Forgotten Trail

A seven part poem from my manuscript, Spirit Songs.

Forgotten Trail

My grandmother
always remembered me
amidst her dementia
and forty some grandchildren.

No matter how many years
in between
she puckered her thin lips
my way
motioning me to sit
upon her round lap
of baby flab and boobs.

I was smaller and darker
than the other kids
and an opposite of my red haired mom
the ninth in a line of eleven.

She always said
I reminded her of her grandma
a woman she adored
under five feet tall and dark.

She was French
my grandmother would say
avoiding the story never told.

A story of a woman from another time
who left her home and lineage behind.

She married a farmer and quickly learned
the art of blending.

Generations pass by
times change
and a little bit of Indian
becomes cool.

But a lineage denied
is an Indian forgotten.


The last time I saw her
my grandmother was tiny
and I was huge with baby.

She puckering her thin lips
my way
motioning me to sit down.
I moved to her side
afraid shed break if I touched

and blurted out my question
she had never answered in life.

Do we have Indian blood, grandma?
Yes, she said, on my mom’s side.

A wise woman once told me,
Listen to your tears. Your
ancestor is guiding you home.

Off in the distance
the drum calls
as I gather her steps
with Indian help.

A trio of medicine
spirits, and her
guide me
to the land of our blood.

My grandmother was right
our ancestor has always been by my side

guiding me along her forgotten trail
watching me grow

as I learn the ways of our people
I become the woman I am today.

3 Comments Add yours

  1. Chet Bogar says:

    So happy you told me the story. This piece captures the depth of the rich black soil and the memory of the river. A confirmation that history lives in faces and places un our secret passions.

  2. booguloo says:

    I’ve been behind and hope to get more momentum going. Again a story teller to keep the memories fresh and to keep them alive. Thanks!

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