Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal

Scott Thomas Outlar lives and writes in the suburbs outside of Atlanta, Georgia. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the Hope Anthology of Poetry from CultureCult Press as well as the 2019, 2020, and 2021 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. He has been a weekly contributor at Dissident Voice for the past seven years. More than 2,000 of his poems have been published in literary venues around the world. Selections of his poetry have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Azerbaijani, Bengali, Dutch, French, Hindi, Italian, Kurdish, Malayalam, Persian, Serbian, and Spanish. His podcast, Songs of Selah, airs weekly on 17Numa Radio and features interviews with poets, artists, musicians, and health advocates. His seventh book, Evermore, was written along with coauthor Mihaela Melnic and released in 2021. More about Outlar’s work can be found at 17Numa.com.

When Form Takes Shape


There are beams in your eyes

There are pyramids in your head
built by hands you can’t see

There is an ego slain
and buried in the desert

There is a point of no return
along the same path forgiveness treads

There is an owl in your eyes

There are jewels in your heart
hidden deep for safe keeping

There is a flame rising
from a cup that can’t be filled

There is a moment of revelation
where old skin sheds to breathe anew

There is music in your eyes

(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Mysti S. Milwee©)

When Form Takes Shape
WᎮn FᎣrm ᏔkᎡᏍ ᏍᎭpᎡ


TᎮrᎡ ᎠrᎡ bᎡᎠmᏍ Ꭲn ᏲᎤr ᎡᏰᏍ

TᎮrᎡ ᎠrᎡ pyrᎠᎻdᏍ Ꭲn ᏲᎤr ᎮᎠd
bᎤᎢlt by ᎭndᏍ ᏲᎤ cᎠn’t ᏎᎡ

TᎮrᎡ ᎢᏍ Ꭰn ᎡᎪ ᏍᎳᎢn
Ꭰnd bᎤrᎢᎡd Ꭲn tᎮ ᏕᏎrt

TᎮrᎡ ᎢᏍ Ꭰ pᎣᎢnt Ꭳf Ꮓ rᎡtᎤrn
ᎠᎶng tᎮ ᏌᎺ pᎠth fᎣrᎩᎥᎡᏁᏍᏍ trᎡᎠdᏍ

TᎮrᎡ ᎢᏍ Ꭰn Ꭳwl Ꭲn ᏲᎤr ᎡᏰᏍ

TᎮrᎡ ᎠrᎡ jᎡᏪlᏍ Ꭲn ᏲᎤr ᎮᎠrt
ᎯdᏕn ᏕᎡp fᎣr ᏌfᎡ kᎡᎡpᎢng

TᎮrᎡ ᎢᏍ Ꭰ fᎳᎺ rᎢᏏng
frᎣm Ꭰ cᎤp tᎭt cᎠn’t bᎡ fᎢlᎴd

TᎮrᎡ ᎢᏍ Ꭰ ᎼᎺnt Ꭳf rᎡᎥᎡᎳᏘᎣn
wᎮrᎡ Ꭳld ᏍkᎢn ᏍᎮdᏍ tᎣ brᎡᎠtᎮ ᎠᏁw

TᎮrᎡ ᎢᏍ ᎽᏏc Ꭲn ᏲᎤr ᎡᏰᏍ

Transcending Definitions


Art is not an institution…
it is an inner fire
born out of those
whose eyes pierce deeply
into hidden burning beauty.

Art is not a class taught by Academia…
it is a holy vibration
pulsing through the veins
of those who sense the truth
of this world’s perfect purity.

Art is not a transaction…
it is a soulful expression
that has no choice
but to be released
as a reflection of the Source.

Art is not a sales pitch…
it is an intense emotion
coupled with a vision
of crystalline transcendence
that ruptures open new dimensions.

Art is not yet ready for the grave…
it is a raging protest
against the mortal flesh
that sings the sweetest melody
about overcoming life’s suffering.

(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Mysti S. Milwee©)

Transcending Definitions
TrᎠnᏍcᎡnᏗng ᏕfᎢᏂᏘᎣnᏍ


Ꭰrt ᎢᏍ Ꮓt Ꭰn ᎢnᏍᏘtᎤᏘᎣn…
Ꭲt ᎢᏍ Ꭰn ᎢnᏁr fᎢrᎡ
bᎣrn ᎣᎤt Ꭳf tᎰᏎ
wᎰᏎ ᎡᏰᏍ pᎢᎡrcᎡ ᏕᎡply
ᎢntᎣ ᎯdᏕn bᎤrᏂng bᎡᎠᎤty.

Ꭰrt ᎢᏍ Ꮓt Ꭰ cᎳᏍᏍ ᏔᎤght by ᎠcᎠᏕᎻᎠ…
Ꭲt ᎢᏍ Ꭰ Ꮀly ᎥᎢbrᎠᏘᎣn
pᎤlᏏng thrᎣᎤgh tᎮ ᎥᎡᎢnᏍ
Ꭳf tᎰᏎ wᎰ ᏎnᏎ tᎮ trᎤth
Ꭳf tᎯᏍ Ꮼrld’Ꮝ pᎡrfᎡct pᎤrᎢty.

Ꭰrt ᎢᏍ Ꮓt Ꭰ trᎠnᏌcᏘᎣn…
Ꭲt ᎢᏍ Ꭰ ᏐᎤlfᎤl ᎡxprᎡᏍᏏᎣn
tᎭt ᎭᏍ Ꮓ cᎰᎢcᎡ
bᎤt tᎣ bᎡ rᎡᎴᎠᏎd
ᎠᏍ Ꭰ rᎡfᎴcᏘᎣn Ꭳf tᎮ ᏐᎤrcᎡ.

Ꭰrt ᎢᏍ Ꮓt Ꭰ ᏌᎴᏍ pᎢtch…
Ꭲt ᎢᏍ Ꭰn ᎢnᏖnᏎ ᎡᎼᏘᎣn
cᎣᎤpᎴd Ꮻth Ꭰ ᎥᎢᏏᎣn
Ꭳf cryᏍᏔlᎵᏁ trᎠnᏍcᎡnᏕncᎡ
tᎭt rᎤptᎤrᎡᏍ ᎣpᎡn Ꮑw ᏗᎺnᏏᎣnᏍ.

Ꭰrt ᎢᏍ Ꮓt Ᏸt rᎡᎠdy fᎣr tᎮ grᎠᎥᎡ…
Ꭲt ᎢᏍ Ꭰ rᎠᎩng prᎣᏖᏍt
ᎠᎦᎢnᏍt tᎮ ᎼrᏔl fᎴᏍh
tᎭt ᏏngᏍ tᎮ ᏍᏪᎡᏖᏍt ᎺᎶdy
ᎠbᎣᎤt ᎣᎥᎡrcᎣᎻng ᎵfᎡ’Ꮝ ᏑffᎡrᎢng.

Portals


Stars are holes
in the sky
bleeding through heaven’s veil

I would swallow the light

I would choke on the hemlock
if I thought it might
bring you back
down to earth

I stare at the moon
every 28 th day
and pray
that we survive another cycle

I watched you digest their poison
I watched you drink deep
with faith in their bombs
from the soothing lull
of that siren song

Chew on the edges of night
to taste the angle
where source floods
the shape of flesh

Your yawn could birth a universe

Your sigh could shake foundations
to the core

(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Mysti S. Milwee©)

Portals
PᎣrᏔlᏍ


ᏍᏔrᏍ ᎠrᎡ ᎰᎴᏍ
Ꭲn tᎮ Ꮝky
bᎴᎡᏗng thrᎣᎤgh ᎮᎠᎥᎡn’Ꮝ ᎥᎡᎢl

Ꭲ ᏬᎤld ᏍᏩlᎶw tᎮ Ꮅght

Ꭲ ᏬᎤld cᎰkᎡ Ꭳn tᎮ ᎮmᎶck
Ꭲf Ꭲ tᎰᎤght Ꭲt Ꮋght
brᎢng ᏲᎤ bᎠck
Ꮩwn tᎣ ᎡᎠrth

Ꭲ ᏍᏔrᎡ Ꭰt tᎮ ᎼᎣn
ᎡᎥᎡry 28 th Ꮣy
Ꭰnd prᎠy
tᎭt Ꮺ ᏑrᎥᎢᎥᎡ ᎠᏃtᎮr cycᎴ

Ꭲ ᏩtcᎮd ᏲᎤ ᏗᎨᏍt tᎮᎢr pᎣᎢᏐn
Ꭲ ᏩtcᎮd ᏲᎤ drᎢnk ᏕᎡp
Ꮻth fᎠᎢth Ꭲn tᎮᎢr bᎣmbᏍ
frᎣm tᎮ ᏐᎣtᎯng Ꮇll
Ꭳf tᎭt ᏏrᎡn Ꮠng

CᎮw Ꭳn tᎮ ᎡdᎨᏍ Ꭳf Ꮒght
tᎣ ᏔᏍᏖ tᎮ ᎠngᎴ
wᎮrᎡ ᏐᎤrcᎡ fᎶᎣdᏍ
tᎮ ᏍᎭpᎡ Ꭳf fᎴᏍh

ᏲᎤr Ꮿwn cᎣᎤld bᎢrth Ꭰ ᎤᏂᎥᎡrᏎ

ᏲᎤr Ꮟgh cᎣᎤld ᏍᎭkᎡ fᎣᎤnᏓᏘᎣnᏍ
tᎣ tᎮ cᎣrᎡ

Masquerade


How many viruses sour your verses?

secret vowels
corrupted vials

spent coding
firewall
breached

This is not the God you promised
nor the war I begged

but all in all

Lordamercy

it’s still a beautiful
age
to be alive

(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Mysti S. Milwee©)

Masquerade
ᎹᏍᏇrᎠᏕ


Ꮀw Ꮉny ᎥᎢrᎤᏎᏍ ᏐᎤr ᏲᎤr ᎥᎡrᏎᏍ?

ᏎcrᎡt ᎥᎣᏪlᏍ
cᎣrrᎤpᏖd ᎥᎢᎠlᏍ

ᏍpᎡnt cᎣᏗng
fᎢrᎡᏩll
brᎡᎠcᎮd

TᎯᏍ ᎢᏍ Ꮓt tᎮ Ꭺd ᏲᎤ prᎣᎻᏎd
Ꮓr tᎮ Ꮹr Ꭲ bᎡgᎨd

bᎤt Ꭰll Ꭲn Ꭰll

ᎶrᏓᎺrcy

Ꭲt’Ꮝ ᏍᏘll Ꭰ bᎡᎠᎤᏘfᎤl
ᎠᎨ
tᎣ bᎡ ᎠᎵᎥᎡ

Rearview


It was when
I finally realized
that there was nothing
left to lose
that I truly
began to live
in a state
of forgiveness

of course
it always sounds
so much simpler
upon reflection

and that is why
I try my best
to keep
these mirrors
clean

(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Mysti S. Milwee©)

Rearview
RᎡᎠrᎥᎢᎡw


Ꭲt ᏩᏍ wᎮn
Ꭲ fᎢᎾlly rᎡᎠᎵzᎡd
tᎭt tᎮrᎡ ᏩᏍ ᏃtᎯng
Ꮄft tᎣ ᎶᏎ
tᎭt Ꭲ trᎤly
bᎡᎦn tᎣ ᎵᎥᎡ
Ꭲn Ꭰ ᏍᏔᏖ
Ꭳf fᎣrᎩᎥᎡᏁᏍᏍ

Ꭳf cᎣᎤrᏎ
Ꭲt ᎠlᏩyᏍ ᏐᎤndᏍ
Ꮠ Ꮍch ᏏmpᎴr
ᎤpᎣn rᎡfᎴcᏘᎣn

Ꭰnd tᎭt ᎢᏍ why
Ꭲ try my bᎡᏍt
tᎣ kᎡᎡp
tᎮᏎ ᎻrrᎣrᏍ
cᎴᎠn

Published by mystismilwee

(Painter, Poet, Digital Artist, Storyboard Artist, Illustrator, Photographer, Lyricist, Spoken Word Poet, Songwriter, Singer, Musician, Dancer, Theatrical Performer, Screenwriter, Synesthete, Philosopher, Academician, Motivational Speaker)......see my page for Biography

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