BAD LAND RISING

by Jim Muyres

Western land now called the Dakotas, North and South. On this white earth cheated native warriors are birthed then early die. Modern warrior spirits rise, roar, are muffled, smothered, dismissed by indifferent conquerors. Prayers are sent, sung on wings of hope searching for missing gods.

Beer and whiskey and meth to feel something. They crash cars, burn bars, bloodied in their own blood. They howl their pain, wild eyed they fight, they are Men. Lost, they live wanting, waiting for a path to open in the void where the spirits live, they die waiting.

The Women, too, downcast eyes wise, too many tears, owning their People’s broken journey. Their proud pedestal of Womanhood made mud. They come alive in the other world of dreams. Their fingers trace ancient designs on fragments of shattered pottery, symbols of a truth, such beauty, they wonder how to weave them whole. A caress in the wind the voice of Grandmother’s Grandmothers calling with wisdom from the past.

Awakened visions roll across mind’s eye, remembered seasons of plenty. Eyes shine hope in the faces of smiling brown babies lolling in tall windblown prairies. Brothers and Sisters chase joy through sunlit days, moonlit nights.

A People from a past, living in a Present they do not fit. They have been left behind. They did not die in their time.

In this Bad Land, reservations, ancient voices now awakened call, shaking a wearied people out of a painful reverie. The spirits hidden within are called to The Sundance, to live again.

The Sundance reborn lives in a circle. Not too young Men, nothing but brave are drawn. Courage a birthright so strong so thick, darkblooded, muscled they heed the call.

Drums beat, flames rise, eyes alive they wildstride in primal rhythm. Chests pierced, flesh torn, blood drained, moth drawn to this night’s fire.

They dance with mystic forms, visions swirl, a holy circle swells to a drumbeat. From their hearts a higher song forms, chants rise across time, ageless familiar calls, all gathered know the songs, echoes of other times, this time, future time.

Watching Old Men know. Blanket wrapped Women, warmed and blessed by the moon and fire’s light, are filled with that greater something.

Drums beat, pulses follow, no more yearning. Boys now Men, tranced, reeling. In this dry night bathed in their fresh and crusted blood. Lean, half naked, emptied, then filled with the strength of a thousand bears. Eagles whirl across their mind’s sky. Soaring wings replace the pupils in their flashing eyes, beyond free they could fly.

A full moon rides wide in the sky, a lantern to the wonders below. A too young Boy slips away from the fire and dance, unbeknownst, Girl-watched, she follows. His gait is sure he stops at the edge of the world, reaching down he waters his world, the strong stream of an almost man. The moon stares down immense, so near. Boy notches arrow, draws, challenging the moon so near. He aims high, lets fly, an arrow lost to space will never come down.

Low in tall grass, Girl flushes, childlove stirs. Drums beat, the earth whirls, on and on.

JIM MUYRES is an emerging artist and recently received a McKnight Foundation, Artist Development Grant from the Prairie Lakes Regional Arts Council. He lives in Minnesota, but is a former National Park Service employee where he worked and lived at the Theodore Roosevelt Park in North Dakota. He gets out of bed for relationships, social activism, photography, slowly remodeling a house, and being outside.