Morning Song of Conrad
I arrive for morning coffee, Conrad says, coffee and a scone,
Boots and jeans a behest of courtesy—oiled and free of fray—
My bolo tie snug against the buttoned collar,
And as I sip I ponder, as how I pray.
I pray of the spillover—a people not my own—
Appropriated horses now in the form of pickup trucks—
And I remind myself professors think in drumbeat and in tone.
And there is something that must be seen—
Attained—to evade doom—
Yet it is not found in this room
Though the room is large with fireplace and sofa.
Again I arrive for coffee, says Conrad, black—obsidian’s hue—
And I think on my long native hair—black and combed—
Eagle feather tied in—a message dropped from the spirit world—
A message I cannot read—the Ancient One bespoken—my eyes are foamed—
And on a people—I intuit—hidden in plain view—but one with a purpose
And a claim and a sensibility to distinguish a Bison from a cow—
Who have cleared their eyes and seen the fabulous.
Nor is it found in the next room
Which is not so large
Nor is it clear how the something is on the marge
But the something compels—
Coffee please, Conrad says, to prepare me for the day.
Papers are graded and lectures prepared for students who are good
As I—students seeking the ideas called sacred by the many peoples
Of the world—ideas adored that yet have granulated brotherhood
With scrambled intent to heal or dominate or gratify—
Short-fallen help issuing sorrows stoically withstood—
Sorrows appeased by the highborn with intent to pacify.
And then to the balcony with pursuit on a foot-wide upslant
On outside wall with pursuit sensing a lie
As my friend is ascending faster than I
And then defiance from the upslant-back—
Sitting for morning coffee Conrad says, I recall the words of the semester—
Creation, destruction, and preservation claim voice and hands and eyes;
An avatar discharges mental conflict over the acts of war; as if by fate
Come four truths noble; a block uncut holds all; His name God ratifies;
A sage speaks maxims; God’s name befalls encased; Raven pesters Coyote;
A teacher proclaims a Kingdom; God’s name awakens in the decree;
God wraps his name in gold; readings and persuasions multiply;
A prophet receives an angel from God; a pacekeeper discovers new tea.
Stuck fast I cannot proceed
Then down-comers pass against the wall
Pressing my toehold perilous close to a fall
And my toehold goes rigid and my friend is gone—
Saturday morning, Conrad says, I need not fix my bolo tie, yet the feather
Is never forgotten for the day of understanding is unknown, and I look
To my wife for the charm the day will bring, what place, what endeavor.
Yes, charm we find but first my thoughts she draws. I brook
My despondency as we talk of our people who wed the land
Yet were sundered from the land, and how we learn from the usurpers
But dare not forget ourselves or the worlds we two have spanned.
The picnic was nice, muses Conrad, chatty but nice,
The wade in the creek—but again I think of our people and how
The elders knew that White man would come but how this knowing
Assigns promise after the glimpsing which knowing stops short to allow
Strength to give hope beyond a word wagered, yet how this wagering speaks
Of the gnawing in my bones that a word has whelmed all else
Sealing hope held holy, yet I can offer no critiques.
And the horrible upslant-back
Awakens me and I wonder
Why my dreams always end in failure
As if failure is what I so sought.
We head for morning Mass, Conrad says, with my wife driving
And, approaching, my hand seeks the sign of the cross
But freezes and my unfrozen hand grabs the wheel so the truck wobbles
Rolling by aslant and the tension of the moment jumps across
And the tension resolves by release to my wife to avoid a tumble
And I shout that I know the people of the feather—almost pathetic—
And Conrad reminds himself that a professor needs remain humble.
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