The Tumblin’ Roamin’ catholic

To Change – or not (then find some reason fair)
The choice is mine – to move on if I dare
“Most do not change – prefer to reason find”
His comment wry – as if he knew my mind.

Long years ago another spoke to men
Said they must choose which way forth to the end
“I set before you life and death as choice
Therefore choose life – to which I lend my voice.”

The did choose life, though change took many years
Their choice was frought with struggle and with tears
But when I look more closely at their ways
Each made small changes as they lived their days.

So I today start therapeutic art
Through paint and clay to now express my heart.
Poetic words till now have born such freight
While photo-life has idled at the gate.

I don’t know why the visual arts remain
Outside my life, no tool of healing gained;
So it abides outside my locus here
If left behind, great cost, for it is dear.

Lord, as I start this venture, open up
My self within that I may drink this cup –
Not let it pass, then subtle reason find
Thus leave me trapped, as prisoner of my mind.

I’m hoping that through media that’s new
I’ll find an outlet, just as poems do.
The plastic arts so long part of my life
No longer left outside this current strife.

It’s been that way for years since I came south
“Third Culture Kid” betrayed to them through mouth
Unknown to me until just recently
Though paint and clay and photos can be Cree.

Perhaps that’s it – My Creenglish Point of View
Strains deep within to share itself with you
For neither Cree not English is my voice
And thus my heart seeks Creenglish as its choice.

It speaks it now, though I am not aware
Of how the other two with it compare
With words I find I consciously must choose
Then Cree or English point of view must loose.

Maybe a blend is far beyond my reach
Ends of this bridge are anchored on each beach –
The bridge implied as folks cross over me –
Through insights gained the others clearly see.

If so, what’s needed is the silent touch
Transparent art, not view of me so much:
“The only way that he could know so much
If he with both groups kept in constant touch”.

That speaks to me of stress within my soul
For years within as ground conceals  a mole
That cancerous cell which twisted came to be
The weakest link – the built up pressure freed.

So what would now resolve this stress in me
So then to live from now on cancer free?
The word of option rises in my heart:
“Embrace then show both banks of stream through art.”

“Make cancer give more back to you ,” he said.
“Than it can take of life or daily bread,”
“What can you do now this disease is part
You could not do before for lack of heart?”

This dual life – two banks with stream between
Must integrate – a single life be seen
By me and others – Creenglish life to flout
A bridge between – that lets the pressure out.

What I muct own, my Cree side, which I fear
To speak aloud midst whites I hold so dear
I’m neither one, (which neither understand)
But both together, one held in each hand.

Do other folks this challenge also face
As clash of cultures supersedes our race?
For as we find what is out cultural-home
The tumbling stops – with peace – no more to roam.