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Michael Luciano Apr 2020
The echos are burning through the valley at dawn.
The voices are muffled but seep out through the calm.
They are asking for forgiveness they beg for a change.
They wonder if we will take them from the weight of the blame.

Who are you deceivers, from where do you hail?
Why did your creator build you to fail?

The voices speak of rebellion that creeps in the night.
Who will bound through the darkness and burst in to the light.
The bringers of disease, talkers of fame.
They beat us to submission in the dirt of the plains.

The savages you are that hail from the earth.
Created form dust, molded in dirt.

The master speaks of the bridges he's burnt from the streams.
Ignited by torches who were ripped from the trees.
The builder of fires, the polluter of dreams.
The layers of waste are bursting from the seams.

Retreat to the darkness, and be banished from earth.
Leave it all in vain, your birth was a curse.

The moon returns again rising through the sky in the night.
Reflecting its azure light in to the eyes of the flies in flight.
Take us now to shelter, remove us from this vice.
On the painful journey away from this sacrifice.
Aaron LaLux Oct 2018
The 3 Crucifixes sit,
atop this city like a tombstone,
but this grave feels so alive,
so vibrant in it’s Post-Colonial glory,

the Spaniards came & went,
well “came & went” is too courteous a term,
but hey either way wherever your beliefs may lay,
they left & when they did they left behind their language & La Ermita Church,

now what’s left is gift wrapped & embodied in Native Blood & Colonial Skin,

ancient wisdom lost in translation all in the name of The Cross,
sacred status melted down for the gold they contained,
I wonder if Colombians or any South Americans for that matter,
think about the past past but the remnants that were left when speaking Spanish,

I guess the Spanish never really left,
& the Inquisition is finished but still I must confess,
Native Blood & Colonial Skin is a pretty good combination,
because 200 years after they left look what we get,

a vibrant culture a wonderful mix,
late night Salsa fiestas at Zaperoco,
hot weather hot food hot women hot music,
& vibes so alive you’d almost forget about the looming tombstone,

watching everything like it’s on replay,
like everyone is already gone which they as in we will all be one day,
when Nature finally returns to reclaim,
what was rightfully Hers in the first place,

in the same way Colombians reclaimed Colombia once the Spaniards went away,

but until Nature comes back to reclaim it’s arepas salsa & coffee,
it’s a beautiful day in Cali let’s have a lively debate over empanadas panela & pollo,
partying from sunset & on in to the humid Cali night,
making such amazing memories that we temporarily forget about the crucifix tombstones,

but all the while there those 3 Crucifixes sit,
atop this city like a tombstone,
but this grave feels so alive,
so vibrant in it’s Post-Colonial glory…

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆
sunprincess Oct 2018
Where in pastures sunflowers flourish and grow
And herds of cattle can be heard deep and low
Where once natives lived and hunted with pride
There's still a prairie stretching far and wide

Partly filled with suburbs by those in high places
hiding behind masks and fake smiles on faces
Upon this land our nearest star shines so bright
And this forever night has changed with light

And those natives once in possession of this land
Some fought bravely with tomahawk in hand
Many were slain like slaying wild beasts of field
Cause they love the land and wouldn't yield

Now all their survivors were quickly led faraway
Traveling for many a full moon and a sad day
As some became deathly ill, laid down and died
Snowflakes continued to fall as many cried
Farzaneh Qaf Jul 2018
speech on mercy
sleeping in New Jersey
or maybe
reading peace verses
no natives, no war
no nurses
dictating democracy
how sweet
thanks to the geography
Jude Duane Mar 2018
I was born under great open skies,
Brought up with the smell of coal-black smoke
Hovering over the family farm.
I grew as distant sounds of whooping
Echoed like thunder across the land
And I was raised on bias, which clung
To the white men of the Black Hills like
Their guns, their religion, and their homesteads.

Those Hills are no place for me.
Look at my multi-colored dress, the
Multi-million-dollar stage, the
Multi-colored lights hanging over me.
This is my home. I thrive in this place.

Gone are the chiefs and their headdresses.
Gone are the dream-catchers and stories
Of battles between Unkthei, the
Serpant, and Wakinyan, the eagle.
Gone is Crazy Horse, always wily
Like the winter fox.
All cast off for a new life of bias.

I make the formula that nurtures
Bias in every little kid’s mind.
Every day’s the same. I spew my words,
My angry, petrol-soaked vitriol,
Which deludes their minds. They’ll be
“pigs” in the not-too-distant future.

In a way, this life disappoints me.
The trailer homes of Indians were
Run-down and forgotten about.
They lived lives of quiet desperation. No
Spotlights shined on their struggles.
The men who killed their kin were immortal.

But pow-wows in South Dakota were
*****, dingy, and dark, yet they were
Attended by many a native.
The farms were barren and gray,
Stockpiles of grain long gone, given to
The plutocratic hands of Washington.
Aunt Ida clung to this world.
Aunt Ida is dead and forgotten.

I was raised on bias in the Black
Hills, and I will stay biased for the rest
Of my days. Why would I give it up?
Joseph, the great Chief, never know
Such a life.
I thought about Tomi Lahren one day, and I came up with a theory on her beliefs that satisfied me. This is a fictionalized version of that theory.
Tanisha Jackland Jun 2017
Respect the beat

they dance wild to
the rhythm

it reminds them
of life and breath

The beat always
be... Mama...

Always listen for it

ground yourself
by it
to be yourself

She is the beat
unto you

find your own truth
thru your own breath...

To thine own
beat be true
Breath and beat are interchangable
Francie Lynch May 2017
Mrs. Wolfe sat, confused and angry
That Charlie is being sent home.
Suspended for three days.
They refused the in-school community work
For reparation. She preferred the healing circle.
In frustration, she alluded to me being racist.
But I'm Native.
She was exposed. Bewildered and befuddled.
I was born naked, lived clothed, and will die broken.
I am a member of the Tribe.
Contribute to the Band.
I keep the beat, smudge, dance, good at archery,
Can't spear fish, but buy cheap smokes.
My group calls me Fran Dog,
But Proinsias is my native name.
Then came the critical error:
You don't look Native.
Ah, but I am. And you sound racist.
I am native Irish. From Cavan.
I asked for them to leave the door open.
*Proinsias* pronounced ****-she-is
Jim Morris Jul 2016
Set sail across the unknown waters searching for another land
White man was his name and his discovery was unplanned
His find in iron grip, discovered a red man
Both not knowing what, knowing who, mistaken for India
You met this red man; you call him savage, *****
You tell him the only good *****, is a dead *****
You take his land, his home, his family, his way of life
You crush his spirit; make him feel lesser than an empty heart, cut with a knife
You **** buffalo for fur and hide, leave blood to soak the soil, mountain of skulls and bones
The sacred lands our ancestors once walked freely on
You corrupt with greed and ****** of the innocent
With no defense against your warfare tactics, carried out with wickedness
No matter what, red man must die for a so called promised land to be built

White man saw that red man had established their own way of life before dawn
Women did the work, men provided safety and food, what is a tax, what is a debt
Why did you think you could improve their quality of life like that?
You **** red man for being a true patriot; you have the nerve to call him savage
You **** innocent women, the givers of life! Children, the future of our people, left to scavenge
But still after everything you throw at red man, you still call him savage
You may **** us but you won’t **** our spirit, no matter how far they travel
You may damage our spirits, strong we are, our spirits won’t be broken, we challenge
You run them to the hills, you organize other tribes to **** off each other alongside you, ravage
You force them into a designated part of land that they must reside, called the reservation

Money is what you throw at red man, hoping he’d take it so he can bring on an addiction, left crying
Possessed by greed, headless chickens running, while white man is behind the curtain laughing
You made red man touch pen which engraved the treaties on paper, only left them with broken promises
You go behind these treaties to deplete resources on reservations and such lands left to them, too hungry for a piece of paper that has no substance
You drain earth for oil, yet you spill it in our waters, you spill it on the lands, ruining communities

You give them blankets to comfort, deceived to receive white man’s disease, a smallpox ticket
You introduce red man to fire water; the taste burns the pureness from the spirit
State of mind lost to the sorrows, addiction with no limit
You start giving rations of food, the hunger sets in, dependent on your system
How did you feel the need to improve on red man’s system?
Red man became dependent on your way of life, too blind to see the victims
You introduce religion, something irrelevant, the creator is our wisdom
You bring books filled with nonsense, red man opens book, told to pick a white man’s name
Your name is now James, “why was I given this name - what was wrong with my previous name?”
Head no longer held high, identity lost, something he’s not, you cut his braid
You **** his thoughts, his senses, who he was, a red man, now in white man’s costume

You introduce him to a school, to get educated, because red man is a savage after all
Tame the wild is how you felt; to fit your standards for the future promised land, but overshadowed
You starve them, sit at this table, your meal for the day, and eat
White teacher sits at her own table, food for everyone, but just for her, repeat
Red man spoke his language, you beat it out of him to adapt to yours, it vanished
You ***** her, you killed him, you beat them, with heavy abuse some weaker than those who managed
Hanging from their rooms, you aren’t forgotten, I don’t blame you for vanishing
For the survivors, I appreciate your will to fight forward and tell your stories with courage and passion
Past generations corrupted, future generations wander without a voice, it’s disgraceful
One thinking they’re better than the next, it’s too painful, it’s betrayal

Red man claims pride, but where is the pride when red man does nothing about what happened
Red man stripped from everything that he once was, left behind
North America what it is now, born onto the burial grounds of our ancestors
Born on the genocide of the red man, and the enslavement of the black man
White man still see’s nothing wrong with what they did, swept under the rug, what a disaster
Told to forget about it, nothing will heal the scars, not death, not time, not money, not words, nothing

What will happen when the last tree is cut, the last river poisoned, the last fish caught
Will you realize money cannot be eaten or repeat history given no thought?
You breed with red man to thin the blood line for future generations
Even after five hundred years of resistance, we shall remain after all the corruption and frustration
One day there will be a new cycle, with nothing to block the winds from blowing freely, water thee earth with rain, nothing to hide the sun,

We still stand here today, a strong nation, nothing can stop us if we unite as one.
A poem about my people I wrote awhile back, got it published in a magazine in North Dakota.
Brent Kincaid Jan 2016
Yesterday is much clearer
As the future is drawing nearer.
The histories we have rehearsed
Over time have become reversed.
It should make us very sad;
What was good has become bad.

The bad guys were the Indians
And the good guys Caucasians
And they were always right
Because they were always white.
The Red Man was a villain
Because he was an Indian;
And that was never corrected.
The name an invader selected.

These were people born here
Defending land they held dear
Because they had hunted
And were never really wanted.
The invaders called them savage
Their women okay to ravage
Because they didn’t have Jehovah
To issue them a binding mitzvah.

There were so few invaders
So at first they were persuaders.
But after putting out some feelers
They chose to become stealers.
They declared the natives sinners
And thus became the winners.
The natives hadn’t learned to read
So the invaders ignored all their needs.

The invaders were prepared to fight
To deny the natives their rights
So, the invaders created paper laws
Thus natives couldn’t tell what they saw.
Suddenly the noble savage was a crook.
The invaders gloated over what they took;
Stole native’s possessions from their hands
And declared it all as the invader’s land.

This is the Danes and Angles back when
And the story happened all over again.
But once the battle victory is scored
The native’s birthright is not restored.
The invaders cover up the tragedies
With inaccurate tales and call them history.
Brent Kincaid Oct 2015
What are we teaching?
Who are we reaching?
What have we taught today?
Buy him a toy gun
Looks like a real one
Who have they fought at play?

Cowboys and Indians
Act like the real ones
At least like we saw on TV.
Cowboys the good guys,
Indians the bad guys.
Perfect authenticity.

White folks meant no harm
Just came there to farm
Four thousand years of land.
They had no papers
Really invaders
Things just got out of hand.

A clash of two cultures
Then food for the vultures
Everyone thought they were right.
But in the long run
Law made decisions
All in favor of the whites.

Words were encouraged
Dignity disparaged
White people called them savage
Due no respecting
And fit for just killing
Then plenty of land they could ravage.

Textbooks got altered,
The ministry faltered;
Heathens deserve what they get.
Jesus cherished the meek
But whites turned no cheek.
They haven’t quite fixed things yet.

What are we teaching?
Who are we reaching?
What have we taught today?
Children play death games,
Who can we all blame?
Are there no other games to play?
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