Sliver

I walked on a sliver of horizon

in ribbed tube socks.  Those shredded clouds followed,

a trail of heaven’s lint.

Heel toe.Heel toe. Building that

                                    static.

Crowds watched me, with fresh lacquered eyes.

She can’t do it.

She’ll surely die.

My socks unravel on the crest of the

       moon.

 Mortal strands are a tangled

                                                   web.

The poet’s soul is dead on arrival.

Passionate to the point of

                                                asphyxiation.

Life.

Does it really matter that if in some zombie like state,

someone liked your status?

We don’t discuss like the geniuses of the past anymore,

we clutch our keyboards and hide blue faced behind screens.

We filter what we want people to see.

When’s the last time we had a real conversation?

When we weren’t thinking about the text, snap, like,

Tweet, or follow we just got. When our hands didn’t

hover anxiously over our pockets as if by some miracle

that one ‘fine’ implied all that we wanted it to.

Have we forgotten how to talk to the people in the room?

We’ve become slaves to ourselves, in an effort to connect with

each other, we’ve connected to the outlets in walls.

 God forbid your phone run out of juice…

Because this cord connects you to the outside world,

As if it were your mother’s umbilical cord,

as if your phone granted you life.

When did we have to start proving ourselves?

My kid is the cutest, look at my sandwich, I put on my makeup today…

When did affirmation become an addiction?

As if 3,000 likes could really replace the satisfaction of placing a pair of tube socks

into the hands of a homeless woman and watching her face light up.

Because just for that moment, her burden was lifted just a little. 

But wait, I’ve forgotten, you’ve chosen to live between the replies.

Halting me, with your finger, to tell me to wait a minute while

you respond to someone who isn’t here.

You’ve resigned yourself to a text bubble that reads, (…)

Just waiting for a reply. Waiting to live until you have wifi.

How many minutes, hours, days, years have you swiped away?

How many opportunities in our real lives have we scrolled past…

In the anticipation of one lousy ‘like’?

Butchering

Fist balled she glides the skin away from flesh.
She sinks them elbow deep down between the skin and the hide.
You try she instructs
I ball my small brown fists, little marbles beneath skin.
My knuckles scrape against the red, it's warm inside the sheep.
My knuckles are pink as kitten noses.
Grandmother's palms are flat as she grips my face and presses her lips to my forehead.
She just wrapped the fat with the intestines. Achii.

Dr. Pepper can greasy tinned rolled in salt sits on the gingham table cloth.
Fizz burns down my throat.
Flies linger on clumps of fat.

I chase them with the fly swatter.
Grandma taught me how to kill them.
The neon blue mesh whistles through the air.
SMACK! It's dotted black.

Grandmother never slapped my face, but Momma sits there.
She's smiling, thirty six years old, but still stinging.

Outside the butchered skin hangs, hardening in the sun, wool matted with sand. 

Nightwatch

Mosquito's hum with the tune of hunger
somewhere within the space of a cornfield we lay.
Palms sticky with ice cream.
Cold plastic spoons fallen overboard.
She's the flat disk in the sky, we've come to see.
Preening.
Larger than ever. Illuminating the night.
The stars are nothing in her bright arm's length. 

we are like stars in the sky.

into the wild.

 

Let's get lost in the mountains and write poetry, okay? okay.

Mountain Poem

lush green stipples in the canyon below
grey stone veined gold marbled white
up above the mist we stand
watching droplets suspended in air
red cold hands
hair fingertossed by wind
then rain
sprinkling the earth
intensifying the green
canyon wind whispering
to my soul.

Child's Play

You make me feel like I'm running in light up sneakers in the sand.

Long gone is the squalor and rejection, we're just pure laughter and love.

Loose laces and missing teeth, chase me around the playground,

as if I'm your new found crush-if only for a week.

Growing up is not an option with you-so we grow young.

We're Benjamin Buttons defying time. 

Who needs a watch, when you are mine?

So we hold hands and sing little kid chants because

daises and play only make sense.

Before smartphones vibrated stealing the day.

We played keep away. 

Long before Facebook, we connected by play.

Because I feel little when I'm with you.

Rusted chains and empty barns are venues for adventure.

Slinking caterpillars are captured. Put into jars.

They turn into butterflies before our very eyes.

Everything but time touches us, 

we play to have wings.

Sew kites, parachutes, and patches for knees. 

We get married by the rhythm of swings.

Defining gravity with leaps from mid-air...

Making our home in the trees among the branches,

twigs, and leaves.

Darling, together, let's be kids.

Mother I...

 for Phoebe Denetsosie and all the other Mothers out there! :)
In a sweat stained gown, panting, you gave birth to me.
There was I, a timid cry, blurred in your life's chaos.
I chose you. You chose me back. 
Mother I...mother I... I love you.

Swirls of you are found in me.
From the richest darkest browns to your favorite deep maroon.
Never did I think that I couldn't possibly love you.

Dim red digits marked it 3am, when you yelled at me.
Mother I... mother I...I thought I hated you.
But I was more worried you hated me.
Tearful embraces, fervent apologies were plead so you and I
could be in harmony.

Beside my grandmother you stood, between your sisters....
All of them a little of her, you, and me.
Broad high cheekbones and a proud mother's stance.

I didn't think I was pretty until I truly saw you.

Mother, I love you.
You inspire each and every line.
If I could capture your strength, resilience, and glory...
what a poet I would be.

Mother I love you.

falling a p a r t & fallingtogether

This semester has been one of the most difficult semesters I've ever tackled. I've literally been hanging on by the seat of my pants flying through everything, and I have to admit a change of pace would be nice. I've learned SO much in just four months, I've done things I didn't think I could do, I've done some things that I regret just a bit, and I've learned that a little passion for one subject can take one a long way.

Here's just a run down of some stuff that's happened:

 At the beginning of the semester I kissed my crown good bye. I crowned a new Miss American Indian USU, it was a bitter sweet experience but, goodness, she is amazing. Panicked about losing my very best friend as she embarked on a relationship of her own, spent an entire semester in my Advanced Creative Non-Fiction class focusing on one 20 page essay, that was so HARD to write that it consumed my every waking thought. I got my first traffic ticket and in my first car accident, picked parts from junkyards.   Then I experienced a severe financial panic attack when a surprise tuition fee popped up on my student account which made it so I couldn't register for my Senior classes. I literally thought my life was falling apart. And at that very moment I asked for a priesthood blessing from my AMAZING HOME TEACHERS.  Here's what I learned.

sure, things fall 

a p a r t.

but sometimes...

theyfalltogether.

I was recognized for my poetry. At the close of the Fall semester I submitted a portfolio to USU's Creative Writing Contest "Scribendi" and I placed first in their Undergraduate Poetry category and I got published.

Did you read that? I ACTUALLY GOT PUBLISHED. This is literally my dream come true! I had a goal to be published in something with anything by the time I was 20. Check! And to top it all off I got to read my poetry in front of my peers and an amazing little cluster of my best friends and supporters. It wasn't until I stood before the group of my peers that I realized that, they were all that really mattered to me. My family and them.I feel like even though this semester has been really hard, I've learned a lot. I've learned a lot about real friends and a whole lot about the importance of my family. About appreciating those in your life and the adventures you share with them.

Speaking of adventures- I discovered a deep love for nature and rock climbing out doors with freezing palms, jagged rocks, and the clear ceiling-less blue sky. I made new friends that had a zeal for adventure and oh, boy, I hope that desire in me never fades because I love that prickle in my fingers, that quiet contemplation of how to paint my life with words, the sheer panic of not knowing if I'll get my papers in on time and staying up until 7 am just because I have really good company in the midst of writing a wretched paper. I've learned a lot this semester.

A little about how things fall a p a r t.

&

a lot about thingsfallingtogether

Forest Fire.

I am darker now than I was before.
Skin slapped raw with wet hands.
I am redder too.These hand prints
weren't you, but ones like you. 

I swallow a little harder than I did before.
Mistrust oxidizes on me like rust,
orange flecks visible through blue green veins.

When you touch me I trust.
I trust, that you'll know I'm not
small and fragile.

No, I'm not gentle or demure.
I am a wild fire.
Alive and aflame.
Lines stutter, waving, curling
consuming, like this is a game.

But don't fuss.
This is a game of trust. 
Shoot me out of the sky like goose,
you send a hound to retrieve me,
package and keep me.

I am not released easily.
So don't you tease me
with your smile.

Save your kind eyes for another forest fire. 

The Stuff of Eternity.

 Sunday Morning Session

Microphones suspended in air above the choir.

Held by thin wires, stretched tight.

A sea of blue and black stood beside each other,

a unified school of fish.

An ocean and a choir aren't too far apart,

each created by God's hand.

Their voices stir my soul.

Delight the throng.

The organ sung beside them, artful fingers seemingly clad with gold.

Glorious sounds come pouring out of mouths,

A shower of wholeness.

In a sea for One. 

This last quote, wasn't made by me, but I loved it nonetheless. Lately, I love rock climbing analogies, because I climbing analogies are the best...so sometimes I think of life as a rock climbing wall. I like my walls to be easy and quick and I love the satisfaction of slapping the bar at the top when I'm done. It signifies to me that I have succeeded...and even further sometimes I like to pretend that it's the best thing I will ever do...so it's good to end on it....which means... I don't have to worry about being better because I was really good on that wall and I finished it. The thing is that life can't be like that though. That's not how the gospel works. That's not how my hobbies work.

It's the progression that is worth it.

It's easy to be caught up in an ending, because it's easy.

But that's not what we are sent on earth to do.

We are sent to progress.

A lot of the time I have the tendency to just want to be done with things. To slap a bar and be done, then forget about getting better because I'm tired. I forget that progression no matter how hard is worth it. I'm thankful that my progression is eternal and although it would be easy to just have an end all goal, it wouldn't be worth it in the end. In the end I just wouldn't be satisfied with my accomplishments to end all accomplishments. There would never be one thing worth being done for.  We weren't made for endings, we are eternal souls. Which is AMAZING! So, yeah, chalk up your hands and climb for the long haul-because I promise it'll be worth it.

That's just my Conference thoughts...hope you liked them.

-Stacie D. 

Monster in my Closet

That girl is beautiful, they say, her hips, legs, thighs
All packaged in a tan thin skin, hair bleached blonde.
She is what she is, the product of devotion.
She desired the thin thighs, a stomach that was wrinkled with lines because she can't stand having a roll.
So much that she read the calorie lines.
The magazines cinched her in and pulled her tight,
her ribs cracked with a lifestyle that told her that despite biology she could reach beauty beyond belief.
Doctor, doctor, please change what God gave me, please pump up my chest, please help my nose stick out a little less. I am not content with what I see, I feel like my own worst enemy.
That's what I see, the doctored image of a woman.
She's there every day in my closet, ribs poking out, tanned to perfection, lips hungry for attention.
And she stares at me. Watches me in all of my moments of imperfection.
A single roll above her panty line would make her less athletic.
That's what men desire "athletic" a kinder word for skinny.

Here I sit writing another stanza of angry poetry.
Because some ignorant male hungry for perfection degraded a  "real woman"
Whose hips were larger than her lips.
Who could carry a baby without worrying about compromising her body.
And this, this beast in my closet breaths heavy down my neck telling me
I'm imperfect.
And I with my gall believe her, I mimick her movements, praying that one day I'll end up looking just like her.
But like broken glass and all those beautiful devices and partaking of each little vice
I end up sliced on the floor...twisted up, lagging, and gagging on the "perfection" I'm being driven towards.

And everyday it's a constant struggle with the beast in my closet.
So before you let your tongue slip
Get a grip, because I never want to be that monster in my closet.
Starved for acceptance and perfection that is absolutely unttainable.

Details

It was there, overturned, a life shattered in an instant.

Twisted up in metal fingers marked by stinging tears.

Littered below the wreckage illuminated for seconds in red and blue lights were the things:

 a crushed water bottle, a jersey, and a picture.

A picture of a woman, perhaps a wife.

The white SUV overturned dumped out the details of a life, next to the flowershop, at the corner of a red light.

The life had become glass slivers in the hands of firemen and EMTs.

All the while the steering wheel was pressed flush up against gritted pavement, perhaps white knuckle held only moments before.

Shaken souls shiver to breathe again, as the ambulance sat still, the sirens shrill long evaporated into the night.

I sucked in a breath as the sky cried

causing droplets to roll

down my chin.

Reflected lights lit droplets up, reflected lights in puddles, reflected...

What if you and I were to die tomorrow?

Who would pick up the details of our lives?

What would be remembered when the things that happened to be left behind by me were a

shoe, a notebook, and a bracelet.

What would happen when my life was reduced to the details of me?

They say you only live once, but would I want to be remembered by every pair of lips I dared to kiss,

every cliff I jumped off of in an attempt to impress those who could care less?

Or by the foolish bravery of a night spent lying awake in the arms of a handsome stranger, all for satisfaction of saying, "you only live once?"

A night filled to fulfill a lustful behavior.

Would I want to be remembered by the hearts I broke?

Is that what I would choose to be remembered by?

Or would I want to be remembered by the words I spoke, by the time spent with people at home, by the words I painstakingly wrote in an effort to live!

Remembered by my mother, my father, my brother...

The people who built the flesh that clings to my bones

 in this body that houses me and my mind. 

Could I spend another day wasted with hate of this vessel?

In my wholeness, in this fleeting youth.

Spend another day ashamed of the brown skin that stretches across my hips...

I would not be remembered for the thinness of my thighs...

I would want to be remembered for my mind.

Because when your life is reduced to the details...

What do you think you'll be remembered by?

Ink Blots

So, this poem was a real fun one to write. I wrote it for a friend who did something so stinking brave, that when I was told- my heart leaped out of my chest and started running. I wanted to capture that bravery, because the first draft of this poem had a really different ending until she changed her mind. And, I kind of think that's how real life kind of is...so yeah.... I am so proud of my friend for doing this. It's not easy to bear one's soul on the page...haha, so yeah...this is dedicated to you Panchonio. :)

I am the hand dense against this page, that's what you make me my friend.
There I dry, condensed on a page, between blue lines is where I lie.
Dragged, I am dragged by you, thin across the page.
I create the pressure on my pen to form the words that speak for me on the page.
All they while the exclaim everything I cannot.

Because you, you are effortless.
Crisp and smooth as a desert sky.
Simple and calm, everything I am not. 

Yet, I can not take and remold this, refold this, create creases in the page to justify what I am feeling now.
Wrong is what I am. Wrong as red pen on a freshly written paper, graded at the digression of a professor, who has absolutely no idea who I am.

Judgment so contingent on an image that I have spread thin.

But, you are not my judge.
You are more like my witness.
You stand to testify and remind me of all that I am.
Reminding me of all the things that make living worthwhile.
You help me dream of far off places...
Yet remind me, that I'm doing alright, where I am.

But the truth is, you are just my friend.
And matter how hard I press pen into paper this page will not stand as law.
Cupids fruitless arrows drawn, fall short of you.
No, I'll never be the exception who is tan and swathed in blonde hair.
And no, you'll never look at me the way you did in August,
Under the starry blanketed sky, as you leaned over me and I wondered why...
I felt this way about you.
And I will always remember the night when we glowed under
the summer skies dancing and screaming with laughter.

It was easy for time to fly by.

Then fall swept in, leeched the green away, and I was left with red and brown.
You went to a far off, but warmer place.
As I clung to words that you had written between the lines.
And I probably licked about a hundred stamps to send you mine.

But it wasn't enough.
Your very presence in ink.
And with every line with words unspoken
 I thought of...
Every push, every shove, every wink gone unnoticed.

It seemed that you were just my
 friend.

Never, had I heard a word so binding.

It slayed me.

It almost caused me to curl up in a ball.

But, I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't be the one to wink or giggle at every one of your silly little riddles.Oh,- I can't possibly be one to caress your arm like you're a trophy...because you're not.

You are the ink blot on my page.
You are flawed.
But you have folded this poem down the middle and the sides.
Gave it wings to fly.

So... I'll let those words leap from my chest.
And heaven forbid you'll let them fall short.
Because you are the ink blot on my page.
And never has a stain seeped so deep.
Never have I breathed so deep,
as when I'm with you.

You, you, are the inkblot on my page.
Permanent and un-erasable. 
Flawed so fine, in between the lines.

Not A Costume

An Indian Cry.
A simple savage sound, you expect to hear that from my open mouth.
I get it, you're practically an expert.
Thick turquoise bracelets stacked up along your arm.
Clunky rings gaudy on each finger.
You have a dream catcher on your rear view mirror.
Does your shirt read "Native Pride?"
All in the name of fashion I suppose.
Yeah, I love your aztec prints, and those moccasins are rocking.
All your fringe and feathers make me feel sublime.
Thank you for supporting a nation.

Yeah, I get it, it's your personal expression.
But I'll have you know...to me this is more than an accessory.
I am more than the beads and feathers that you have defined me by.
I am more than the leather, the rugs, and the peyote you suspect I have.
I am more than the print you wear upon your shirt sleeves.

I am part of a people.

And never in my life have I gripped a flask and pressed it to my salty lips and prayed to die.
I am more than an addiction.
And no, this is not a Halloween costume you can buy.

Anxious hands can mimic and pry to make money off of an image that has become derided by lies, but I will not stand for it.
The marginalization of my people.
This is not to be ignored.
Weeks ago not far from here, a young boy raised  his hand.
Pressed an innocent palm towards the sky,
he asked "if the Indians are still alive."

When we talk about Indians it's so easy to generalize, but we have tribes and nations.
We have come far from where we've been.
This historic grief for my people I carry is more than just for another's sin.
It's not something that can be forgotten.
It's been written into the faces of my mother and grandmother,
I am a living history, a legacy, that cannot be forgotten.
Beyond the boarding schools and the mantra of "kill the Indian and save the man."
This is my clan, this is what I stand for. All my people.
All of them hungry for something to be claimed as equal.
Through the loss of identity.
Passing trends, fads, head dresses and fascination of rich culture.
This is my identity. 

I wear my skin with pride.
So, no, I am not a costume you can buy.

Places

It shouldn’t be noticeable but it is, right as Utah ends and Idaho begins, the road is exponentially smoother. The skies get clearer and I can feel that I’ve entered another state. There’s a lot I don’t like about Idaho, I don’t know why. It’s not much different from Utah if you really think about it. They look relatively the same, in that they have a similar geological appearance. But for some reason Idaho’s mountains are less majestic. To me they appear hungry, the sharp defined peaks, like the spine of a starving animal. The animal itself is still beautiful, yet somehow, sad. It reminds me of an animal in a zoo, one that just stopped caring.

            I should have a connection to Idaho like I do to Arizona. Idaho is greener and somehow more alive but Arizona is…magical. Magical without trying, maybe that’s why I can’t stand Idaho, because it tries too hard. It tries too hard to be like Utah. It’s the sad unsuccessful cousin that everyone tolerates. And Utah is the judgmental overachiever who just wants to seem cool to everyone else. And Arizona is just effortless, hot, dry, interesting.

The beauty between the two should be incomparable but  in my honest opinion Arizona wins. Because it's effortless. I'm not talking about hot sprawling city Arizona but the sand baked tumble weed portion of it that everyone thinks is ugly. The Arizona that if you look at the sand long enough you see flecks of brown, black, and gold. Sure it's a working progress and the shattered glass beer bottles are unsightly but it's history. Not saying Idaho and Utah don't have their fair share of litter...but it's different. I feel like since I've stepped in Idaho and Utah there is no possible way that I haven't stepped in a place that hasn't been stepped on before. That whole idea is just fascinating to me. To be even in a new inch that no one else has ever been in. Claiming that one spot for just a moment as your own. I know, I'm a dork and I love that sort of stuff.

And those crazy windstorms that fill your ears and teeth and nose with sand grit...but if you hit the wind just right and mouth words the wind takes it right off your lips and you can hear the whisper of the wind taking your words...it's...haha, I love it. 

I love Arizona.

I enjoy Idaho.

I live in Utah. 

They're all pretty neat I suppose, but at the end of the day I don't know where I'd really want to rest my head. 

Poetry!

"The Indian Beauty"

I saw a picture. Framed.

In a dear friend’s home,

admired by all.

She was called…

“The Indian Beauty.”

She was clothed in soft white wrinkled buckskin,

fringe hanging off her breasts and sleeves.

Snow cascaded around her, fading out the forest behind.

Beads decorated her hair. She had one of those furtive stares.

Because that’s what we look like.

We lie half clothed on buffalo skins.

 In some state’s gift shop or country store.

 With hands that are brown soft.

As if we don’t work,

as if our calloused life styles haven’t marked us just yet.

We are all as thin as willows;

legs limber as green wood in spring.

Like we don’t eat or cook.

In fact we all have a Native lover or some John Smith

You see us twisted up in a loving embrace,

vulnerable and sensuous.

Barely brown, almost white.

White enough to be admired.

White enough to be accepted

The flurries speckle out tradition.

But when I look into the eyes of my mother

I don’t see this.

I see hands mangled by arthritis.

Wrinkles web her tired face.

My mother is creased with a tradition that is heavy to carry.

So she has a broad back and sturdy arms.

Thick legs to carry on.

How else would we cross the threshold?

With our children on our backs.

To teach them not be laden by the thickness of a blizzard cold past. 

*
This next poem is a "cut up poem" in which I took some of my favorite books and took sentences and juxtaposed them together to make sense. This is a cut up of: Hunger Games, Under the Feet of Jesus, and Dubliners. 

“Hunger”

(Cut-Up Poem)

They found her in a few bones.

Openly standing for something he had

 repressed and denied.

She whispered in sepia tones to him.

Fingers outstretched seeking warmth

only to find a cold canvas companion.

She no longer acted as the child

he expected her to be. Bonier now, 

he crushed her like an aluminum can.

Simple as a stomp of his shoe.

He didn’t mince words.

His hands were big for his

wiry body. An expert on hunger,

But this was an entirely new kind

Emotion and romantic fantasy

Against the judgmental voice of

Conscience. 

*

“Putty Faced Baby”

(Original Poem )

A puffy snowsuit overwhelms my chubby frame.

Thick snow blankets the back of the truck.

I am two. My eyes peer past the chub of my cheeks.

I share an innocent gaze with the camera.

Putty faced baby molded by the hands of circumstance.

I know nothing about you, mother.

I didn’t know that he had come in under the cloak of the night,

Dried eager hands on you like you were a towel and

Wrung you until you were dry.

I didn’t know.

You’d tell me on my sixth birthday.

And I would watch as smoke

Smoldered, fueled by melted stubs of candles.

Wax hardening on my cake.

*

“Cache Valley”

(Nature Poem)

Cable lines thread through needle eyes of poles.

Yellow gold light, dapples the valley.

Catching on the feminine curve of

a mountain slope,

The tree tops are turning.

Smears of ocher and sienna

 through the canyon.

Like Autumn swept her pallet

knife through them.

Sun kisses Autumn

Making green blush. 

*
This is my attempt at writing a love poem. It didn't work out so well, in my honest opinion it kind of sounds creepy, but it was super fun to write. 

“Scorch”

(Original Poem)

Baked black brown

Charcoal edges.

Heat melded down my corners

I’m nearly welded to you.

Like coal or banked fire.

Fuel me and I flame

Deny me and my heat leaches.

A faint flicker in your eye,

Pick me up or tread upon me.

Allow me to sear your feet. Burn you.

Can I scorch you? Please?

I wish to scar you.

Cause your fragile skin to welt with a sweet liquid beneath.

That stinging is my name.

Let me burn you.

Scorch your skin dry.

Crack your knees, lips, palms.

Allow me to consume.

Consume you. Make you brilliant with my flames.

Till’ all that’s left is ashes.

Ashes.

Ashes.

*

“Grandma”

Original Poem

Grandma wears a broach,

A turquoise beetle that rests on her collar,

It lolls when she falls asleep.

Grandma’s eyes are milky white.

Her hair hangs over her face, cobwebs.

Cobwebs filled with silver strands of our history.

Grandma’s face is sun spotted.

Dark marks claiming a stake on her face.

Just like they did her to her land.

Grandma’s finger is continually pricked.

The bald finger riddled with needle holes.

She still loves fried chicken.

Grandma rests, in the earth.

Leaving a world that never claimed her as its own.

Backwards tradition, left in the midst, of unsettled dust.