prairiepomes

The new home of Fifth World Journal, Anna Marie Sewell's blog

Recent Blog Posts

On the New Age: Ode to an Alien Nation
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Feathers belong to birds. Any human, anywhere, who uses them in any way is using a gift that we appropriate, to which we assign human meanings. What do the birds have to say about it?  Lately, on social media, I’ve seen Indigenous thinkers and activists moving to take down a spate of New Ag...
Published at prairiepomes
Surf Rider (for JW)
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A little poem inspired by another Twitter pal’s call for us all to work toward a better world, together. I’ve never met you, Jesse, but I believe we share a love for this world of wonders. I see it, too, sometimes, flashing a fin in the murky waves of this present time; battling the u...
Published at prairiepomes
On Aboriginal Veterans’ Day
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On Aboriginal Veterans’ Day
Today is Aboriginal Veterans’ Day in Canada. I suppose this is a necessary part of the process of Truth and Reconciliation for our nation, but I find it an ambivalent undertaking. It’s necessary, because so many Aboriginal men, and women, served in Canada’s Armed Forces despite ...
Published at prairiepomes
For the Master, One Year Gone Onward
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on any given day, divinity comes floating down the wind, or through still air reminding dirty seekers in our reek and tattered sensibilities that yes, it is still there. yes, it is still there. Thanks for the songs, Mr. Cohen.
Published at prairiepomes
In Honour Of Lifelong Learning, on this Day of the Dead/Dia de los Muertos
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With love to Margaret, and all my many beautiful teachers. You are the Gift. Today, I am an adult. I read, long ago, that Cherokee people count 52 as the age of majority, when one attains to the full rights/responsibilities of adulthood. It resonated with me, the notion that, by 52, one’s h...
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Hallows: At the Thinning of the Veil
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Read this while listening to Sting’s “Love is the 7th Wave” from 1985’s Dream of the Blue Turtles, which runs in my head as I write. at the edge of darkest season as the bright and ripe subside in rolling sober robes, november high above the city thermals far, in shawls ag...
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Lydia the Psychic
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Episode 1: Bound and Kneeling I met Lydia twenty seven years ago, and i’ve kept her secrets since then. I’m telling you now, because I know she’s not coming back here. She told me that herself. Where she’s gone? Not telling that either. You don’t get to know, like yo...
Published at prairiepomes
Transit of Alexandra
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Fuckin they’re on Native Time. I ain’t scared Ma, I’m mad. Fuckin chicken shit! I’m shaking cause I’m mad, Ma, that’s how mad I am! Two sets of footsteps, one a halfbeat behind. She catches up to Ma as they pass me, raging about white cunts on stolen land they’s just...
Published at prairiepomes
Little Autumnal Verse (for RM)
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Just for fun, here’s a verse that came to me this morning, inspired by a Twitter pal’s lament over the sadness of rain in October. It reminded me of my dad, passing on the Anishinabe view that Winter is simply when our Mother rests. This resonates with views I’ve learned from va...
Published at prairiepomes
Equinox 2017: Seasons Change
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Hello again. It’s been a while. This spring, my mother passed away. My father passed when I was nineteen, just setting out in the world. Mom was 51 then, as I am now: 51, a woman who’d given up bank work to raise a family with her husband working in the Armed Forces as a... Read More
Published at prairiepomes