Saturday, November 18, 2017

Tobacco In the Flower (Far Away)

©2017 William Posey

Tobacco Flowers in the garden, 18 November 2017.....that is all.

Friday, November 03, 2017

A Light That NEVER Was : Dennis Banks Dead

©2017 Turtle Heart : Garden Detail 3 Nov 2017
Death of Dennis Banks : A Light That Never Was

Ed Note:
It brings me no satisfaction to have nothing good to say about Dennis Bank$. It would be so great to have American Indians to celebrate and honour in these pages. There are so many fine American Indians...but they never seem to attract the American press. What is so frustrating is the sad mythology and obtuse nature of American media reporting and its fascination and morbid obsession with criminals like Dennis Bank$, Russell Means and fat Leonard Peltier. We all really wish the American media would just pay attention...(ed)

SEE also this link: Conflicted Legacy of Dennis Banks

Serial criminal, self-promoter, philanderer and suspected murderer Dennis Banks has passed away this week. Across the uninformed, clueless national media the myth building has proceeded relentlessly to copy and paste their absurd observations and celebration  of the life of an unworthy and pathetic symbol of the American media’s absolute failure to show even the slightest interest in telling the world the truth about American Indian people and history.

The media tells us he was surrounded by his “family”. But who was his family? He has one wife he abandoned in the middle of an Oregon highway, pregnant with his child. Numerous (dozens) women over the years gave birth to Bank’s illegitimate children, children he never recognised or supported. So who were these “close family members”?

Banks remained un-indicted for his part in the torture and murder of Anna Mae Aquash. Yet most American Indians, if not the actual media and courts, know he was involved closely in the decision to murder this young mother. No one mentioned this story.

There are only a handful of American Indian people who get covered in the national press. The Americans seem desperate to have some sort of American Indian to write about. They have made up stories and given them a face. Banks is one of those. The media never talks about his crimes, his scams, his embezzlements, his illegitimate children, his domestic abuse allegations, none of it. When it comes to American Indians it seems the truth is not at all important. There are so many fine American Indian people who have never been discussed. When the media talks about these people they always have Banks or Russell Means or Leonard Peltier, a trio of gangsters, cowards, thugs and killers who were photogenic and manufactured from white guilt to stand in for the thousands of honest, decent but utterly forgotten American Indians who strive with dignity for their lives every day. The actual obscenity of Banks obituaries stands in direct contrast and a horrible one at that in the face of the deep struggle for truth against the corruption and lies of Donald Trump. Perhaps people don’t care about that either, but at least there is what some call real and actual journalistic “search for truth” in those stories.

The truth about American Indians does not matter at all to the media. Not. At. All. The writers at the NPR, the NY Times, the Washington Post…the information on American Indians at all of them is just made up. Reporters who have professional credentials and actual reputations are employed to just make things up, to gloss over the truth, to pen platitudes and empty biographies as they move on to the next big story. And everyone is OK with it. How is this aversion to the actual known facts of the absurd fake life of Dennis Banks not at all known to these people?

I have said for years that American Indian people are literally drowning in a vast ocean of bad information. The lamentations in the press about Bank$ is yet more evidence of just how putrid and sad this reality is. No one on earth can point to a single useful accomplishment or act of so-called “leadership” by Dennis Banks. Yet there is a volume of eulogies rolling in that imply something was there. When there wasn’t. How odd is that?

I don’t often think of dead human beings. Most of my lamentations are for the animals I knew. Cats. Birds. John Belushi. My old friend Red Horse, my friend Ralph Verde. I am a bit furious Banks dropped dead before he could be indicted for his part in the murder of Anna Mae Aquash Pictou. Her torture and murder will weep for justice for eternity now, while the dirty little Dennis Banks gets eulogised as some sort of hero by a culture that loathes and despises its American Indians. The last of the criminals and cowards that “founded” AIM are dead. Each one of them got away with it. Escaped into the shadow world. 

Empty people resurrected into icons of a light that never was.
©2017 Turtle Heart

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Sostice Summer : 2017 : 5:24 am CET

©2017 Turtle Heart
Summer Solstice: 5:24:08 CET am

a good dream
is like a song in the morning
just as the light rises
it is a surprise even though
you wished for it all night
the rising light pushes the shadows away
in front of the light
or behind it
that is where all shadows belong
how much do we remember?
how much have we forgotten?
you dreamed all the night
this very night
and now spring has passed into summer
and the next dream waits for you
the dreaming that carries us
between the shadows and the light

Turtle Heart and Silvia Santi

Monday, March 20, 2017

Equinox of Spring 2017

©2017 Turtle Heart

©2017 Turtle Heart
water turns into poison
wherever we have set our hand
dreams turn into taxes and penalties
the lines go around the block
there is extra money and time for fire
that burns without heat or light
deep into our well.armed nights
the belly of the earth is drawn and quartered
with dividends paid upon the dust itself
as it floats into the sky
carried by the winds
yes, spring arrives again
an old memory from the roots of time
the seasons go ahead and change
even as everything else remains the same

equinox of spring 2017

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

The Tears I never Cried

©2017 Turtle Heart

i remember deaths
that I did not die
ancestors I never knew
and the names of
I did not bury into the waiting earth
I remember mothers whose sons
I did not bleed or maim
and I remember prayers I never made
to gods I never named
in wars I never fought

all that I do not know
yet not knowing is not the same as unknown
or unmoved, so I remember all that
by dreams I never had
and the stories that men will tell

if the tears of heaven were to fall
would my faith swim or drown
sinking to the bottom
where those actual feelings lay screaming
in sacred silence
that silence no one has ever heard
or would I rise newly named
and blessed
and rise up to the sun once again

is it easy to remember what has never happened
in that life where the body never dwelled
and the bells never ringed
where water and wine
dripped from the rainbows
onto time’s old bones grown shiny in the dawn
where light begins to leave the shadows
and the shadows become children once again
remembering everything
trusting everyone
I am forever the one who never knew them
the one who has counted shadows
the one known only to the wind

the one who remembers…everything

Turtle Heart...©
Winter 2017

Monday, February 13, 2017

Looking At My Feet

Winter 2017
The editor switches direction. Reality at last has become to harsh. So I looked around. My house is steeped in nature...stepped as well. Nature is the boss around here. I often go out and look around with one of the cameras. It can change the direction of my spirit from a place of stress to one of many imaginings, in particular when we have bright moons.

So looking around, I find:

©2017 Turtle Heart All rights reserved

That stone heart was one of the first things I made when I came here. I made it as a gift for someone back in the states but could never bring myelf to part with it.

©2017 Turtle Heart All Rights Reserved.

Winter flowers. Stone wall. And old piece of Italian glass.

©2017 Turtle Heart. Everything carved from local stones. A gathering around the garden, just above the morning fire. A few days ago. Abiding. Stone Dreams.

©2017 Turtle Heart. All Rights Reserved. Undertakers stones in old carved bowl.

The winds of the world blows our souls and our lives into knots. For every one that is untied, another is clinched so tightly by so many that confusion is inevitable. Sometimes even desirable to those who know the knots and follow the winds. I don't think everyone gets it.

Living like an Old Eagle in a fine nest, I see the grey skies and orange new face of agitation and sorrow. Like an unleashed fury. That's in the Distance. yes. nearby I have what I have.

February 2017
Pantelleria Island

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Trumps Expanding and Exploding Head

Nothing would please me more than to write eloquently about our beautiful lives, our great country, all the noble deeds of its citizens and the honour of its leaders.

Those things have all be hijacked. Replaced with gold curtains and alternative facts and the suppression and silence imposed upon our service agencies all across the Federal workplace. Looking back on the events that placed Donald John Trump at the head of the US Government:

The Concert:
Jon Voigt? Robbie Drums? What a yellow, dull cloud rises over the nation. This plastic drummer in his mohawk haircut gave us the perfect musical opening. Voigt’s speech in particular is so perverse, he is such a disgusting, yellow man. Carrying water for gangsters and telling us about God’s prayers and Lincoln’s Joyful Spirit? Let us rejoice in knowing that the most disgusting posture by the most disgusting white people in America….begins. Jon Voight, fuck you from the bottom of my shoes. Everyone appearing at this inaguration is cursed, disgraced and exposed as cowards….and desperate for attention, which is about the same thing. Sam Moore stumbles over his muttering song about America, a stumbling, mumbling, mediocre imitation of a junkie names Ray Charles. An Uncle Tom for the ages, perhaps. Then the country music. Of course. Country music goes with everything. The Frontmen, they were pretty good actually. With their god bless the usa.

Will DJ Trump break 300 pounds before one year? The LV gambling odds give him 4:1 fro impeachment in 6 months.

4 guys who played a stripped down piano tell us everything is going to be be be be OK. Yay. No matter if you think it is all falling apart. There is something suspiciously jesus in this part. And no fruit was thrown. Really talented schmucks. It is hard to believe in nay of these performers. Really hard. I can only watch it in pieces. “Sound and Fury signifying nothing”…come to mind.

Eventually Trump shuffles/waddles forward. And talks gibberish, with no subtitles. Impossible to watch this pffy face, listen to this anality of human speech. I went to mute. Study how this gross person actually walks. His head thrust forward, well past the centre of gravity. His jacket open. His little, tiny feel, holding up the huge pig of an obese frame, kind of stomps forward, slow,  sort of exactly like the way Frankenstein's monster used to amble across the big screen.

The Inauguration:

The most empty speech perhaps ever given. By the most absurd white man ever elevated to a position of power. It started raining the minute “he” opened his mouth. What a disgusting speech. What do “his” words even mean? His speeches are all gobble-de-gook and hand-waves, completely empty of actual meaning. As dumb as old George Bush was, you could see him struggling for an actual idea. With Trump it is all jabberwocky. And still no fruit was thrown. I could not find a single word with value or hope. I noticed GW Bush applauded not once, this speech. Obama gave him a few. During the many prayers “he” glared straight ahead, closing his eyes only to open them again quickly. He could not do it. Could not close his eyes. Could not hear or understand these prayers. These empty prayers. Not a single word from a single heart. Only the manufactured words. The schtick of the con. It was all concluded by a screeching of the anthem by a young woman who could not fully form her words, and who sounded drugged out and shrill. So here we go. Good luck everyone.

….it is an exercise in gross revulsion to write about this disgusting man and his cronies. Now we know he has silenced the EPA, silenced the USDA, silenced the National Parks, ordering government agencies funded by our taxes to go to silence, blacking them out, forbidding any kind of public statements on any media…a move which seems illegal and a violation of law to my perceptions. Putin would be so proud.

It is literally impossible for this bloviated caricature of a human being, Trump, to hold this office. Impossible. The fall begins today. It needs each of us. 

The American Indians expect nothing good from Hater Trump. We know he hates American Indians. He hates their casinos (5% of tribes have a casino) because they drove his own casinos into failure. We know he is a grudge holder, a bully, a coward who strikes from behind (and happens to be POTUS).

And next week he will nominate a SCOTUS.

America whither goest thou in thy dark hood in the dark night? And who will speak for you now? The media is cowed and lost, not knowing how to call a lie a lie or an idiot an idiot. I don't know how to make this news elegant or inspirational. From here it feels like a dark age has fallen.

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