Fire on the Road
there was a fire down the road
but before
on a small lot carved in the woods
sat a rusty mobile home
handmade wooden ramp leading to the door,
a worn out screen patched with silver duct tape,
broken panes on tiny windows
letting out the heat
letting in the cold
rust dripping from the dented roof
a foundation of barely balanced blocks
weeds covering old cans and melted cardboard boxes.
a dusty dog bowl
near a tire looped with chain
a few flowers planted
but soon dead
run over by a pickup come to
get the rent
sometimes, I'd see him there and wave
legless in his wheelchair
his shiny hair in a long dark braid.
He sat beneath a black flag
that pleaded for his brothers MIA
He'd send a toothless smile
wave back
I would think
about him running
through the mud in Vietnam
fighting to get home
to this —
his trailer on the “Rez” Not all that deep inside the woods
Not even far
from the packed sand road
a man my age
with history in his name,
Henry Dancefeather,
lived alone
Alone
with his wheel chair and his dog
His trailer home
moved in beneath the birches
back in '82.
His car was gone
so were his legs
but on Tuesdays
just like clockwork,
Jessie Granddaughter
brought sweet rolls and
wild rice.
She sometimes brought troubles
in the form
of worries
or in the form
of friends
He knew that troubles
can wear quiet moccasins
creep up on you
if
you don't know how to listen
The thing I want to tell you
is how the fire that took his trailer
just a month after he died
left only 3 things standing
The flag
that flew for the POWs he'd left behind,
the ramp
now leading nowhere
and the sweat lodge
where he wept.
Voice of Bob Dylan
In the voice of Dylan rings “the Range”
Harsh and toneless
True and deep
It resonates the inner core
The iron ore — runs through it.
The streets of New York City
Twisted notes and filled the voids
But
As I look out on a frozen lake
And birches lit with sunrise
I hear him clear and constant
Singing his beginnings
Like Woody, he saw the hard times lived around him
He found the poem in poverty
heard the song of the cold, clear,
Minnesota, mining town air.
Sandy started writing at the age of 13, when she knew everything, continues writing now, knowing much less. Finally focusing on her desire to write, she is inspired by her winter work as a tour guide at the home of Carl Sandburg in Flat Rock, NC, where she has also been fortunate enough to study with the Poet Laureate of the state. Summers find her inspired by her home in the northern most woods of Minnesota.