We are happy to welcome Dorothy Alexander to the site. Dorothy Alexander, lawyer turned poet, finds material for her poems most often in the ordinary life and history of rural western Oklahoma where she was born and reared. She takes inspiration from the agrarian literary tradition and the populist political movements that began in the 1890’s in the rural United States. She writes primarily in the narrative form, what she sometimes calls “narcissistic narrative.” Author of four poetry collections and a number of non-fiction short works, she owns Village Books Press, Cheyenne, Oklahoma, a micro poetry press.

RED MOON POWWOW
Along the Washita, July 2006

Tribal drums tremble the night air.
Dog Soldiers stomp a fancy dance,
turkey feathers bob and weave,
Converse All Stars and Nike Hi-Tops
slap rhythm on the packed earth.

The whole Cheyenne nation sits on folding
chairs, eating Frito chili pies and fry bread.
Spotted Bird’s widow, Christine Star,
daughter of old Finger Nail and Martha Swallow,
waits for the Give-Away to begin, rechecking her list

naming those she will honor with baskets stuffed
with bags of Yukon’s Best corn meal and flour,
Domino sugar, made-in-China junk from Wal-Mart.
Plus one fine Pendleton blanket and a carton
of unfiltered Camels for the Keeper of the Sacred Arrows.

Imogene Old Crow paces back and forth, her shadow
dancing in firelight, carrying on a serious cell phone
conversation, Blue-Tooth clipped to her raven hair.
She listens to the sacred drums with one ear,
the profane world with the other one.

HOMELAND SECURITY FAILURE
Along the Washita, July 1540

Isabella’s emissary rides through the waving
prairie grasses of the heartland, his blue Castilian
eyes scanning the horizon for seven golden cities.

He rides the endless plains breathing the dust
of buffalo, dreaming of wealth, of glory,
of returning triumphantly to his monarch.

He rides and rides, saddle sores pock his Spanish
butt, and cruelty fuels his aristocratic ambitions.

Wherever he goes citizen warriors trail
the conquistador column, silent as breath,
waiting, planning the right moment,
the split second when flint tipped shafts will
spill Old World blood in New World dust.

The right moment never comes.
Foreigners continue their relentless march
until every citizen is slain or subdued,
and all the roadside historic markers
chronicle the triumph of terrorism.