I don’t know what we are trying to say Native America…
White man and the Indian?
Fight for your right,
Fight for your white.
Apache -
Underlined in black "indian" ink Africa!

Mammon, their false god of avarice, says,
their 'final solution', extinction,
to steal everyone's everything,
can't be stopped, notseeism will rule.

"...We(e),..." bay, nay, you will be separated from
the State, as the Constitution dictates, the people
will rise again, your treason will end, Oyate.

Somatic revolution, each one's foci of attention
solutioning with all life, betwixt Earth and Sky,
evincing to be alival, not survival, lifting sights,
inspiring visions, meditations, actions, sweats to Sundance.

While we look to the 7 th generation, with our climate crisis strike,
starting 9-20-19 and 'the Green New Deal', we also mournfully remember
'Wounded Knee', 12-29-1890, where 300 Native Americans were exterminated.

Most of them were women, kids, a root of our king-kong sized terrible-two's
current war on kids, mostly Latinos.  I would fly just for a day, as a mayfly,
the Beauty Way, if I were more me, rather than as long as an eagle flies,
selling out, destroying, killing.  Viva la evolucion.  Wakan Tanka.

How many long years did I spend with you,
Lakota Oyate?
Though Wasicu skinned, wearing the paleness of imperial greed,
The reverberant beating of ceremonial drums
Caused my heart to bleed
Rivers of blood,
Tears that I shed,
Soaking the sagebrush and sorrow-laden plains
Inside the hollows of my bones.

Tiyospaye, you are always.

Pilamaya, always and forever.

Mitakuye Oyasin.

Lakota Oyate, you raised me,
A rootless, tender-hearted girl,
Kicking up the dust on some
Empty reservation road.

Lost, but found
In your kindness.

Tiwahe, when I had none.

I filled my plate at your tables, Wojapi and thickened breads,
The laughter of the wild-hearted children
Ringing through the stars like the songs of rainbow-chested prairie birds.

Little takojas, how you grasped my hands and claimed me.
How clearly I can hear them calling, “auntie, auntie, come play!”

And so, the people of the river, below the plains of Standing Rock,
I love you, thechihila,
Forever.

My little children will forever walk in kindness and humility
Because of the values you raised in them;
Because you drew them in as if they were your own blood,
Because you sewed vibrant ribbons on their shirts
As if they belonged in their humanness,
In their innocence,
To your great nation.

Lakota Oyate, I can never repay you for the way your heartbeat

Saved me.

Prayed for me.

Pilamaya Wopila,
Always and forever.

Come home from eagle-throated distance,
The canoe-tip of the crescent moon scuds
Into the silted, mud-bed of heaven.
Her face-dream beside the pine trees
The mollusc of purpled wampum beads shining.  

Bury my hands, ninidji, in the eagle’s nest,
Carry my feeling words to her on wings.
Let her mix roots, berries, clay
and the feather of my hands
To paint her face with my words and these trees.

Or let my hands ripple like flat-fish
Above the silt-bed of her slim stomach,
Held there in radiant scaled warmth.
Lappihanne, the rapid water of our river heart,
Like an arrow that glides from the bow,
My people where the tide ebbs and flows.

To us both, the dark, golden edge of woods whispers, kuwumaras…
And the water arrow will never land,
But carried in my eagle’s hands,
I say kuwumaras, my love, and pierce through all darkness
To the empty path made full with the ripples of all who have passed.
My nika, swan of the woods, let us dive into the dark, golden sea
Of forever in the hills.

Wide little eyes watch from behind the door
    fat little fingers grip the wood, until the blood has fled and left them
  white with cold.
   Chill iron fingers of terror curl around the pounding little hearts and      
squeeze
      their childhood from them
   For the demons enter, breaking down the door;
     their guns drawn, blood on their hands, death in their faces.
    The blind ones rise, with effort, with confusion
   curse the lying promise of the empty bottles, laughing at them from  
     the ground
   and having played themselves to the trap, are pushed helpless to the            
  door.

   and the little eyes burn as they read the little minds their story;
    and flood the tiny trembling faces as they shout the silent truth into
        the hollow room
  that with step after echoing footstep, the beloved ones
    the blind and stumbling ones
  are herded with the crack of whips over the edge
   to a buffalo's death
         in the dark.

you
     non-
colonizer

friend, companion, self-intellectualizing

non-
      colonizing
colonizer

who loves, cares, hurts
              [ me ]

lays an offering
of violence
                  at
                     my
                         feet

non-
     colonizing
colonizer

this is how you love
           [ me ]

Natives' compassion taught
Pilgrims at Plymouth
How to live within, give to,
Natures' abundance.


That providence sowed
Reaped graces' harvest,
Fraternity, bearing
Fruits to this day.


We gave Native-America
Genocide, Earthocide.
Chief Seattle said,
No one can own the land.


Bowing to Above and Below,
For gifts bestowed,
Giving, may we again,
Walk that way!

it's easy
forgetting
You.
     the hatred
of Me.

until I cease
          to blend
in

and what has
        been lying
in wait
           emerges