To the Great White Fathers


To the Great White Fathers

--for the spirits of Hoon’Naqvut, Shash Jáa, Kwiyagatu Nukavachi, Ansh An Lashokdiwe

Who controls the past
controls the future;
who controls the present
controls the past.

—Motto of the Ministry of Information, 1984, George Orwell

I saw what you did today.

I saw what you took away.

I saw what you did today.

Great White Fathers.

Great White Fathers.


There never seems to be enough for you

to fill that great hole inside of you.

Great White Fathers.

Great White Fathers.


I wonder what kind of deficit must lie beneath all that wealth.

Great White Fathers. Great White Fathers.


I wonder if all the gains you make

are worth all of the things you forsake

for your children's children and their grandchildren.

Great White Fathers. Great White Fathers.


Taking of land, again.

Beating The People down, again.

Even grandmothers, again.

Again? Great White Fathers.


How much is enough, Great White Fathers? 

How much of a buffer from life do you need, Great White Fathers?

How much power do you need to balance out your feelings of inferiority,

Great White Fathers, Great White Fathers?


Has your pecker shrunk? Are you not able to get it up?

Is this why you run around grabbing and groping

and fucking everything up, Great White Fathers?


Do you need more money for a wall, Great White Fathers?

Or can't you decide between that and another war

so you can build yet another wall with American names all over it,

Great White Fathers?


I'm trying to understand, Great White Fathers,

how you could stand in front of a portrait

of the one who ordered the Trail of Tears

while feigning homage to Navajo warriors, Great White Fathers.

Are you unable to connect the dots, Great White Fathers?

Or do you simply not care, Great White Fathers?


I'm trying to understand you, Great White Fathers,

but I don't;

and there doesn't seem to be enough sake' in this universe

for me ever to, Great White Fathers.


Strange that after all your relentless taking

you won't be here to witness the future of your offspring.

While you rest sweetly in your gold-plated graves, 

the same people who fed your ancestors when they got here

will feed your starving descendents in the end.

Liner Notes:

The true roots of the term "Great White Father" are unknown but is believed to be anchored to the "Great White Father Myth", a recurring archetypal theme in early American history. An image by political satirist Thomas Nast entitled "Great White Father" was first published in Harper's Weekly in 1830 and depicts President Andrew Jackson holding and sitting before a group of Native Americans. In the late 60s, the term was used again by a group of First Nations people who took over Alcatraz Island in active resistance to draw attention to the centuries of tyranny and active genocide by the United States government against North American native people. They drafted a document entitled Proclamation to the Great White Father and All His People

(c) 2017 / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) /

image: The brilliant and timely artistry of Mark Bryan

sound: "Dronal," from Western Medicine by Ari Balouzian - all proceeds from the sales of this record goes to Doctors Without Borders in Aleppo, Syria.



Year's End


Year's End


Here we are

cut from the same cloth of stars.

Ribbons of memory and aching

fallen from the celestial village above.


Flowing with longing,

looking for a soft place to land,

how many years have we been wandering like this?

The monotony of the road caused me to forget.


Only now can it be seen

that some years are all about stripping away;

stripping away what has been

to make room for what will be.

Herein lies true recognition.

Herein lies the sloughing off of old skin.

Herein, Mother Time is edging us toward a jumping off place.


At year's end, we find ourselves waking;

transformed from aching strangers in the dark

to emboldened markers of blessing answering the call of the wind.

(c) 2017 / Pure Land Poetry / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) /

sound: Muichi Motsu, Maneki Neko


The Trading Post of Soul-Parts (and Other Fine Medicines)


The Trading Post of Soul-Parts (and Other Fine Medicines)

Cada luna llena

un viaje fuera del tiempo

Tirado, tirado, tirado

a través de esa línea invisible.

Este cuerpo del día a día,

una túnica desgastada y gastada queda atrás,

cuando hacemos estos viajes

a la tierra brillante en el otro lado.


Each full moon

a journey outside time.

Pulled, pulled, pulled

across that invisible line.

This day-to-day body

a tired, out worn robe left behind,

when we make these travels

to the shining earth on the Other Side.


I am visiting the Trading Post of Soul-Parts (and Other Fine Medicines) again.

The trail to get here is long and winding.

The path wanders through rising hills of glowing sage and mountain lightning.

The terrain, even the terroir, is what you would call a desert

but it is not exactly so;

though it certainly looks like one, you will also find

fresh water flowing







You never know who's going to be here.

The Travelers ride in from everywhere.

Sometimes gentle.

Sometimes fierce.

Sometimes grieving

or in a bad mood

due to what they're facing

back on the other side of the veil.


Some, like me, trot in as a red wolf.

Others fly in as fox-faced bats.

Others arrive as hummingbirds, twin-macaws,

cloud-like doves, thirsty pigeons, coyote, deer.

Everyone here

is here for the same thing;

to trade… trade in soul-parts, sunlight, starlight.




Like it was yesterday, I remember my first sojourn over.

On that gleaming night, I crossed paths with a dusty old Traveler.

A man of few words unless something is asked.

It was from Ojo de Águila (Eagle Eye) that I first learned of our task.

The Lady of the River sent me, I explained.

She told me I would know when to seek you out.

This is why I am here.

What are we meant to do here together exactly?

This was when Eagle-Eye offered a first Clear-Mirrored Reflection to me.


Ahhh. I see.

I thought you might be new to this realm.


Well, amigo, it is a little something like this.

We are here to learn,

and to sunlight, starlight, knowledge, healing bliss.


“Sunlight?” I asked.


Sí. You see, we are all born from the earth realm

yet we are far more ancient.

But with these bodies, bones, voices, and minds,

we don’t fully understand why it is we are here.

When we come in, we bring things with us of which we are unaware.

Our ancient connection to the stars.

The wounds and unfinished business of our ancestors.

Our untended gifts waiting to be brought forth.

If we distract ourselves and never turn toward these layers

then we never really grow

we never really love

we never expand

we never make contact with our ancestors

or the other invisible helpers whose job it is

to help us shine like the newborn stars that we are.


This is important.

Much violence comes

from people's star-nature imploding,

then exploding,

from not being nurtured, tended, encouraged, softly-held.

You have to grow a sun, a star, just like a garden or a tree.

You have to do so tenderly.

When a person's star-nature is forced into an implosion,

it is a dangerous thread for the weave of time.

This is why it is important for there to be places in the Other-Side World

where Pachamama's Star Children can remember who we really are.

This is why it is important to intervene

when you see the starlight going dull in someone's eyes.

If we let the light go out, the soul goes dark,

and then a little bit more of the world dies.


So, this is our task in Pachamama's Earth School,

which everyone is enrolled in as soon as we take on a Human Suit [body].

Remember our light

develop our star-natures

nurture the sun-glow of others

learn to give

and give away

learn to track the unfolding dream of Infinity

learn to receive

learn to make a wholesome trade

learn to witness each other's wounds and soul-parts along the way.

This is how to create change and re-knit torn parts of the Great Weave.


This great tutelage has infinite expressions.

No one owns Pachamama's way.

It can never be bottled, hoarded, or sold.

Anyone who says differently has a heart that has forgotten,

or they’ve turned desperate and unnecessarily cold.

The outflow of one's own sunlight, starlight, can only be shared

as sacred barter or given outright as a release.

This is what we mean when we say things like:

'He is glowing with fire' or 'Her spirit is free.'


Each person’s sun and starlight medicine is different.

Maybe it is music.

It could be poetry the way the ancients think of it

or some other kind of artistry that hasn't been invented yet.



Planting vegetables.

Growing healing herbs.



Dreaming and dream-working.

Treating a scraped knee.

Waiting for a soul to journey back to the Sun

while we engage in the important work of holding the dying person's form.


It might be a skill you knew in the Foretime

like learning how to read the weather five days out

by studying the small ribbon of blue

in the last moments of the day's fading light.


This is why we make the journey a few times a year.

We show up with the soul-part we've nurtured and grown.

We share it, we offer it, we "trade it" with each other

so we can grow and heal and learn

and remember each other’s sunlight, each other’s starlight, and our own.

Then, we go away, honestly, with a bit more light,

from the light we've taken in, honestly, into our dreaming-bodies

and we carry that light back home, honestly, to nurture all that it is for another season


we see

each other



I found myself intrigued

by what Eagle-Eye meant by "honestly."

As we sat around the crackling fire,

embers breathing cobalt-blue and red,

I handed him a bundle of copal and tobacco

wrapped in turquoise cloth, bound with a sun-yellow thread.


Tío, uncle, speak to me of this light and relating to it honestly, I said.


People are starving for an honest relationship with the light

in that world on the other side of the veil.

As a result, it is turning what could be an earthly heaven into a living hell.


They have forgotten how the bodies of their own mothers

was a sacred boat that carried them

from the stars into the realm of earth at the time of their birth.


They have misplaced the rainbow thread of the Sun

that reminds them they are meant to be servants

of the inner glow in themselves and others.

They have become like vipers biting and grasping at everything.

I have traveled over there and walked among them, invisible;

I can see the trouble unfolding every day.

It is even in their eyes, which is easy to spot if you let yourself really see.

The light has gone out in some of them,

and this has turned them into Thieves of Light,

Light-Stealers, which is a form of malnourishment and sorcery.


The emptiness they feel inside from the diminished light within

shapes them into desperate beings.

They try to steal the light from everyone and everything around them,

and some even turn around, with great theatre, and try to portray

they are a great source of light themselves.


They do not see our mother, Pachamama, as holy.

They claw at her body, poison her blood,

cut her hair, beat and rape her.

Some of the men's eyes over in the Other-Side World

have even become like hungry packs of rabid dogs.



Eyes that take in beauty like an artist, healer, or gardener

feel different on the skin, in the soul, of a woman

than famished eyes that take in beauty like a meal to be eaten,

which happens when a man is starving in his own soul for his own light.


This kind of man is not a caballero, a gentlemen-knight.

They approach everything like a hungry predator.

The only thing a man should hunt is his own spirit's medicine;

the true teachings of the Sun and starlight waiting for him in his own soul.

If the ground of his being isn't enriched by his spirit's own medicine,

his soul will start to go hungry

and that kind of starvation

leads a person to become a parasite.


True men cultivate themselves, with Pachamama as their guide.

Men with these kinds of eyes see beauty the way Pachamama sees beauty.

They become caballeros, jardineros, chivalrous knights and gardeners,

tenders and protectors of the Great Sweet River of Life.

Instead, so many of them in the world over there

are being shaped into rabid spirits, destroyers, purveyors of fear.


Until men and women have truly tended the light within themselves, honestly,

they are exiles to the abundant garden that  their own life could be

and will relentlessly

enter the world

scheming of ways






...and this was my first introduction

to The Trading Post of Soul-Parts (and Other Fine Medicines).



(c) 2017 / Pure Land Poetry / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) /






sound: Michael Hewett's "Being in Dreaming"

sound: Danit, "Guacamayo"

sound: Danit, "Amanacer"









Night Crossing


Night Crossing

Sometimes you must lay the body down
for days
so other parts of you can journey.

Not fluent in the language of eternity, voices in the Square World
will tell you: You're wasting time.

Other voices, meaning well,
may come off as a cacophony of crows.

"You could be doing more with your life."

"Just get over it."

"Your grief is a form of poverty you haven't been willing to trade in yet."

"What's your five-year plan?"

"Pull yourself up by your bootstraps."

"Maybe you should attend a great feast
where the world is made anew each night
by hours of storytelling
until it's no longer time
for any of us to be here."

Best to treat all of this
like a chorus of hungry birds.
I assure you. They fall silent
as soon as the sun goes down.
Then, you can finally enter
the silent healing heat of the ancient dark.

The intoxicated eyes around you aren't any good for this either.

They can't see the soot in yours;
leftover traces from placing everything you ever were
on the Funeral Pyre of Time again.

Sometimes you must lay the body down
for days
so other parts of you can journey.

Trust in the night wandering soul.
The Faithful Mare was with you before.
She will be with you after.
Though trail-weary, and hail-beaten,
she is well-traveled
and knows the way home.

(c) 2017 / Pure Land Poetry / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) /

sound: excerpt from "Quiet Friend," from Structures From Silence, Steve Roach