Hands Never Touched
 
--- Paul Chrisstarlon Wesselhöft 

Hands never touched,
  But they wanted to.
Eyes often met
  But they didn’t know how
To linger.
 
  Words were exchanged,
But not brave ones,
  Pondered in the heart.
 
It was the spring of our lives.
  We caught crawdads, tadpoles,
  Skipped stones on the streams.
We played in the yards,
  Laughed, sang,
Did stupid stuff together.
 
  The wind blew our hair,
Cooled our faces.
  On bicycles we would race.
 
  On the field of play,
We were on opposing teams.
  It felt strange
To throw her out on first.
 
  One day, we rode rides
At a carnival.
  The next day,
Her family moved away.
 
  Her name is Kristen.
We were friends--
 
  More than friends.
Our hands never touched,
  But they wanted to.

(The following poems are not printed in my book, but published in other publications:)

 RED BLOOD  
 
On the outside,
  Though my skin be so pale
The midday sun
  Burns and pains.
On the inside,
  Indian blood churns
And flows through my veins.
The Path of Our Soul: 

THE PATH OF THE SOUL  
My Prayer for the Nation
 
Great Spirit of the land, the sea, the sky, 
  Whom we now know to be
Our Father, who art in heaven,
  Great Spirit, giver of life, of meat, of fire,
Hallowed be thy name.
 
  We stand on this land, battered, bruised
But beholding for the journey of our tribe,
  The path of our soul.
Though deceit and duplicity laid
  Death at our feet,
You sustained us,
  Gave us a sovereign place
In your turbulent world.
 
  With arduous labor and immense pride,
We have rebuilt a nation,
  Praiseworthy to pass on to our posterity.
We still seek your wisdom and way.
  Today, we stand erect with head bowed
For your goodness, glory, and grace.

  
THE TRIUMPH OF A TRIBE: MANIFESTO 

Bullets trumped arrows.  We lost.
Colonial imperialists clearing out the tall timber could no longer dwell near existing villages—eventually, one had to die a deliberate death, not the pilgrim nor the puritan.  Many native to the land had to learn a new prayer, cut their hair, or remain lost in a new world. 

European immigrants, pressing westward, found the frontier inhospitable, and feared the “savage”—one had to die a deliberate death, not the military nor the mountaineer, neither the public nor the pioneer. Long knives, ground sharper, pierced deeper than tomahawks. 

Manifest Destiny proved a more lethal doctrine than aboriginal rights, sacrosanct land, and inherent sovereignty.  Gifts of gin and imbibes of brandy, along with the white forked tongue, proved a more seductive taste than maze and peaceful pipes of tobacco. 

Racist palefaces and their uninked policy of genocide rolled with many white wagons across prairies. Bison and those dependent upon the buffalo were targeted for extinction. Bleached bones of beasts and man strewed the land. 

Parchments, inked of broken treaties, were bartered for pressured concessions, quick-fix assurances, and enforced acculturation.  Lives and land were lost, lessons learned, dreams dashed, memories memorialized, remnants of a past, a place—ours. However, they are a past, not to be forgotten but a past and a place no longer suitable or salutary to dwell on and certainly not a past or place to wallow. 

Character trumped contempt. We won. 


THE SACRED, THE PROFANE 
 
The sacred, the profane,
  One in the same,
But not always.
  In the beginning,
Glaciers receded; land divided from the great deep.
  Waters rushed riverbanks, carved canyons, 
Drained into seas, lakes, and greater lakes.
  Five of these great lakes pooled in one area of the world.
Waters flow from one lake to another until they explode over a great cliff.
  Eagles fly high, circle the sky, and above the spray, peer down, dive, Hooking prey with their talons.
  In the day, the sun shoots through the mist, arcs into a rainbow.
In the nights, the moon lights the water’s path over great rocks
  And down the turbulent, silver river.
Indians, native to this majestic site, revered, nurtured the land,
  And from its waters were abundantly fed.
This was their life, sacred.
  In the new world, helium balloons by day invade the sky,
And helicopters buzz where eagles once flew.
  By nights, bright lights, artificial, illuminate controlled flowed water.
 Masses of millions fill tall hotels, gamble in casinos, shop stores,
  And explore commercial carnivals, museums and festivals.
Tourists gawk at tightrope walkers and daredevils in barrels,
  Risking their lives for the crowd’s amusement.
This is their life, profane.

I WALKED AMONG GIANTS 
 
I walked among giants,
  Men of renown,
Great ones they were;
  Some, were women.
These men of might
  Walked the earth
And communed with us.
  They were brave when bravery
Had to make a difference.
  Daily, they die.
Soon, they will be extinct.
  They left their mark, though,
For all time.
 
  During the great disruption,
They performed gargantuan feats.
  These titans saved the planet
And preserved a way of existence.
  Daily, they die.
Some were killed in the fight,
  Others captured, tortured.
The remains of some were never found.
  Some were maimed in body,
Others, maimed in brain.
  Most lived to see a new day, a new world.
 
Now, these colossal men
  Serve as pallbearers for their own.
They barely carry the load.
  Some hobble with canes.
Some are bent over with years.
  Some can only watch
With dim eyes from wheelchairs.
  Their eyes see three colors blur as one
And slowly fall into the ground.
  Daily, they die.
They are almost a lost breed.
 
Some are written about,
  Most are not.
Some, were my uncles,
  Others, my countrymen.
One was my father.
  I can tell my children
And their children,
  That for a time on earth
I was privileged,
  To walk among giants.

A DROP OF OIL  
 
For over seven decades
  An oil bubble lifts
To the surface of the sea
  Like blood seething from a wound.
  A drop of oil
Reflects the suns' rays
  In a colorful symmetrical pattern.
A drop of oil
  Is a balm for fading grief
And constant vigilance.
  A drop of oil
Anoints a great nation,
  Serves as a living memorial.
A drop of oil draped
  Over the entombed fallen.
A drop of oil
  Spreads across the ocean
From a place
  Once called the Pearl.