Cherokee

Sitting outside the 7-eleven,
I couldn’t help
but ask his name:
Cherokee.

His Mother was 100% Native.
He’s been going by that name since the 60’s.
Said he’s from Shreveport, Louisiana.
I should have guessed by the song in his words.

Said he has kids – 5 in Georgia, 5 in Texas, 1 in Florida.
Thought about trying to get a church
to buy him a bus ticket to go see them.
16 grandkids, only met a quarter of them.

Showed me his harmonica,
the only thing he’s never sold.
Played me a quick song, then said
“Yeah we made it big in Tennessee.”

Lived with a señorita
in Beaumont for about 7 months.
She tried to teach him Spanish,
But he couldn’t take working

in the grape fields.
Thought about going to Mexico,
but couldn’t understand the language.
Got hit by a car in Panama City,

and lived in a old folks home
until he was out of the wheel chair.
Then he hit the road again,
“goes where the wind blows.”

© Gabriel Forsyth 2012

Sojourning Thoughts

I have laid my head on pallets of hand
woven rugs and pillows beside hills where
goats dance.
                      I have lain nestled and hidden
behind warm humming signs telling of
comings and goings.
                                      The traveler’s night
always new, slept away believing
in no rest for the pilgrim:

Lifted like wings by jet engines
covered and reclined between destinations
soaring through the moon lit clouds.
Hugged by a twill hammock hung
from rafters below a rusted tin roof.
Stretched stiff on polished wood floors
under a polyester sleeping bag.
Pressed against windows on trains and buses.
Snoring and dreaming on someone else’s couch.
The journey carries me on, restless until I arrive.

© Gabriel Forsyth 2012