Adopted Brother, Manny Moreno's Here! Come on and Say Ketchem allea (Good Morning)! Read His Thoughts, Poetry, and Much More!

 

Note: No, I couldn't understand this language, but I knew it was important history of the Yaqui... I hope it incites interest to at least some readers...

Good morning.

If there is anything I want to be remembered for, it's that I have grown into feeling like this.
May God have mercy on me.
Have a blessed day.

~~~

Almost midnight. Outside it's mostly quiet. My friend Homie the cat, is asleep on the couch.

What is the human being way? Is it a sacred way? Or is it not? All religions or rituals, ceremonies and cults, in theory are created by humans, to guide or lead humans to a higher power. But overtime become corrupted and the reverance for the Creator is set to the side. I believe the Creator is spirit. The same spirit that created the universe, the earth, and all living things on it, including human beings. That is where the truth of power and reality exists. This is what I believe. The human being's ways are imperfect. But I find where humans walk in a sacred way, they usually pray to the Great Spirit, in spirit and in truth. Just my thoughts tonight. If it makes any sense. A'ateaka yeu matchune.

~~~

(with my two sisters)
I woke up a little while ago, and I can't go back to sleep. Got a pot of coffee brewing and it's still kind of warm inside. Burning sage. I was dreaming of my grandfathers and grandmothers. I feel blessed to have grown up with them around. Their generation is no longer here. But I have their memories that I will take to my grave. I lived so many years in the darkness. Not knowing about my ancestors. Not knowing where to look. I walked through the darkness to find the light over thirty years ago. When I got rid of the firewater. And the search began. I found my ancestors, and all the things that remain about them, leaving no doubt. It took decades of searching, frustrations, putting everything together to leave for our future generations. Through my veins they flow. They live. With that understanding becoming clear, I began to walk in a more respectful way. Reminded that I represent in my walk, all of those behind me. I've grown in many ways over time, like a baby learning how to walk. And it's been a humbling experience and a maturity. Not without shortcomings. Anyways, the coffee's ready. Catch you on the rebound. A'ho

RANCHO DE CENTINELA

I awaken each day

From the dream world

A place of all things possible

Alone

When taa'a, the sun, rises

Shining light on our world

Blessings my eyes

Thankful for another day

I eat alone

Think alone

Paing

               Draw

                                Write

Alone

Spinning my wheels

Over this thing and that thing

Worrying over nothing

Stir crazy sometimes

Connecting the two

The middle of nowhere

Nothing sacred here

Only the earth below my feet

Fast food drive-throughs

Taco wagons

Quick Stops

Truck stop filling stations

Mission de Oro

A passerby's oasis

To fill up, piss and grab

A burger to go

This is nowhere

And nowhere 

For me

Is like a dog

Without a bone

In the twilight zone

                                 --Santa Nella Blues

                                   Monolin Manny Moreno

City of Santa Nella. Hwy 5. California

SANTA NELLA WINDS

Almost all the time

The Santa Nella Winds

Like an unwanted visitor

Like a mean-spirited bully

Pound on the metal trailers

Banging them merilessly like

Loud clanging cymbals

Annoying for days and nights

Sandblasting everything in sight

A tall cottonwood

In solitide in a field

Of dry weeds in back

Clings tightly

To huge gnarled broken

Branches dangling

Reaching for the dry

Earth below them

When the winds bite them off

Like a hungry lion and I hope

They miss falling on my roof

--Monolin Manny Moreno

Santa Nella Blues

~~~

A VISION STANDS TALL

The bell tower of Mission de Oro

Is the tallest structure in Santa Nella

Jesus Monroy Garcia's Vision

He built and called Mission de Tesoro

Means treasure

On the very spot where

Tiburcio Vasquez spent his childhood days

For thirteen years I've seen it

Going out and coming in

Standing tall for all to see

The Vision of a man

Who never got to see

The whole Vision through

To build missions four

Hundred miles apart

From Alaska to South America

But this will do

--Monolin Manny Moreno

Santa Nella Blues

~~~

This is the painting of Manny that I have sitting next to me on a bookshelf as I work..

Of course, I have no idea what he was thinking as he created this...

But, for me, it represents the minutes, hours, months and years that he has worked, alone, to share His Gifts from God to all of us

What a treasure of history, of memories! His Life!

That's why I'm so happy and grateful that He Comes to Share

Here at Book Readers Heaven...

Indeed, I'll soon have in my hands the Manuscript 

                

I want to read it... He has already agreed that once I get the copy, I will be able to share selected excerpts with all of YOU!

And, most importantly, he has allowed me to be very clear once again... Manny Moreno needs YOUR help to publish what I believe he sees as his personal memoir... Once he wants to ensure that he can proudly sell and have sufficient copies to provide anybody who wants to read and learn about a Yaqui American who has struggled living in a white man's world for many, many years... He has become a true historian for his family and has gathered as much as he can to provide documentation, pictures and more, through his words and writings, paintings, and other creative works... I am constantly amazed at every single precious artistic endeavor comes out of just one man... Imagine--two people from each side of this nation found each other--certainly a God Incident!

So right now, on Manny's behalf, I have brought together a little more of the pieces of brilliance that seem to appear right from the top of his beautiful mind so often... And ask you to think hard about supporting an elder of his people, who, in today's politics, is finding DEI mandates especially difficult and a total inability for him to publish, perhaps, his last book... At least that's how I'm feeling as I try to create my Open Memoir to be just published here on Blogger... I wish for him even more. That his book can reach far into the hands of our indigenous citizens' hands and minds to know that we care enough to ensure the history of ALL peoples' histories are not ignored or even banned--but read carefully so that we may grow more closer and actually learn to Love our Neighbors as God has shown We The People Are...

I'm finding new pictures he's created all the time...They are fascinating, don't you think?

This one tells what I just said about him, as I interpret it...He's working to represent his culture and his heritage all at the same time... Such Talent! Must be Shared!

Folks, I love to watch how our indigenous and other cultures celebrate their heritage, don't you? I'll be starting reading Manny's book soon. In the meantime, I'd like to suggest that you introduce yourself to a neighbor, a fellow United States Citizen who lives right around the corner online! Go out and introduce yourself and ask to connect! Right now!    Find pictures of his ancestors, his drawings, and check out his stories, or just send a message or caring to your new friend!  

https://www.facebook.com/YAQUIME

Don't forget to watch for chosen excerpts of his, yet, unpublished Book!

Manny Anthony Moreno on Facebook (Different names as needed this site)

God Bless Us One and All

Gabby

Ongoing Contributor, Manny Anthony Moreno Shares The Tree - Drum - Poetry from a Yaqui Elder...

 

Welcome Brother! Good to hear from You!

The Surems & The Talking Tree: Yaqui People's Legend

Decided to go ahead and post here--it's worth heading to YouTube...

THE TREE 

A twig from an ancient tree was planted in this valley

 one hundred and eight years ago

 with grandparents' post-migration arrival

 propagated with a labor of love and dream songs which

 sprouted roots rich 

with indigenous sacred hope,

 and over decades this twig branched-out

 into an ancestral tree 

lush with a heritage of scattered leaves,

 

some have prevailed on the railroads farm fields

 and overseas warriors in battlefields, 

some have crooned and swooned

 on saddles of assimilation

 not total though to gain an education, 

some have hummed commitments to heaven

 in humble jubilation,

 some have whistled weary in whirlwinds

 on life’s meager means,

 some have not forsaken chanting

 enchanted traditional ancient cosmic conscious themes, 

and now in this soul-deadening 

out of balance Y2K millennium

 infancy 

I reflect in the autumn years of my being 

standing somber in the shade of our tree; 

what will become of it and me?

 For the tree expands into five generations

 perpetuating a pristine perpetual dream

 in this valley reality

 like enormous hawk wings 

encapsulating us with a shade of simplicity

 celebrated in a social status of invisibility 

and I native son shy of eloquence

 irrigate the tree with common words 

to nourish-in nutrients of this life force

 flowing in crimson canals of flesh

 in the fertile soil of San Joaquin

 in the plants and critters

 in the rivers and pulses of little towns

 being shredded for progress

 and malls in the decades 

deciphered from a million memories

 fertilized for posterity prestige

 and dignity of the tree and landscape

 and panorama of our souls. 

From my first book The Bridge Is Gone

Drum

 My hand drum made of buffalo hide

  in sis’ Atwater apartment on a glass table

 cradles the sun and harbors the moon

 next to photo of dad by the window

 each time I pass 

the drum woos my weary eyes

 I try not to notice 

no matter how much it cries,

 still, this heartbeat of the people

 powerfully works its way into my conscience

 flooded with thoughts too heavy to mention

 I know someday

 when my sullen spirit surfaces

 from the ashes of dreams 

dosed in flames

 when my eyes again penetrate

 through clouds of doubt

 then together

 heartbeat of the people

 we will ceremony in harmony

 in the sun and in the moon .

I believe it is important to learn more and more about other people such as we learn about through poets and other creators of historical blessings. May you find a way to learn and you will quickly realize that in all the important ways, we are all the same - God's children...

Donations. ( Art and books) - The Elder- A Tribute / 12.00 / 4.00 shipping

@monolin

thank you.

John Herlihy, Poet and Ongoing Contributor, Shares His Latest! - Complementary Music of Love

 

Ballad of the Oud

by John Herlihy

 

The sad music of the oud flows on the waves of ancient seas,

The notes float through the air on the breath of fresh breeze.

Such sadness is heard in the strings, so many years of sorrow,

An ancient instrument with roots in grief here on earth below.

Through an extensive range and cultural heritage, the oud sings,

Known as king of the instruments and the instrument of kings.

 

Invented by Lamech, a descendant of Adam, so legend claims,

Fashioned from the body of his deceased son and his remains.

The myth of the biblical Lamech directly links the oud to grief,

Grieving his beloved son, the image of the oud provided relief.

The ballad of the melancholy oud both song and mythic story,

That appeals to the heart of the ages with its honorable glory.

 

Rosettes over the sound holes on boards of cedar or spruce,

A rounded pear-shaped body as if resembling a bowl of fruits.

Fruits sublimely did emerge as music to reach expectant ears,

Music that would often reduce the listeners to streams of tears.

A short neck to play notes with more fluid, voice-like motion,

Microtones as in-between notes expressive of musical devotion.

 

The oud played with Sufi poetry as symbol of the soul’s yearning,

Found in courtly love poetry as the instrument of pure longing.

Medieval times witnessed the oud to represent cosmic mystery,

The more enlightened time of the Renaissance sought harmony.

The oud took its shape during the Islamic Golden Age of theory,

Scholars and musicians refined its design to enhance musicality.

 

Each region of the globe produced its own enriching style, tone,

Drawing from the essence of their own culture, light from bone.

The Arabic oud of the desert sands warmer and deeper tonality,

The Turkish oud in the land of the sultans penetrating musicality.

The Persian Barbat, an ancient lute, played with distinctive clarity,

The oud of Andalusian Spain an instrument focused on its tonality.

 

Present-day music incorporates the oud with jazz, flamenco,

Eliciting harmonies from strings by the subtlety of virtuosos.

Listen to this music of the ages as if being lost in its valuation,

As in intricacies of oriental carpets one loses concentration.

Music to echo our ancestral sentiments as peals of thunder,

As Adam’s ancestor sings a simple ballad of magical wonder.

 

As a lover of ancient cultural lore, I take up the oud in hand,

I have never played the oud before, I accept your reprimand.

Still, I have now completed this treasured poem that I wrote,

Who is there to stop me from playing this one exquisite note.

To pluck a single string, as if plucking a flower, with such care,

To listen to and to witness the sacred musicality of its prayer.

- - - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Beautiful in its coverage of historical significance!

Birth of a Poem

by John Herlihy

These poems – well, they just keep on coming,

They come from where, humming – drumming

On the balcony, at the bus stop, or on the bus,

I dictate them on my phone, to us, to us, to us.

Rhythms soon begin to gather, then to mount,

Ideas begin to spill forth I cannot rightly count.

Breath to make us breathless, hard to breathe,

Fresh words filling the page that cannot deceive.

Bright sparks to capture before riding the wind,

That turn into a conflagration unable to rescind.

Fire as smoldering embers burning in the heart,

Left behind ashes, aromatic incense to depart.

Felt not as pain but ache as the poem is born,

The verses, flow, finish, from imagination torn.

Hand-scripted with an ebony ink-tipped feather,

Dandelion seeds in the wind ride thru heather.

- - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Ah John, you were born to be a poet and remain throughout...

Ode to Childhood Innocence

by John Herlihy

Ah, to be as little children, to live as children forever,

To run thru streets lit by sunset, have to go home never.

To wrestle my playmates, being tickled into frantic laughter,

To play together knowing they will be friends forever after.

To take a deep breath as a surge of exultation passes through,

Any more happier than this in life I never knew.

Riding my bicycle through the empty streets for pay,

Delivering newspapers to my neighbors at dawn of day.

All the other children still sleeping in their beds,

Sledding down winter snowdrifts on painted sleds.

Ice skating across a frozen pond under a starlit sky,

Blowing bubbles into the air without knowing how or why.

Whisper to my imaginary friend and never feel alone,

All trappings of my later life pared away to the bone.

To wake up in the morning without worry or care,

With full reliance on my night whispers of bedtime prayer.

At the breakfast table with my oatmeal feeling like a king,

Playing melodies on strings of my heart as my voice did sing..

Expressing all of my childhood emotions without pretense,

Reveling in the magical wonder of sweet childhood innocence.

- - - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Are we not capable of childhood innocence as adults? Thought-Provoking

This Is What It Means

by John Herlihy

This is what it means to be an infant:

The days are as long as a year.

This is what it means to be a child:

They want days to be longer than they are.

This is what it means to be an adolescent:

They want days to be shorter than they are.

This is what it means to be young:

The days are short, but the years are long.

This is what it means to be middle-aged:

The days are long and the years run along.

This is what it means to be old:

The days are long, but the years are short.

This is what it means to be elderly:

The days are short and the end is near.

This is what it means to die:

Minutes or hours gone, a few seconds left.

This is what it means after death:

An ageless journey into the beyond.

- - - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Somehow my memories don't match yours until the very last stanzas...Different lives???

John, thank you for inspiring us once again

to force contemplation, wonder, and awareness

May we find the place where your words lead

For God is speaking through many these days

to HIS people across the world, not just one small group

but to all He has Created...

May we Listen...

Gabby

Ongoing Contributor, Manny Moreno, Poet and Elder, Yaqui Tribe - Writes about Today's World... And More...

 

THE DEFINING

They who try to define me

Want to confine me

But I know

Where I come from

Who I am

I was born

A Moreno

Recorded on paper

A hyphenated American

Racially profiled from the gate

My future mapped out 

By colonized design

To exist under their control

For all of my life

My mind

My spirit

My soul

The European systems

Values

Religious

Distorted History

Their indoctrinations

Precepts

Laws

Entertainment

Oaths

Their Everything

Everything belonging to them

Leaves me naked

To society and the world

My identity determined by

Their definition

Of who I am

How I'm to be regarded as

Nothing more than a shell

Of my ancestral heritage

Of no consequence

No value

Dehumanized

To play the role they

Have created for me

To be

To be accepted

Total assimilation

An imposter to myself

A ball of confusion

A mongrel at best

Rage

My response to all

They have destroyed

And continue to destroy

Is to keep learning

Itom Yoem noki, our ancient language

Our history and culture

To keep our traditions alive

To honor our ancestors

Itepo emouttiak bwe'ituk te Yoeme/Yaqui

I am proud to be Yaqui

I owe no explanations

I have no need to justify

I don't have to ask for permission

I am just responding to what has

Been forced upon me

For centuries

And like my ancestors before me

I live with their inheritance

The fire of resistance

A ceremony

A song

A prayer

Truth

Cannot be extinguished

Cannot be denied

Paas into waata / Peace and love.

~~~~

Lioj em chaniavu, ketchem allea.

It's a pretty sunny morning. Got to get going to take care of business.

Later on stopping for a while at the water and drop some tobacco.

How are you all doing on this new day?

Some people have good medicine.

Some people have bad medicine.

Some people have no medicine.

Some people just like to talk like they know something.

Today is a good day to give thanks for this breath of life for ourselves, and for others.

And for this sick world, to heal.

May this day be a grateful one. A happy one.

Nin jiaksi jiba euwate.

~~~~

A smile a Day

This elderly woman

Lived on the corner of

South Jupiter and Comet Street

in a nice big mobile home

She kept sparkling clean outside

No weeds or litter on the grounds

Frail and pale

She was

Hair white as snow

Gently

Slowly

Step by Step

Hunched over

She kept on

Going

I remember when

I first waved at her

in passing how

She never waved back

As she was glancing

I tool it personal for a long tme

But I kept on

Waving anyway

Whenever I passed by.

One day

She finally smiled

At me and waved

It made my day brighter

And from then on

She always did

Just Wondering

How would life be

All around for everyone

If time were devoted

To examining ourselves

To see where our humanity

Is stacked up against

Decency

Respect

Patience

Love

Forgiveness

Charity

I fall short

On things I never noticed about me

But I try to change

The unhealthy

Unspiritual things

Within me

Day by day

Growth is like a blade

Of sweet grass I planted

Years ago

And continue to water

Change is a slog

Doesn't happen overnight

Hurts and scares

Fears the unknown

I challenged myself

It was worth the sacrifice

I have more

Respect for myself

For life

More careful

How I walk

Daily in the World

A common man

~~~~

Donations. ( Art and books) - The Elder- A Tribute / 12.00 / 4.00 shipping

@monolin

thank you.

Folks, I agree with one of the men who spoke that our Native tribes are the least of who should be considered an immigrant! Yet, Trump who is indeed an immigrant by his heritage, as are all of us, cares only that they are NOT White!  This type of discrimination has got to stop...or else all the rich white supremacist men will be the only ones living in the United States! May God Be with ALL His Children...

Gabby