—Poetry by Linda Klein, Los Angeles, CA
—Photos of Red Sands Pottery Courtesy of Public Domain
—Photos of Red Sands Pottery Courtesy of Public Domain
WE CALL HER PUNKIE
The dark-skinned man bent over baby Bettina's cradle,
his long, straight black hair, nearly brushing her cheek.
His serious face was transformed by a big-toothed smile
as he studied the little blue-eyed girl,
waving at him excitedly with her chubby arms.
"Well isn't she just the cutest little punkie,”
Ezekiel exclaimed to her mother, young Sarah.
Sarah smiled shyly. "Thank you,” she said,
knowing exactly what he meant.
In the Adirondack Mountains that surround the Hudson Valley
in Upstate New York, the Algonquin Indians
call the tiny flies in the region punkies.
The Indians are not annoyed by these insects.
They regard them almost lovingly and with respect,
as they do all of nature's creatures.
Ezekial was from an Algonquin tribe.
His three-times-great-grandfather had
crossed over from Ontario, Canada to fight for
American independence in the Revolutionary War,
and to establish a home for his family in the new, free country.
That cold morning, Ezekial had driven his old Ford
through deep snow to deliver groceries to Sarah,
then helped her store them in the pantry and icebox.
Sarah offered him a chair at the kitchen table.
She made a pot of fresh coffee which she shared with him
along with homemade buttered biscuits and jam.
She took Bettina from her cradle and placed her in Ezekial's arms,
"Hey there, Punkie,” he called to the little girl.
Bettina smiled and cooed. She liked her pet name.
That was seventy-one years ago, and from that day to this,
my friend Bettina has been called Punkie, mostly.
The dark-skinned man bent over baby Bettina's cradle,
his long, straight black hair, nearly brushing her cheek.
His serious face was transformed by a big-toothed smile
as he studied the little blue-eyed girl,
waving at him excitedly with her chubby arms.
"Well isn't she just the cutest little punkie,”
Ezekiel exclaimed to her mother, young Sarah.
Sarah smiled shyly. "Thank you,” she said,
knowing exactly what he meant.
In the Adirondack Mountains that surround the Hudson Valley
in Upstate New York, the Algonquin Indians
call the tiny flies in the region punkies.
The Indians are not annoyed by these insects.
They regard them almost lovingly and with respect,
as they do all of nature's creatures.
Ezekial was from an Algonquin tribe.
His three-times-great-grandfather had
crossed over from Ontario, Canada to fight for
American independence in the Revolutionary War,
and to establish a home for his family in the new, free country.
That cold morning, Ezekial had driven his old Ford
through deep snow to deliver groceries to Sarah,
then helped her store them in the pantry and icebox.
Sarah offered him a chair at the kitchen table.
She made a pot of fresh coffee which she shared with him
along with homemade buttered biscuits and jam.
She took Bettina from her cradle and placed her in Ezekial's arms,
"Hey there, Punkie,” he called to the little girl.
Bettina smiled and cooed. She liked her pet name.
That was seventy-one years ago, and from that day to this,
my friend Bettina has been called Punkie, mostly.
Red Sands Swirl Plate
RED WOLF, A FABLE
Extinction
Nearly forty years ago, the red wolf
that inhabited the wilds of Texas
and Louisiana gulfs was declared extinct.
Hunters had thinned the wolves' numbers
and dry, hot summer drought left them
nothing to drink or eat.
Wildlife enthusiasts and scientists knew
red wolf DNA was strong. They half-
expected a nexus to another life form.
Discovery
Recently, lively young canines
resembling red wolves were found
frolicking on Galveston Island.
They are believed to be a hybrid of
the red wolf and the coyote.
Theory
One night a male, Howl, searched
for his pregnant mate, Nessa.
She was missing from the pack.
Howl looked desperately through
brush and trees, until he sniffed
the acrid odor of blood and found Nessa,
lying under an old oak, limp and lifeless.
Sadly, he pawed at the bloody wound
in her neck from the human's bullet.
If only he could remove the bullet
and bring her back to life.
He placed his ear on Nessa's belly,
and heard the awful silence of
the young wolves' tomb as the
coldness of death invaded her body.
Unconsolable, he threw back his lupine head
and howled at the pale moon.
His brother wolves in the pack
knew the meaning of this mournful
sound and came to comfort him.
That night the pack decided to
become cave dwellers. For years
and lifetimes they lived their days
and nights in safety from predators
and from extreme temperatures,
wandering out with caution
only when necessary to find food.
Dealing with a diminished population,
the red wolves mated with compatible,
neighboring coyotes during
their night wanderings, creating
a new species—the red wolf coyote,
seen playfully tussling on southern sands.
Red Sands Swirl Canister
RED SANDS PEOPLE
The Red Sands were a family of potters
living in a pueblo in the Taos, New Mexico desert.
They earned their living from the sand
they mixed with water to make pottery,
which they sold to tourists who visited their village.
The sand was the color of the skin of the people.
Each pot, vase, bowl, or urn varied in shade
from red-beige to deep red-brown according to
the age and composition of the sand and
its exposure to sun and water over time.
Cereza, a young Taoan girl, one of the
youngest of the Red Sands family,
had been taught the art of pottery making
by her grandmother, Ruby, at the potter's wheel,
patiently, lovingly molding each piece.
She turned the wheel with both feet
on the pedals and carefully guided and shaped
the warm, wet clay with her hands, watching
the rings of color spiral into forms.
Rojo, Cereza's grandfather, had told her
that the Great Spirit created their people
thousands of years ago from this clay that
coated her hands, and that one day soon,
when his own life had reached its span,
the Great Spirit would reclaim him and
return him to the clay.
His look of resignation made tears flow
from Cereza's eyes. Rojo reached out to her.
"Don't cry little one. It is the way for all of us.
We must make room for the young ones.
In the mountains, rocks, and red sand,
our people live on. —We live forever."
From then on, whenever Cereza sat
at the potter's wheel and handled
the soft, red clay, she believed that she
was feeling the souls of her ancestors,
who had lived in this desert, and that
her touch was a comfort to them.
As she shaped a rust-colored bowl,
the clay felt warm and flesh-like.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
We’re all ghosts. We all carry, inside us, people who came before us.
—Liam Callahan, The Cloud Atlas
____________________
—Medusa, thanking Linda Klein for her fine poem-stories today!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
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Just remember:
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clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
