Sometimes i need a hand
When i cant stand,
But our people have disband
On our home land,
Suppose to be the land of the free
But wheres the freedom,
They try to silence my speech
So tell me wheres my freedom,
You cannot take whats not yours to take,
Now our earth mothers dying and we cant erase our mistakes,

I will not idle any longer,
Raise our hands together we are stronger,
All our nations its time to come together,
United with my brothers and my sisters we can make the world better,
Idling no more, we will take back our rights tonight, idling no more, lets heal this open sore,
we will idle no more,  its a young revolution ,
Kick start society into a new evolution,
We are done with the institutions and restitutions,
We will be the final resolution,

We talk about being one but wheres the unity,
What was once open country is now polluted  cities ,
Wheres the semma where the sage,
Cause cleansing our spirits is the next stage,
Aboriginals of the world hear my words together we can achieve our wildest dreams but first its gotta start with you and with me,
To make others believe that we will succeed,

This is our time, this is our land,
This is our life, uniting all bands,
2019 and its still astonishes me,
That you havent honored your promises to keep the land clean,
The government has continuously lied to us,
They say they want reconciliation & then they arrest us,
And we are tired of your empty words, they're absurd ,

We will idle no more, heal the open sore,
Our knees no longer wounded, our arrows no longer broken,
i wont be ignored and I will be outspoken,
Our people had it right from the start, many drums but we all share the same heart,
Listen closely you can hear the sound of the beat,
The shuffling of our dancers feet ,
Our people have been on a long ride,
Suvived reservations, resdentials schools and mass genocide,
It all started in 1492 when Columbus first sailed the ocean blue , but it ends now with me and with you.

The europeans were rolling on the river while we were caneoing on the lake,
They assumed our people we weak,
But that was a mistake,
500 years of ****** and oppression and stil, we will not bend , we will not break,
Our generation is wiser then the last, it’s our future that’s at stake,
Your time is over hand the torch down,
Your time is over , no more bowing to the crown,
The government has been corrupted,
The peace has been disrupted,
A volcano of truth has irrupted ,
The silence has been interrupted,
How many lakes will you have to poison, how many trees will you have to cut down,
before you will realize we cant eat money ,
Air full of smog & poison fogs, clouds of smoke, it’s no longer sunny,
We made the treaties for a reason, to keep the peace,
All directions untied south
,north, west , east,
It effects us all, the world needs the promises to be kept,
We are not  the only ones that have wept,
We will idle no more, heal the open sore,

Lets all walk down this sweet grass road hand in hand,
Make the stand to take back our home land,
Our government fights with guns and politics ,
Turned us into addicts & alcoholics,
They took away the culture and traditions,
Expected us to kneel , wanted our admission,
Im indigenous to this country,
Yet you call me and insurgent, what more do you want from me,
North american was founded on a land covered in the blood of my people,
We were told we were savage , that we were abominations, even said too be evil,
The government spit lie after lie,
Silenced our tears and our crys ,
Tried to **** the indian in the man,
Shot us in the back while we ran,
Stole our children, stole our identities, stole our rights & traditions,
Our spirituality has been missing,
Recovering it is our mission,
Its our time,

We will idle no more, heal the open sore.
Sometimes I just want to scream, living in a country that was built on the blood and bones of my ancestors leaves my soul weary.
I always feel out of place. Colonization has left part of me broken.
Kore Nov 2018
redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin
redskin redskindian        indian  redskin redskin redskin redskin
worthlessredskinscalpingbitchfeatherordot redredredred indian
redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin redskin
Kore Nov 2018
it's easy
     the hatred
of Me.

until I cease
          to blend

and what has
        been lying
in wait
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
so. so rare. such as you who seek some thing everyone knows
so you may share it with those infected with denial.


I'll be the fool who risks belief and go on with the story flowing from my belly
my very augmented eyes

Wisdom is justified of her children,
said a nubian wizard
named John Joyce.
No relation to James.

Same general era, I met Adam Funmaker. He showed me
an article in Rolling Stone that mentioned me
June 7, 1973, idea of me, not me,

that was me. the guy with ears that weren't garbage cans,
which had been the liturgical reply to
words deemed too filthy to say or hear,

To this day I don't care for the taste.

This story fiber began with Adam Funmaker being real, and my feeling many folk would never allow a man with such a name to have been,

much less to have been, my friend. who made my silver wedding ring.

A real man, father of many sons and daughters, still
with us
to this day,
This telling
dedicated in my lodge, my strong tower, my kiva,

To Adam Funmaker, I fan this cloud, be magnified magi.
From my desert you blessed with more than water.

A humbler man I've never met. A scrimshaw artist of great renown among collectors of such, for his technique.
It seemed magic, the photo-realism
he could attain to,
pins and hand and ink and string and light, his only tools,

the light was modified to meet the needs of Adam's ageing eyes
He was sixty-two when I thought with him last,

and sixty-two was older then than now,
he used to ask me questions I had not asked myself.

I only knew him for the space
of a tick
with point of pin pricking
ivory,  ttttttttttttt ttttt ttt ttttttt tttt far more
than 300 dpi,
But magic was not allowed to be the reason for
the power of reality in his work.

How do you do this? I asked, from a state of ad-mire

Opaque projector.

Ah, secret, he coulda kept it and been thought
amazing, sender of men in search of hows
denied whys, but he didn't

he told me the trick, as if his hand and eye and mind
were taken for granted, acknowledged by being

right used before my unaugmented eyes.

His gift he had received and owned,
not a thing to boast about, like a boy.

He was looking at me, something I remember
this way, a point, a reflection in the eye
that made images of the ideas of men
seem in the wind I go on to claim as my inheritance.
That's the scene from here, much was different,
most likely.

Adam Funmaker's clansmen from the past
breathed, nearly, their blessing, the hope

on ivory etched so nearly fractally real you can see
a reflection in Sitting Bull's eye staring

at a 440 stainless steel, razor-edged blade, never used.

A knife made for the image on the handle,
A magic Adam Funmaker portrait of a noble illiterate
chief among noble illiterates whose stories
have been told ten thousand years.

The Greeks fears were warranted.
Writing did shorten memories.
But it gave stories freedom to wend and find points

upon which they be told, to this day,
for no real reason, same as sunsets and beauty in general.

the knife I was looking at is depicted on the web
My wife still has her wedding ring, I lost mine,
in the desert or the storm or the fire, I can't remember losing it.
I never wrote an ode. This feels like how they may have wonce been taught when memories were the realm of story and songs
Kore Nov 2018
if i hear
one more
speak the word

                          I n d i a n

I will
"I'm only saying it because that's what the text says" my ***
AD Mullin Aug 2018
/                        been                       \
/                      thoughts                    \
|                           my                           |
|                         have                          |
|                  LANGUAGE                  |
|                           my                           |
|                            by                            |
|                 INFLUENCED                 |
|                              is                             |
|                            feel                            |
|                              or                              |
|                              do                              |
|                              or                              |
|                            want                            |
|                              or                              |
|                              say                             |
|                                i                                |
|                             that                             |
/                     EVERYTHING                     \
/                                   if                                   \

^                                   ^                                ^
^                                   ^                                ^
^                                   ^                                ^
| language instructs | the way we think |
^                                   ^                          ­      ^
^                                   ^                                ^
^                                   ^                          ­      ^
TED Says:

Can you un-bundle this poem?
Kore Sep 2018
redskin, cheekbones, upturned eyes
you call me names, pick apart my features
there's much for you to analyze

none of it good enough
even as you slit my belly and take my skin
you think me rough

wearing me like a hood you become
Pocahontas, Matoaka, Indian Princess
you think the thrum of your blood is the sound of a drum

you consume me, trick yourself
Redskin Princess
it's almost halloween and i'm already tired of pocahontas cosplayers
Kathleen Aug 2018
Look at her,
she's remembering when she was native,
when she was Spain,
when she was Mexico
There she is now,
fondly thinking of her future;
the one where she falls into the sea.
Jesse stillwater May 2018
A breathe of words ― 
a gust of thought scattered;
welling silence ruptures
bulging vault chambers
with the patience
of tongue-tied hearts

In a long deep breath
pith of soul manifests;
rich with the breathing spirit
of life that's passed

A timeworn lid spinning
on a blue glass jar
Indigenous roots
and memories tender,  
perpetuity gleaned
and garnered
on fruit cellar shelves

Segues of ancient culture ―
evolution derives
from many roots
trying to catch
time in a bottle;
a travelogue
of saved beginnings;
magic beans
in a mason jar

    Life’s native seeds gathered ―
organic building blocks
the immemorial soul
of the earth sown
and reaped;
sprouting unstilted
for which
ever fleeting time
cannot hold

Jesse e Stillwater
09  May  2018
saving native seeds
sowing continuum
fostering one love
reaping the fruits
of perpetuity
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