don’t play the hand that’s dealt

is this the 2nd or 3rd or nth year of a series coming up or are we going to try something new? Are we bending over for the forces that be and hunkering down to take our punishment or have we dusted off that old craft we built deep in the forests of our youth and set it back up to tack into the wind and rise above the numbing zones, the moans and lamentations of those doing it “right”, being “realistic”, living the life with the crooked hands they’ve been dealt, grateful for the scraps …or do we have something up our sleeves this coming year? A card or two under the table? Something that doesn’t depend on the House paying cuts with its trickling odds at infrequent intervals just to lure us deeper into illusions of debt? I hear free men once walked these plains, once looked at these same stars we see from our feeding pens. I hear that it doesn’t take a lifetime of planning or preparation to make a change, that it’s just a simple matter of stepping sideways in our lifes and running with a different current.

 

2 thoughts on “don’t play the hand that’s dealt”

  1. Amen. Well said. Thank you. What better time to remind ourselves to be all of our ourselves, to surprise ourselves, to be the lightning rod to our dreams. Aho Mitakuye Oyasin

  2. What be these cards, lifted on edge, balanced on Rocks Standing,
    pointing toward sky above, yet delicately resting on grounded beneath.
    If cards do play, then listen too. Two distant Bears Ears sequestered
    winter sleep, dreams of new form freedom. Or not if all color tribes
    don’t sing their songs, louder now. Storms thunder with no cloud, and
    rainbows form to window new horizons in sight, distant, inviting.
    What canyon creatures lie twixt here and there; lurking in shadowy
    lair? Those now venture further encouraged by softened domestic
    beasts; though remains their darkened intent. Waters heal. Let the
    torrent rush their realms, and may the jestor’s card have sway to
    awaken sleep walk crowd. As the herd grows restless, the foreshadow
    horsemen’s rumble comes closer, but those horses hold oil and gas,
    dead, gone. They cannot live on land that’s grown in Son and bright.
    Their mechanical ways rust before our eyes, focused further. Promised
    land. And legs that grew weak, newly generated twinge in motion, to
    exhaust the prey by standing tall, steady on card’s edge.

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