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Some journeys, I believe, are endless
For what the mother does not find
One hundred years later
The great-grandchild discovers.
Such is the nature of the animal.

Within the soul there is an endless journey also :
In search of love that lasts ;
Trying to find forever in one moment.

But, if I must speak, my years will say
Do not rely on pleasures of the flesh ;
Less on affairs of the heart.
Create what you can
But do not be disappointed by your losses ;
For what some men and women have lost is great.

The most precious thing you have is your soul,
And the dignity with which you pass on
To those who come after
Your knowledge of the value of  life and love
And above all, humanity's vision and age's realization
Of the absolute tyranny of Time.



They said,
he was here,
he was here
i said who ?
The father you never knew.

They said good-bye
for me, I guess.


In Ghostly Twilight

The canine creatures run
Back and forth in yipping celebration ;
The smallest gath'ring around a
Half rain-filled pail,
Lapping up the afternoon.

The darkness creeps in
With black-faced raccoon pups
Their mother biting at the heels of night
Whose wildness replaces domesticated day.


I wanted once
Fortune and fame :
I was a small person
with a long way to go ;
Lonely in my heart of hearts
I found the darkness that is
Powerful and true
All around me.
We walk in the shadows,
Death stalks us night and day, but
The light guides us
We emerge, finally, unscathed :
In the pure flame only
flesh ages and suffers.
Ultimately  we walk with God :
The skies are full of song :
The earth blossoms beneath us ;
Our arms are full of flowers.

Everywhere I go
No one speaks to me
I am citizen of the world
Remember me !

Whilst the waters flow
The way is clear ;
Though the winter winds blow
on the vines of life
we are as gourds
Shook in joy as well as strife.
Worshipping life with life,
Sunlight finds the Great Spirit's ear,
So that we travel day and night without fear
Crossing a land, happy and sacred
We walk always with the spotted white-tailed deer.
All from the Chapbook LANDSCAPE
by Mary Barnet
Copyright 1996




poets write with a trail of blood from the cosmic womb of time
conceiving and giving birth, in seconds though it takes years
in cold sterile rooms---
only avoiding the Grand Inquisitor
by feeding him snacks of imagined memories
until his probing fingers of pain
cause us to confront life.



after our kiss the moment extends
forever in never-ending line
the trees of my homeland america
like the cypress of france and spain
reach out on the horizon
into the mellow golden
yellow lake of receding afternoon
pines gathering for worship
and the rippling waters
of the lake of the Great Spirit
where the island of the turtle -tulipitmenipit
sits like a maiden
upon the waters of our grandmother
the whirling dancer
that is our earth.


For the dawn of the storm night.
I will canoe these lakes.
I am no one's
I am every woman
I am glad
I am alive
I have held the cup of death
Always cast it aside
I abandon abandonment.
I am reborn.
Each day renewed. I am !
I am ! I am !


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Copyright, 2006, Mary Barnet-Schiff.
All right reserved.