Bob Dylan specifically. It’s merely a perspective but I do believe that Bob Dylan is the Shakespeare of our time and will be immortalized through his recorded work. I challenge anyone to give me the name of someone, anyone born in the in 1560’s…Go ahead…

See?

It’s challenging to make a mark in our own time, our own LIFE. But to have the grace to have been the creator, maker, author of so much creative material astounds. As one who has tried his hand at poetry, prose, music and lyric making I am simply amazed at the notion of the volume of material coming from a single source, a single person. I think we are conditioned to think it’s easy. Turn on the radio and you are inundated with songs, hits, chart-toppers. But how many of these are one-hit wonders? How many will last - how many aren’t simply frivolous articles of fashion? A 50 year recording career, a novel, a biography, at least 3 films, several books of drawings, exhibitions of his paintings all over the world, art installations and a never-ending tour beginning in 1988 that has seen him tour every year since. To say that is creative output is prolific and varied is well below understating it.

On this blog I’ve conceded to the notions of taste and preference and I will do so again – for some, Dylan’s voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard, but I love the sound of his weathered and distinctive wail. However, as with Shakespeare, I believe posterity will have the final word. Not only did people in his time appreciate the Bard’s (Shakespeare's) work, but as time went on more and more did also. This I believe will be the case with Bob Dylan. There will always be an audience of admirer’s of exhibitions Picasso’s paintings and drawings. In any given city there will always several productions of Shakespeare’s dramatic work under way. And I believe there will always be an audience of listeners and musicians to appreciate Dylan’s songs and recording artists continuing to include their versions of his songs on their records. Sure, a person can have a hit. Some have several. Some have greatest hits packages one and two. But no recording artist of our time is as universally covered as Bob Dylan. This means that among his fellow craftsmen and women he is more revered than anybody. Imitation is the purest form of flattery it’s been said. The people who write and record songs themselves consistently dip into the well created by Dylan. I won’t delve into the cultural significance of the artist here because I believe that to be of less import than his truest legacy - an immense body of songs of depth and power.

So it was that last October I waffled though I knew Uncle Bob was playing 3 consecutive nights in Seattle WA., a 3 hour’s drive across the border and south. Could my finances bear it? Who could go with me on such short notice? Were tickets yet available? And now several months later I am so glad I seized upon what may be the last chance I’ll have to see him in concert though I said the same thing in Oct 2001, when the lights went down at the start of his show then, when he was a sprite 61 years old.

I am including his performance and the lyrics to Lost and Wasted Years from TEMPEST, his most recent album of original songs. It’s a wonderful thing that in his 70's he is still composing original songs of startling lyrical intensity and still traversing the world modestly to perform night after night like an old bluesman, like a troubadour. What else was Bob Dylan put here on earth to do? And unlike Shakespeare or Picasso, I got to be in the same room with Bob Dylan several times over the years as he did his thing. There'll never be the likes of him again.

©2015 Champsteen Publishing

   

Alanis Obomsawin: The Real Deal

L to R, The Champ, Alanis Obomsawin, Storm Standing-On-The-Road

Serendipity is a wondrous thing and it brought Storm and me to the chance to spend time with 2 Aboriginal women filmmakers of immense talent this evening. This week W2 is hosting the 2^nd annual Vancouver Indigenous Media Arts Festival…I actually called in sick this morning with a stupendous head cold but when I discovered through social media that Abenaki filmmaker Alanis Obomsawin would attend screening of her latest NFB documentary, The People of the Kattawapiskak River, I knew I would be there. But the added bonus was that the double feature included Ojibway director Darlene Naponse’s feature Every Emotion Costs. Darlene, it just so happens, is related to Storm (through her mama, again) and she and I were fellow artsy, writerly-type students at Okanagan artist Jeanette Armstrong’s beloved En’owkin Center at Penticton for 2 years and we are old pals you might say.

Plenty of times on this blog I’ve given high praise to the creative types or various others but I can’t think of anyone more deserving of accolades than Obomsawin. I’ve always felt this way about her ever since I first viewed her ’93 doc Kanehsatake: 270 Years of Resistance which chronicles the 1990 Oka Crisis. Oka was of course a defining moment in history for Indians like me – Oka changed everything. And I am not the only one. The elegant and gracious director is now 80 years old (amazing) and I hounded Storm all day to commit to coming with me to the screening. The film was, as usual, powerful and heartfelt and I recommend any of her 30 films all based on subjects having to do with Native People and the majority of which have been produced by the National Film Board. This woman holds several honorary doctorates; a Governor General’s Award and is an Officer of the Order of Canada. She is supremely dedicated and so clearly loves our people that I never miss a chance to hear her speak. She is the real deal.

L to R, The Champ, Storm, (film maker) Suzi Bekkattla, (Director) Darlene Naponse

Naponse’s film is an emotionally charged piece on grief, healing and the complexity of relationships. Her film is lush and visually crafted on a script she wrote and produced (all while holding down a band-council position) at Whitefish Lake 1^st Nation, Ontario where it was shot (it was a trip whispering to Storm during the film: hey, that’s your relative on the left of the screen). Back in the day, Darlene was always shooting and writing, shooting and writing and you just knew she possessed the determination to go wherever it was she intended. I am so proud of and for her.

Ironic and lucky for me that I should wake this morning discouraged that my previously oncoming sniffles had become a full-on ragin’ sneeze orgy, only to be now hitting the sack fed and fortified by the healing power of art…and great company.

© 2012 Champsteen Publishing.

That's (Real) Showbiz...

Recently, I produced a list of 10 fillems that I insist my daughter Storm see at some point in the next year or so. Note that I refer to these as fillems, not movies. Movies are something different and not important (something full of explosions, CGIs or lame jokes and usually very predictable and not much fun) . I look at it a something of a rite of passage and a way of educating her to some works of celluloid art that have left an indelible mark on me. Late this past summer we viewed The Shining together (was that wrong? – REDRUM!?), which she claimed to enjoy. Last week came a rare and thrilling opportunity to not only watch Smoke Signals together, but also to be among the audience for an interview following the screening with Evan Adams by Duncan McCue. Coast Salish actor Adams, of course played the now-iconic role of Thomas Builds-The Fire (Hey, Victor!) and McCue (Anishnabe) is a nationally re-known CBC television news journalist. The film is based upon characters and stories found in the short story collection, Tonto and the Lone Ranger Fist-Fight In Heaven by Coeur d'Alene writer, Sherman Alexie (another gem and among my favorite literary achievements). For someone like me it was a beautiful opportunity to have Storm experience the power and beauty of a fillem that speaks to the soul and never fails to get me…right here! But it was also a chance for Storm to see demonstrated (more importantly) the generosity of spirit and an authentic exchange of ideas that are the true means to empowerment and community-building.

L to R, Evan Adams, Duncan McCue, Storm Standing-On-The-Road and Loretta Todd

SFU Downtown Campus served as venue and was moderated by (Metis/Cree) film-maker Loretta Todd. My daughter is old pals (through her mother) with McCue and Todd and it was so much fun to listen to the discussion ostensibly on humor and healing but which managed to be full of hilarious insights and poignant reflection by both actor and interviewer. It was also a chance to experience the finest talent in Indian country in a relaxed and intimate setting. Throughout this blog, one of the themes I’ve consistently tried to explore is creativity. Now, obviously the participants mentioned all bear a high profile but what was most evident this night was the natural grace and humility of all involved. This aspect also has found its way frequently into the articles I’ve posted and I believe is a feature, quality or trait found in many, many of the successful persons of profile in the 1st Nations community. It has been my experience over and over again, through the years that typically, a well-known person or someone we may identify as successful is generally down to earth and very approachable. I love this about our people.

Beyond this, Smoke Signals itself is a fillem that is exceptionally moving and utterly guileless in its charm. This means that it’s nearly perfect in its modest (though exquisite) execution and could not have been improved upon with more millions in its production budget or alternate casting choices. It’s a fillem that is tough, tender and whimsical and as I mentioned before, profound. Like all pieces of true art, it remains, timeless.

© 2012 Champsteen Publishing        

...A Good Journey...

On the way home from the movies the other night I asked my bro if he was up for going down to the water to drop tobacco and pray. We had learned earlier in the evening of the passing of Rose Point and decided to go see a light-hearted fillem to perhaps take our minds off the news. He agreed to stop by his place allowing me to fetch the medicine I had stashed there and we proceeded to make our way to the ocean-side despite the late hour and persistent rain. It felt important to pray and make modest ceremony to honor the late and beloved elder. A tireless advocate for educating our people in all ways you could think of (not merely the formal education one may think of first). At the prayer/memorial Thursday evening down in Musqueam it became apparent how formidable she was and how easy it may have been to underestimate this tiny bundle of beautiful energy. As was frequently mentioned, Rose was EVERYWHERE. Every event for every conceivable reason, political or artistic, and everything in between, she was always there and as anyone who knows what a hike it was just get out of Musqueam, a certain type of determination was implicit in everything Rose did.

I carry my own special experience because I lived next door to the elder at Musqueam reserve for a couple years (renting a room from her son) and was able to spend many hours with her in her home. She learned how to cook Chinese food in a class and was proud of this skill and it did not take much convincing to get her to whip us up some good vittles, it was a source of well-earned pride. It just never occurred to me coming out to the coast, me, - a plains Cree man being served gourmet Chinese dishes from this sweet little old Coast Salish Lady. But I will cherish most our long talks about her life. Ours was a very easy-going and informal relationship and I dare-say I was given special insight into some of her most intimate and profound personal views. Our exchange was of a sort that this week, though I went down to Musqueam to pay respects and support the family, I find myself glad for Rose because she knew some things and someone were waiting for her in the next part of the journey. I will miss her but I cannot think of loss, or any connotations of that sort. I am simply in a place of gratitude because she worked so hard, touched so many and I got to know her a little bit. If each of us did a fraction of what Rose did in her lifetime, what a world it would be. What a world it is to be able to experience such people.

A good journey, Rose, and thanks.

© 2012 Champsteen Publishing

International Indigenous Leadership Gathering...

The 4th International Indigenous Leadership Gathering (June 21-24) went down this weekend and it was amazing. Overseen by the St’át’imc Chiefs’ Council in their un-ceded territory (at Lillooet, BC) and once again fronted by Darrell Bob, it was once again proved that a powerful, grand-scale, traditional event can come off beautifully if people take ownership of their intentions and actions. I attended for the second the year in a row to camp, take part in ceremony and hear the words of (mainly indigenous) leaders and speakers from all parts of the globe. Each day saw speakers from all over the world address the crowd on various global and local issues that affect not only indigenous but all people and the earth - the "first mother". Great speakers, some of them, and you'd have trouble sitting still when so stirred by meaningful words - truly medicine for the heart and mind. The St’át’imc people hosted but everyone attending pitched in to work the kitchen, serve and clean up the 3 meals a day that were provided for all attendees at no cost to anyone…It was touching at the closing ceremony when Mr. Bob commented: if anyone went hungry, then I failed at my job…of course no one went hungry and you are left with admiration and honor for the commitment displayed by the St’át’imc people to get the word out and make people feel welcome and like family, they are skillful but sincere – very, very accomplished people. One simply had to be at any one the gatherings to fully appreciate what an undertaking it is to host and feed a few thousand people from all over the world. Keep in mind the logistics involved regarding space to for everyone camp, clean water, family safety and enough food for everyone. There were sweats, prayer vigils and drum circles constant drum circles everywhere, a few scruffy hippies, a few dippy new-agers (always will be when Indians are involved) but all-in-all mainly everyone’s heart was in the right place.

I brought out my hand drum during the closing gratitude ceremony to drum alongside, Peruvian, Nigerian and Asian drummers…a buzz! As with any outdoor event the weather was a factor and after nearly freezing my schnitzel off last year, I was better prepared and this year the main concern was rain. Mostly the weather was fair with inter-mitten rain but Saturday night a mighty rain storm appeared in the south valley, the direction the weather arrives from and you could this was going to be a doozy. At dusk the ominous dark and swirling clouds appeared and you could see sheets of rain looming. In mere minutes, swollen drops turned into torrential rain chasing most into tents, trailers or whatever cover they could secure (for me it was into the safety of my buddies’ Honda). As I sat in the vehicle listening to the rain pelting the car and watching as it fell almost sideways outside I was struck by the fact that the drum group made mainly of boys from East Van did not surrender to the weather. In fact, the drum group and a few dozen die-hards remained steadfast in their determination to celebrate the drum…and life. They danced, though drenched to the bone, and the drummers paused long enough between songs to drink some water and soothe their throats for a minute or two only to pound away once more at songs which repeated verse after verse giving dancers songs to live by. This is special shout out to the drummers and singers (some ladies, too) of East Van and the rain-dancers who exemplified the spirit of what the event seems to be about.

See you next year.

© 2012 Champsteen Publishing

...It's called progress...(I guess)...

the view when I first moved into my groovy
little pad...(and my original Blog page pic)

once a community garden...

when i first moved in, an empty lot (and the garden)
and the amazing western exposure...construction
had begun by this point (clearly)...

the same view this morning, 1 building
(out of frame, right) completed and this one
to be 30-some stories...

...it's been great, though, at this spot...moving July 1st...EVERYTHING changes, I guess...

© 2012 Champsteen Publishing

A Kind Of Symmetry

Recently, in a letter to a friend living on the East Coast, I wrote:

..."I am of the mind that our lives ARE dramatic, ARE filled with unbelievable things that defy description to others. One simply must appreciate the events as they happen (or after the fact) and with luck they may come to understand what profound and meaningful days or moments are unfolding that may be intended only for them, us, or you…and no one else"...

I was fostered out as a baby during what has been coined “the 60’s and 70’s Scoop.” As such, I had virtually no contact whatsoever with my birth community or family of origin. That was until my mother passed away. Up to that point in my life I had visited several countries around the world but fear and trepidation had always prevented me from connecting with where I came from. I always meant to but never did. But when my mother died there was no question of what I must do and I made the journey to the reserve for the first time. To this day I believe my mom called me home for I am not sure if I ever would have mustered the courage to go of my own will and volition. It was during her wake and funeral that I met everybody and that my life changed momentously. It was surreal, it was profound and I know this: she brought me home.

In some of the recent work I do I’ve been involved in connecting with 1st Nations families who, for one reason or another, have come to have various agencies involved in their lives. It’s not easy work and I do ALL SORTS OF THINGS to try and help keep families together (can’t think of too many things right now I won’t try, lol). So it was with some small measure of gratitude that I encountered a young, scrappy woman from northern Alberta as she fought to get her daughter returned to her care after having been apprehended under what I will only describe as dubious circumstances. The woman was obligated by authorities to complete a list of 4 conditions, which were then increased to 6, then 7, then FIFTEEN! At every step of the way for 6 months this woman was compliant and cooperative and I confess I was almost out of constructive feedback for her. The lawyers involved took it all in stride (why wouldn’t they?) but I was becoming frustrated. - Last week, before a court session, she and I went outside to stand near the trees, drop tobacco and pray. I told her about a woman from Vancouver Island who several years ago showed me a way of using water to pray and call for your helpers. It is clear to me that help is needed because I know what it is to feel your future was or is somehow dependent on people who likely, after a time, won’t even remember your name. But lo and behold a mediated agreement was reached with the Ministry and on a chilly and rainy evening this week the woman got her daughter back. The woman has no family on the coast and asked me to be there and so after the social worker left it was just the three of us as. I was touched and happy for them.

**(Aboriginal children are disproportionately represented in foster care in Canada. Data from provincial and territorial ministries of child and family services for 2000–2002 suggest that 30% to 40% of children and youth placed in out-of-home care during those years were Aboriginal, yet Aboriginal children made up less than 5% of the total child population in Canada. This is especially daunting when one realizes these figures are on the increase everywhere.)**

I do believe creator speaks to me through people and so, a couple weeks back, when an elder asked if I was attending a ceremony the next night (Saturday night)in East Vancouver my initial impulse was to decline but instead I said yes – I’m not kidding, if it is an elder I respect, I can’t say no and I fear I am becoming something of a soft touch in this town – they’re on to me! There is something sooooooo beautiful to be experienced among a bunch of Indians drumming, praying, singing then feasting in a run-down gymnasium in East Vancouver. The modest venue was deceptively perfect for our purpose. As the ceremony was set to begin I approached the elder who initiated my involvement and offered her the tobacco I had smudged and asked if she would mention my family in her prayers and I told her I would do the same for her.

As I compose this piece a friend is traveling to Alberta by bus to try her luck in the mountains at Banff, near where, for a time, I lived at Lake Louise. I have high hopes for my friend but her situation is fraught with complicated circumstances. She feels rather apart from the world and believes the connection she seeks is to be found down that next road, in the next town, always over that next horizon. She’s an Indian, fostered out as a baby, not in touch with her birth community and maybe not so connected to her non-native adopted family and not at all receptive to subjects relating to her native ancestry. In days gone by I would have been sad for her but this is not what is called for. She has been here there and everywhere in Western Canada in her short, though to her, grueling 32 years and it was quite by happenstance that she and I became friends almost 2 years ago. But friends we are and I recognize her walk. I know her and I know something of her journey. We talked a lot when she arrived in Vancouver and eventually she agreed to counseling, to go to 12-step meetings and generally take care of herself. Last year she bounced around shared rental situations, recovery houses, emergency shelters and couches. I was happily surprised when she called one day from a treatment center in Saskatchewan, where she stayed put for 6 months and yet again I was surprised when she called once more from downtown Vancouver. She was back. No plan, no prospects just basically keeping her head above water which was, I reminded her, progress. So as I type this she will have departed again by a few hours which I must admit did not surprise me. She is sober 9 months and I hope the best for her. She has my landline, my office number my cell number and we are connected by internet. She knows how to reach me and I send her good thoughts as I understand they can travel vast distances.

This coming Tuesday, February 14 we’ll mark the solemn occasion that is the annual Missing Women’s March and this year I honor specifically the woman identified as Brenda Wolfe, a victim of Robert Pickton. I knew her as Brenda Belanger when we were schoolmates, both of us students at Victoria Park School in Calgary. We were the cast-offs I think you could say, a few Indians but mainly Vietnamese and white kids but all decidedly the underclass and I believe we adopted something of an “us” against “them” attitude though today it is clear we were all the same. Back then, if you were a trouble-maker and couldn’t make it at Forest Lawn School or Bowness Public School (the bad schools), then Victoria Park, situated as it was near the Bow and Elbow rivers, near the Stampede grounds, close to downtown, was the place for you. It was essentially the end of the line. I don’t what happened to the kids who didn’t make it at Victoria Park. Though, sadly, Brenda’s fate was confirmed through DNA analysis and she was added to the official list, the seventh official murder charge. Brenda and I would cross paths occasionally over the years since middle school and she was always struck by the fact that I remembered her and that I would come up and talk to her. Even in my first spring and summer in Vancouver as I sat in a fast food joint on Broadway, wouldn’t you know I spotted Brenda of all people walking by and so I raced out to say hello. She gave me the lowdown and the heads up on a few things about Vancouver as I didn’t know anybody or anything about the city. I would see her briefly a few times more after that but never again.

There appears to be a peculiar but unmistakable symmetry to life, events re-occur and people return or the memory of them resonates in a way seems to inform the goings-on in my life today. The cosmic filter through which I experience consciousness (life) carries real power and is deeply forceful.

I take the Women’s March to be a ceremony. It is a ceremony in every real way that matters. It is a symbolic show of solidarity among the marginalized, the voiceless and powerless. It is a way of acknowledging that people do care. It is our way of saying that smoke and mirror procedural showcases by government and authorities that promote merely a pretense of justice will not undermine the spirit of people who clearly must fend for themselves and each other. I will go there to pray like devout Indians huddled in a gym in East Vancouver, those Indians of faith gathered in what may be the toughest and most dangerous neighborhood in the country, ground zero, praying - praying as though lives were depending on it.


© 2012 Champsteen Publishing

BEING NATIVE 101

Today’s East Side Smudge goes down and for the most impoverished postal code in Canada (statistically, speaking) it is clearly needed. Elsewhere on this blog I’ve written about institutional and systemic failure to address some basic issues of health and safety for the most vulnerable people. And though I may have implied it throughout my blog if not stated it outright - the healing of communities and nations begins here (taps chest)…

Basic universal fact about Indians: Indians pray.

If you are an Indian, 1st Nations, Indigenous, Native, Aboriginal (or WHATEVER) and are reading this and are not one in the regular habit of praying, my question is: what do YOU know that all your relatives and ancestors before you didn’t? I encounter a lot of Indians these days that seem to be too cool for school and get visibly skittish when it comes to acknowledging their "relationship" with Creator (insert lol here), that is, praying. How did it get like this? When did praying become something unseemly or embarrassing for us Indigenous types?

At ceremonies, events and gatherings I hear all the time, we pray for the ones to come and acknowledge those who came before us. Since becoming a father to 2 girls (now 11 and 14), I have come to experience a more profound sense of connection to people from the past (that I never met). I unabashedly pray for my kids (and their kids not born yet) and there is no doubt in my mind as I type this that people well before my time prayed for me. This is partly how it works being an Indian…it’s my part in what I call a sacred duty - All these things are real to me! - Perhaps a simpler way is to say it matters to me to pray and to try and put good energy out in the universe.

I may have never met you (if you are reading here for the first time) but if you are of aboriginal ancestry I am telling you, without question - you come from a long, long line of powerful, formidable, accomplished and deeply spiritual people who ALL prayed. My theory is that it is only due to a wide array of unique, historical circumstances that praying seems currently to have become a novelty among my generation and, for increasingly obvious reasons for the generation before ours, it is now a complicated if not painful subject. But our ancestral ties, our time on this earth, our unique vision of ourselves and our place in the universe are thousands of years in the making and cannot be undone or destroyed by force, plague or policy, it’s all been tried.

I have yet to visit any 1st Nations community where prayer wasn’t an active part in daily lives of those in pursuit of nothing more complicated or easily attainable than balance. This daily pursuit/practice or meditation if you like, has profound implications and potential for transformation and creative possibility. The solutions to our challenges require creative thinking to bring about change. Look to the people you admire, I am willing to bet that most if not all these are people engaged in frequent spiritual practice of one sort or another (cause I know you admire the admirable and not the shallow, superficial types, this is also part of my basic premise, lol).

We as a people have demonstrated consistently (though pessimists will say otherwise) a high capacity to deal with adversity, upheaval, trauma and grief. The evidence is…we are still here. But as I head down to Main and Hastings and the community smudge today I am more focused on the untapped reserves in our capacities for kindness, empathy, compassion, gratitude and our capacity for love. It is the VALUES which make us who we are from day to day. As you read this, YOU are an answered prayer - the fact that you live and breathe – this is not rhetorical. I am telling you: your people before you…prayed…for YOU…think about it.

So - your life-long question at the school of hard knocks or at Being an Indian 101:

Who are you and what do you stand for?

© 2011 Champsteen Publishing

...One Good Memory...

Neskie Manuel

..."if only one good memory is left in our hearts - I will meet you there" - (from my poem MAGPIE)

…Was recently in Ottawa and unable to attend the funeral of the late Neskie Manuel whom I had come know a little over the past couple years. Neskie is the son of Secwepemc (Shuswap) activist Art Manuel and grandson of late indigenous rights activist, George Manuel and nephew of the late healer and writer, Vera Manuel. Anyone not familiar with these names should brush up on their Indian history and become aware of the relentless commitment this family has demonstrated to their community, their nation and to all indigenous people - all Indians (at least in the land referred to as Canada) owe a debt of gratitude to these people.

It would be inaccurate to say Neskie and I were close friends, but as mentioned, I did spend some time with him the last couple years having visited his reserve and the surrounding area dozens of times. We took a road trip together to Prince George early last year and he stayed with me at my apartment in the city during his involvement at a conference there. Neskie was one of those people I don’t think you could help but like. He was young (30), handsome, soft-spoken, bright-minded, dignified and exemplified in every real way the attributes of leadership that seem naturally to descend upon certain people and who seem to inhabit this aura effortlessly. But like others in his family, Neskie’s understood role as a leader wasn’t assumed by birthright and lineage to other activists, it was actively demonstrated day in day out. Neskie was, among other things, an elected councilor for Neskonlith Band, a tireless advocate for preservation of the Secwepemc language, an open source computer guy (which means NOT using Microsoft or other corporate software or operating systems), a mobile radio broadcaster (a so-called pirate radio operator after oppression by the CRTC), a filmmaker who seemed to have natural skills at all communications technology - a helicopter mechanic, for pete’s sake! (this tutelage begun during his service in the Navy as a “younger” man!). It’s a little hard to comprehend how much experience some people seem to be able to cram into a day, a year…a life. I dug Neskie’s sense of humor and had to laugh when following a couple hours I did on-air on his radio set-up, I asked if he had listened to my program (I wanted his approval, you see), to which he responded, dryly – "ummm…yes…I did get to experience your witty banter". It cracked me up and I think we were pals.

I recall when, within 2 minutes of being introduced to his mother, I was seated at her kitchen table early one Sunday, eating pancakes with a bunch of the Manuels as though they had known me for years. Days later I was to be present at a birthday party for one of Neskie’s nieces and watched how generous and unabashedly affectionate the family was toward each other from top to bottom. For a person like me, being there (a frequent theme of this blog) was a gift and I was touched when, before we ate, Neskie offered a blessing and said a few words in the Secwepemc language. Those I admire most (of any background) all seem to share and exhibit in an almost imperceptibly subtle way the same type of unassuming humility, selflessness and generosity of spirit. In the company of people like this you feel safe and somehow…important.

I cannot speak or know of the torments, passions or forces which lured Neskie away from beside a campfire at a traditional family campsite in the back country (early in the AM on Mother’s Day this year) and then delivered him to the nearby river where he was found downstream some weeks later after an exhaustive search. Nor is it my intention to speak of loss or unrealized aspirations, for Neskie surely experienced and gave far more in his brief 30 years than many are able to in a much longer lifetime.

Perhaps the best thing I can say is that sometimes you wish only for a little more time with some people and maybe that I am somehow…changed…and better for briefly knowing Neskie and his people.

Send us your soft power, Neskie.

All my relations.



© 2011 Champsteen Publishing

...Now THAT's What I'm Talkin About...(article)

*update (added April 25, 2011)

Film Screening: Aakideh
Saturday, April 16, 1 pm & Tuesday, April 26, 7 pm
‘Aakideh’ is an Ojibwe word meaning brave or brave-hearted. Artist Carl Beam earned a reputation for being fearless, visionary and ultimately, unforgettable. From his early years growing up on Manitoulin Island to his turbulent years spent at a residential school, this documentary explores how these early experiences not only impacted Beam’s life but also his art. Location: Museum of Anthropology, Screening time: 65 minutes.



Only in a world this cool could a Cree guy (me), on Coast Salish territory (Vancouver) visit the Museum of Anthropology to learn about the life and work of an Ojibway/Anishnabe (Carl Beam) artist from a Mohawk man (Greg Hill). In a world where many people (it seems) prefer to think of Indian art (and indeed, Indians) as relics, artifacts or something belonging to the past, last night was the perfect example of how a person and their work can transcend time and space. This in my mind is one of the things good art is supposed to do. Carl Beam’s vibrant display of painting, collaged images and text, not to mention his work in other mediums including architecture, installation, pottery, broadcasting and curriculum development and the places he studied and lived the and choices he made, all seem to depict a LIFE that IS art. And though the artist has now passed from this world his work continues to resonate and speak for itself which is another item of criteria that I think validates it. His work is also a clear example of culture that is alive and vibrant and is completely appropriate in a contemporary context. But the work and many of the things Carl Beam did outside of the studio or art gallery deeply reflect his roots and values (which is key) as an Anishnabe person. Only an Anishnabe person could have created this work and only Carl Beam could have created it in this fashion - it is completely original and you will experience nothing like it any other place or at any other time. Dig it while you can.


©2011 Champsteen Publishing

Conversation on Poetry (interview)

*update (added March 13) - the page totals referred to in this clip include ALL writing, ALL genres; professional, academic and otherwise, NOT simply 1600 pages of poetry as may seem to be implied...which isn't really THAT many pages considering a novelist writing a book per year (or every other) may easily have completed well over 2000-3000 pages (or more) since 1998...still, i think of it as an accomplishment...



met the interviewer (Kathleen Imbert) at a book launch/reading (Salish Seas Anthology) i hosted - she was interested in my writing experience in poetry as a subject applied to her current training in broadcasting - a fascinating 1st Nations woman, from Wikwemikong Un-ceded 1st Nation in Ontario, owns and operates an art gallery in France and has lived in Aix en Provence these past 30 years - the entire exchange demonstrates one of the main ideas i had when i began this blog - our people networking, collaborating and utilizing various media and their creativity to tell stories...


*(who in the !@#$% left the Starbuck's cup in the shot?!?)




© 2011 Champsteen Publishing

Yellowbird Eulogy (or A Personal Cree Love Song for My Father)...poem

Yellowbird Eulogy (or A Personal Cree Love Song For My Father)

It is a breathless wind that sighs this morning
over this hard land, this country
I am here to speak of him
as is my right…as he is no more

I want to speak of love,
love mean
love lost, stolen and misplaced
and maybe of love enduring

Words have always been my medicine
good and bad
in my youth I did not believe in bad medicine
I took for granted the idea that one merely prayed
and the world was yours
but the with the passing of so many days and relations
I am older and so are those dreams

Father, when they put you in the ground
not all your children came and only your last wife
a solemn distance was kept between those present
out of respect or grief and those who came for closure

“I gave you everything – ” you once said
“all that I had”
nothing could have been more true

this cannot be explained to my friend and sister Ruby
a woman six month older than I
our mothers with different names
he is gone, I say
but for her, nothing has changed

and what about Tony?
my oldest brother from another mother
he slaps his knee and cackles
and tells of a flea-bitten, broken down quarter horse
my father gave to him for his son
a horse Tony named Glue
“the old man,” he would chuckle,
“still waiting for the buffalo to come to back”

Where are you now Mitchell?
a brother from yet another mother
who, before he was killed, told my father,
“if I didn’t love you I’d have killed you a long time ago
you son of a bitch!”
with me
my brother remains that tiger, tiger burning bright

He did not give me ponies, however
but I know traveling vast distances
on the power of 350 horses
taming a 1975 two-door Chevrolet
my own fire engine red convertible pony
40 miles to the gallon
a steel-wheeled faithful steed if ever there was one
mine is a death race with the past
I survey the human wreckage all around me
and convince myself that I am winning

I kept the fire that final night we watched over you, dad
smoke rose from what I had built
wood burned and carried my fingerprints
in wisps to the ages

they tell me I am much like you
prone to vanishing for days
and, at times, for years
for you it was into the army
a place you would never talk about
though when you came out, they said,
you were never the same -
long before that, you disappeared to residential school
a euphemism for labor camp in our country
a place that saw you and other Indian children
labor, work and grind away
to refine their lumber, their leather, their tin
and their words
so you spoke in two tongues
never fluent in one
not much good at the other
a man for whom words simply got in the way

I too can disappear – it’s easy
I hitch-hike and sing for my supper
and am usually in any place but where I want to be
I also carry a restless heart
and little patience for fools
too proud to admit that I am among the biggest fools there are

It’s true I don’t remember everything
but about him I will say
he did give me things...
like kisses, guitars, his eyes and lessons
on how not to treat our mothers
I learned these things well
I am nothing if not a good student

Scene:
Christmas 1973
A shabby cowtown 2nd story walk-up
Four little Indians cower and watch as a whiskey-fueled battle rages
It’s Indian against Indian
in this fight we hope she wins

(fast forward)

Scene:
Christmas 1999
Just outside the reservation in a dimly lit trailer shack
over Wild Turkey a more subtle clash commences
“how come you don’t speak better Cree?”
“how come none of your other kids visit you...dad?”
It’s still Indian against Indian
and in this fight nobody wins

And didn’t we both love white women, dad?
didn’t we both learn our lessons well?
didn’t we both wind up broken men?
your arm and skull to her racist father and brother
and much later, my heart to another's indifference -
now, even I know that you cannot cross the streams

Father you have left me in a strange time
where there is no room for men and women in the bottom line
where the only person who cares
less about your problems...is everybody
Would it please or disappoint you to know that I am educated?
whatever that means and for what it’s worth

We are Indians you and I, aren’t we?
we do not fight and die for our right to cast our vote
we are born with that right
we fight and die to feed our children...and our souls

and we dance –
I think of you as a grass dancer
laying it out for all those that followed
your death giving us a place to meet one last time
If anything I am a ghost-dancer
summoning you and everyone I can think of
dancing as fast as I can
hoping against hope that one day I may see you again
and none of us will ever know any kind of hunger again

Uncle Bob once said:
if you don’t believe there’s a price for this sweet paradise,
just remind me and I’ll show you the scars

well I wear the scars of this love
I carry them like a sacred pipe handed down
the scars are mine and no one need understand them
I too know what it is love something or someone
that you can’t even stand

there it is again...that word
Love
I am hanging on to it
It is all I have and all I have to give
It is my reward and my punishment
and the mightiest weapon there is against forgetting

So long Apps…father
I may see you again at the Wrecking Ball Tavern, in Hell,
Where they’ll play country songs about
faster horses
younger women
older whiskey...and more money

or maybe,
after time out in the happy hunting ground
I’ll see you at the Howard Buffalo Memorial Rec Center
we’ll meet inside the eternal Round dance
and we’ll meet there as young men
in a place of sacred things
where only our names are remembered
and there is no word in our language for redemption

ekosi


© 2011 Champsteen Publishing

Okay, So I CAN'T Sing...(article)

that's not the point...i call myself an artist, as such it's crucial to seek, find and experience the creative process such as i define it. For some, morning pages or keeping a journal...for others different activities do the trick. In my mind it is simply an active way of manifesting various types of creativity that interest me. ALSO, it seems to open up space for more or other kinds of original work.

On another note a friend has opened a personal Youtube page with what i would describe as less-than gripping material on it – a collection of simple videos he shot and posted that have garnered a staggering 2.8 million hits/views...UNBELIEVABLE!!!! - that is until you consider that little teenager justin beiber has over a billion views or hits i read recently...i've never believed more is better (necessarily) or that quantity means quality, it simply means people have the means to access disposable media on a scale that dwarfs anything we knew before. My friend has some degree of literacy and better than moderate awareness of computers and how the Internet works. He is able to assign the proper tag words/posting options/settings/links to other pages so that virtually any search one carries out on the Internet will sooner than later point you to HIS page even if you are looking for something completely unrelated to his page or material located therein. It is simply good manipulation of this form of media. It's small wonder that the corporate hordes are looking for every conceivable way of monetizing your use of the Internet, that is, making money off of what you choose to look at on the Internet. I am providing Free-Blogger with a very small stream of advertising by placing my material here and having (mostly) people I know visit, but the majority of the people coming here are pals of mine who are simply curious and i have at present no strategy for or interest in pulling in more readers/viewers...well...perhaps i could at least post something remotely interesting.

*(added Jan 17th, 2011) according to Pingdom, an Internet tracking service, here are some mind-boggling stats): there are presently 1.97 billion Internet users - there are approximately 294 billion e-mails sent per day (89% are spam) - there 152 million Blogs, if "...bottom lines and wet noodles..." can be considered completely average, then there are roughly 76 million blogs out there that you would probably find MORE interesting than this one...(better get started, i'll wait here)...

on the Internet you have the potential to get an artist's best (and worst) stuff

as for songwriting, it's one of the greatest creative challenges there is for me. i'll always be an aspiring songwriter and guitar player...it's one of creator's ways of allowing me to speak to the universe. There's at least a couple songs i'm proud of so i'll keep right on working on them...it's good for the soul...


copyright 2011 Champsteen Publishing

Dismantling A Mystery (or How Come It Doesn’t Rhyme?)...

the poem:



Seeing You For The First Time…

is like remembering
that with Indians, it is all one:
Velvet rain falling over lush Peace Hills back home -
Old man stone glowing in fire
at Beetle Omeasoo’s sweatlodge at Ermineskin -
Hundreds of black wings beating in the great nation that is the sky
each night high above Coastal Salish ground -
Or…your gentle voice heard in woods at Qu’appelle




photo of larry by j-ro
editing a friend's poetry manuscript and helping another with their work it occurred to me that this poem might shed some light on MY theory and process (in particular), it is simply the way i see and do it...proceed at your own interest...

poetry is NOT for everybuddy...one of my favorite crushes, one of the ten most beautiful people in the world informed me she wouldn't even finish reading one of my poems that she came across...this is not to focus on her (i mean it’s clear she loves my body…but i want her to love my mind - i’m an artist after all) but to indicate how adamant people can be or how adverse to verse some people are...but why should this be? - many theories out there but i tend to think the reasons are mainly these:

a) people tend to think of poetry ONLY as that Shakespearean sonnet they made you memorize while holding a gun to your head back in high school...it was traumatic, you know it was AND you never did figure out what the hell was meant before and after the words: tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow...

b) the only poetry you've read since high school was by that ditzy, hippy-chick or the whacked out dude so spaced on the chronic that you thought everything they said was poetry (cause you were a little whack-y AND ditzy yerself back then)...until much later you realized they were committing to paper every pointless, free associative, incoherent pile of syllabic word-turds you ever read but it also occurs to you much later how badly you wanted to get in their pants or how bad they wanted in yours, so much so that even the words "fuck off and die!" seemed to resonate with insight (at last - someone really gets me!), seemed razor-sharp with clarity of purpose and breadth of vision and…romance, even (whoah...think i love him/her).

So people have either read the most difficult and challenging poetry in the English language (the dreaded Elizabethan iambic pentameter) OR the shit that literally means nothing…at any rate had you the chance to read a cross selection of contemporary poetry (that is, poetry written in your time, which typically is free-verse or not in a specific structure on the page) there isn't a doubt in my mind that you would eventually find work by someone that does in fact speak to you, resonates with you and has you come to appreciate what can often be the profound power and beauty of language (more about this topic in future posts)...

for now, it would appear that i must be changing, growing or getting weak in the head because i'm doing something i NEVER do...which is – ANALYZE A POEM...of my own... this one called: Seeing You For The First Time...(located at the top of this post)

using the first line as the title is a device that goes back centuries...couldn't possibly remember where I first saw it, though i know Shakespeare did do this often with his numbered sonnets as did ee cummings, bill bissett, al purdy and many, many other poem-makers have also done this through the ages and i rather like to do this at times when the opening line results in a sense of intrigue or contemplation in the reader...i try to find (use/write) something specific but also it is working if there’s a chance the reader believes they could actually contribute the next line...admittedly, though, writing this first section of explanation reminds me that the first line of THIS particular poem became the title only AFTER most of the rest had been composed...so, the use of this device didn't become apparent to me to until later in the process but it's an example of what i call a happy accident...this might seem to imply that ALL or ANY poem or poetry could simply use as it's title the first line of the poem but this is not the case…

back to the poem…I’ll come clean, now…this one was inspired by (surprise, surprise)…a girl!...i had the opening line (which became the title)…then, very simply…I compared that meeting to 4 different and beautiful things:

1. rainfall
2. rocks in a fire
3. birds flying
4. the woman’s voice

...and that’s all there was to it...more or less...

seeing her for the first time WAS beautiful…the title/first line would be a cliché if the rest of the poem used typical language or imagery…it would not work if I simply said:

…seeing you is like rainfall, rocks in a fire, bird’s flying and your voice…


we learned in early grade school what the words “like” or “as” do to a sentence…it takes a phrase from being understood literally and then makes it a figure of speech (a metaphor)…so, seeing her wasn’t actually or in fact (literally) all those things, it was LIKE all those things, this idea goes a long, long way in language…if you say: seeing you IS nice…seeing you is good - these sentiments may be true but they are bland, mundane and hearing them a thousand times will mean much less the thousandth time you hear it…and haven’t we heard “nice” or “happy” used thousands of times by the time we become adults?...nice and good are for babies and puppies…

the craft of writing involves your choice of words and arrangement of them, the specifics that will spur the imagination of the reader - it's in the details...this is where it can be way, way overdone or one uses descriptions heard a million times (but you know what? people love that...ask Hallmark), OR the poem can become something fresh, not said in quite the same way before, evocative of so much OR it may simply sound lyrical to the point where speech and music seem to meld...ALL these things are possible at this stage if you care enough (or if you care little about what you make) - - in this poem, alongside the 4 items, i have also included four specific Indian PLACES; peace hills, ermineskin, coast salish ground and qu’appelle…NOT ALL readers will be aware of all the references but I’m betting the good reader will make those connections without having heard of one or all of the geographical places referred to in the piece…

i confess, i can’t say precisely what: with indians it is all one, means, but i don't need to…i did want to convey the idea that…indians…know…what do they know?...this question in my mind propels the poem, elevates it, transports the reader’s mind, implies so much, opens the piece so that any reader of any background will intuitively define this phrase for themselves…this, in my mind is where god came in, the synaptic exchange, the happy accident, where the rubber met the road, where the exposition became art…

It then occurred to me that indians are only here today BECAUSE WE REMEMBER, we exist the way we do because of the way we keep our histories’ alive…with our voices, through orality, through externalizing memory (in other words, talking - and now, through writing, even blogging, very subversive if you ask me, you may disagree but go ahead,…you’re allowed)…so it also felt intuitive to place the idea of memory or remembering SOMEWHERE in the piece…

This all could be summed up by saying: first seeing her reminded me of these beautiful things – but i wanted her to fall in love in with me, i wanted to inspire the reader to look at objects of their own desire in a way they never had before…it was and remains a tall order but it’s what you want to do every time out…you want to somehow change the universe for someone (sometimes it’s just yourself) with your ideas because it was done for you, to you by others before you and it’s a safe bet that these experiences/exchanges will continue long after my time…you want the words you choose to be vivid and strong and say a lot with a lot of power but often times it is (what you don’t say or) what you say by implication that has the most power.

SO…how much of this, in the end, applies to what i wrote that day?...all of it.

How much of this occurred to me WHILE i wrote it?...none of it.

it this i call…magic



© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Ka'wahse (audio poem) feat. Duane Howard

Flute: Duane Howard

Ka'wahse*

wherever it is
i’ll more than likely see you there

i marvel at what is to be found at 2 am
(2:20, technically)

only in poems do dogs bite gently
and we call ourselves poets

sometimes I am taken by the thrill of recognition
of who we are (who the other is)
of what we do (have always done)
traveling light leaving nothing behind
packing up heavy sorrows for when they become useful
forced to understand, that at times,
we may make sense only to ourselves

there is nothing un-real
about an embrace on some half-remembered shore –
words spent high in mountaintops (which of course, you understand,
were once at the bottom of the sea?)

we dance our ridiculous lives beneath the pen
but eventually come clean,
admit these things matter
love things hard to hold onto –
people now distant as the moon, some only an arm’s length away

what will they understand of your footprints upon this ground? –
ashes that were once your bones –
your fingerprints upon their minds –
echoes of your voice in their dreams
when there was so much in the world to make us bleed

will everything you gave be enough?
the sad and beautiful part is that it will have to be

ours is to be transient and grounded at once
rooted in something no one can say

i say:
let those without black hair fret and strut
their final hour upon the stage, their idiot’s tale

which is simply another way to say:
i’m glad i was an indian

it is crucial to believe in things
like a good song,
time spent on that half-forgotten shore,
that somewhere,
we signified something

it is good knowing
that it is a cold distance
from here to the nearest star
but warm between this page
and where these words go


* (Mohawk word, meaning - Where are you going?)

© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

fuck (audio poem)

Fuck
(or What Happens When Too Much Blood Enters the Alcohol System)

nothing seems to kill me,
no matter how hard i try…

and once again,
all this time there has been winter in my blood

but fuck it!
what i mean to say is:

yeah, i know,
nobody asked me to suffer,
that was my idea
but you have to grant me
that there is something sadly magnificent
about missing people you love
that you never even met

me and all other majestic groove locaters
from villages near and far
have decided it’s last call
down the hatch and bottoms up
this last one’s on you
(and believe me, one way or another, you’ll pay)

i have attacked ships on fire off the shoulder of orion
and at times drank like a pirate
i have blessed virgins in my own way
saw fit to shed them of their baubles
and though i didn’t love `em all
i loved as many of `em as i could

just like ronnie said: be my little baby!

i love her…i just don’t need her

in every dive, flop-house,
gin mill, hootch parlor
and booze can this side of the west pecos
i have been known to experience
the odd momentary lapse
in both judgment and reason

but i too have been known to sit with coyote
and grandma,
we raise our glasses, toast each other
and discuss corporations and bodily functions

blues?
yeah, i got the blues
i got the tombstone blues
and i ain’t never been to no delta
but i know what it is to be chased
by those same insatiable hellhounds

split my head open eight more times
i don’t give a rat’s ass
8 concussions can’t compare to the hangover
of a pint
plus a flap
plus a 26
plus an double
plus an eight ball
plus a 40 pounder
plus blah, blah, blah
plus yadda, yadda, yadda…

i’m the answer with all the questions,
try me

alex, i’ll take who the fuck am I?...for the whole fucken works!

and fuck kerouac, i really am Standing-
On-The-Road,
believe it

(did I hear someone free-associating?)

and, by the way!
that fucken guy didn’t die for my sins
i’m doing that every single day of my life
you’re all just the same old preachers selling the devil,
yourselves and all those other lame concepts
like canada and manifest destiny
and still wrapping yourselves in the strong arms of the union

so i think i’ll hang on to this aching heart
while tasting the liquor on these lips



© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

All There Is...(audio poem)

All There Is…

is an old woman's voice
in a run-down little house on a piece of borrowed land
this side of the reserve
I remember the old woman in dark skin and white hair telling me – warning me:
a story told without love will not be remembered

like indians do,
I took you as my grandmother, never having met either of my own (or my mother)
and I took those words as commandments
or more accurately, I took stewardship of your words,
I protected them
like indians do

my damaged memory of your ghostly form
is framed by crumpled leaves and dense grasses
deadfall and marshy muskeg,
I am not painting a quaint, rustic, idyllic landscape
not singing to the “oneness” of anything
I am beyond remembering
and singing my own song

in a place where I saw bent women, berry-picking
and one with lips, stained red and succulent
I tried but found I could never taste that good to her
and on and on and on…

I carry my grief and gladness and never look back

in these places…I saw
in every village, every town, each weigh station
I have been a pilgrim, a merchant trading stories, hands and more

at calgary
at brindisi,
at neskonlith
at santorini
at peace hills
at oaxaca
at napean
at musqueam
at white bear
at oslo
at yellowknife
at oppenheimer park

unvarnished episodes, encounters, entanglements
recorded only in an island of lost memories that you may have
of her telling you: it’s alright…you’re okay,
and these things were so only because she said they were

she has pulled us through birth canals and rites of passage…the death of my brothers
because of men she wore outmoded black veils and still
set broken bones, nourished us with compassion
we were astonished, emboldened, fed and far better…soothed
when we felt as motherless children
when we felt at the brink of cavernous dark

from the margins they shape the world
through cultures melding and those long since vanished
there are still glimpses of something permanent, eternal

it is that I long for the comfort of her voice
snatch for it like a thief
guard it like final embers carried
across tundra by dried mud tribes of stone age

once,
there were long strands of hair, shiny and damp
that fell across her shoulders, beneath the sunlight…

these sapphire-tinted recollections (every last one)
are her words and are air and water and reflection

I am nothing, sometimes not even a man
just a word-finder, conjurer of everything you have already said,
without you I would have stayed nothing, dust or the thought of it
but now something is created across time and space
because she was here, existed

the first mother wears these lakes and rivers,
mountains, meadows, towns and cities
and I am given to worship of things I cannot explain –
condemn those foolish enough to live without magic –

she teaches me to understand
that every woman is someone’s daughter on this perilous journey
that life beyond every kind of poverty is better
and though yet hungry for that great wisdom and power
I am still ashamed (though still alive),
still asking the same foolish questions as in ages past

but for you I am contented with love…every kind of love
and I now know where all words come from
with me it is sacred faith that there is grace among storm
and on certain miracle nights, sometimes, I almost feel…beloved

the great wisdom of her collective ages:
that love does not conquer
but it can survive…

it has at least that much power


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Honour Song (poem)...

Peace, my friend,
peace

there is no darkness, only not knowing

so pray…and believe

and I think I can see you –
I can see those brown eyes half on their way to heaven
I look with sight more honest
than my eyes deliver
I listen to you, to your songs
(some unchanged in a thousand years)
with something more true
than my ears can hear
Walk with me awhile
with something more real
than the touch of my hand upon your shoulder

Here, together
there is no more turning away
there is no more tearing ourselves in two
If there is any comfort here for you
know that I too am sick with my experience
I marvel at the strange rivers we have crossed
rivers on whose far banks lie forests
where men, women and children are lost
we seek shelter
and someone with that look in their eye
though our hearts may have grown weary
and just a little shy

In another life
I may have brought bridled horses and game –
for you, for your family
and spoken of good things between us and Nations
For a night or two
I might have stayed outside your lodges
with those horses, and waited
sleeping only after you and yours had done so first
perhaps I carried a powerful bundle or shield –
carried them for everyone

Yet today,
we are here, together
Though there may still be an aching sadness –
for those ones crossed over –
they are not gone – they do not sleep
but have awakened from the dream of life
(as spirits live forever)
It is we who stumble
through these stormy visions
chasing phantoms and madness
Must we still decay and wither
and fall each day with our fear, shame and grief? –
our days before this
little more than cold hopes?

Then pray…and believe

The Oldest One remains
Many will change and pass
but there is a light that forever shines
and while Earth’s shadows fly
our hearts will be opened wide

And when I fall –
when I am caught down deep, beyond all reach
I will keep you safe with me, like a warm wind
like a sweet waterfall

When I close my eyes I see you –
you are walking on a bridge
glancing over the mysterious water
there is still a trace of fear
but I can also see that you know
there is something better
yes, you know there are things better
than to live in dark water

And after all this,
when some gentle night descends
when there is, at last, stillness
when you are no longer alone at sea
but close to my heart
I will look to the West
to see a great and glorious red sky – an eternal sky

I will whisper things sacred
like…hear me
like…remember
like…your name,
and I will wonder
if you too can see that same red sky

Big Brown Beautiful Bannock-Stuffed Indians (audio poem)

Big Brown Beautiful Bannock-stuffed Indians…

are puttin’ on their bingo shirts
and headed down to the hall early for the good seats
grab seven chicken and spud meals to go –
alright, gimme 20 dollars worth and a Bonanza!

darkened and bulging eating muscles
just a goin’ to beat ol’ sixty
with a smoldering pihtwanis* dangling here
and a Pepsi making the rounds there –
I can’t get lucky, I was born lucky!

Big brown beautiful bannock-stuffed Indians
are dancing all night in great circles
ribbon shirts and wranglers
and numberless children all doing the indigenous shuffle –
hey, anybody see where my kids went?

bannock-slapped and neck-boned to the brim
with room only for tea…and the next meal
food always tastes better when it’s free
besides, who needs money on a good rez anyway? –
ho-la, there’s a lot of neechees here tonight!

Big brown beautiful bannock-stuffed Indians
are trying to win and round-dance in the cities
tradition is taking its own sweet time
but it’s coming…and everybody knows everybody –
Dear Uncle, it’s just like you said it would be…

home-fed scouts and wide-eyed warriors
are in every place you care to look
pounding on pavement, doors and drums
and recreating ourselves constantly –
I am home, I am home, I am home



* pihtwanis – Cree word for “cigarette”


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Reservation Girl (song)

words and music by Larry Nicholson


she’s a weapon of destruction
She’s my worst best friend
I give her all I got and then I do it again
I build the fire for you baby
I’m running all the way around the world
you got me disappearin’ mama
you reservation girl

I wanna be her caddy
I’m her love dump truck
gave her daddy all my horses she don’t give a fuck
just a round-dancin’ fool
we’re dancing all the way around the world
get yer mercy on baby,
reservation girl

she stays out all night
shuts the road house town
I was easy pickings baby
hitchin' in from town
I ain’t smoking signals
no I’m talking to you
she lookin right through me
everything I do…

she’s a satellite shooting
through my nighttime sky
I’d be a bigger man but all I do is cry
I’m digging in a hole
She’s running all the way around the world
I keep digging deeper
For my reservation girl…


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing