#natives
I feel that the light is shining on all of us,
Here today,
That are of this generation.
Without thought for creed or nation,
Dispensation or convictions.
I feel in the air
A breeze of change
From the winds of truth.
I hear the chimes
Of a pur of gust on chords
From a pale vision given color.
I see concern in the face of my brothers,
I discern a scent staining my sisters.
That they are not treated as fathers,
That they are not treated as mothers;
That they are less person & more chattel.
Whatever your chosen identity.
And even so, despite conjecture
The majority feel as such,
That line of a nation
Is one without factions.
And yet, by the party system,
That lie of a nation
Is one where we are equals.
Because in being separate
We are not different,
Not in this way.
For we are conjoined
And yet disjointed;
Debating becomes like arguing,
Disagreeing becomes like fighting.
My friends, what are we doing?
Is it not yet evident
That without the cooperation,
Consent,
And participation
By the majority of the populace
That it is impossible for us to attain real order?
Outside of seditious and nefarious plans
For power grabs of total control,
Which will all reliably fail,
There are solutions.
Nothing so final
As the extremist comics,
Often pessimists or nihilists,
So salivate and dream over.
And nothing so care-free
As some sadists or hedonists,
Often pessimists or nihilists,
So swoon and fall for.
Yet nor too meek or rigid
As some fanatics or magicians,
Often pessimists or nihilists,
So worship and practice ritual.
No. We will be democratic
With a government
Who hears of all
That plagues & plights;
By little & tall,
Small & large.
We will have a middle,
Common ground
Where we may all be impartial.
That place we shall call,
Columbia.
Mar 4, 2025
Mar 4, 2025 at 10:56 AM UTC
This turkey pardon is nonsense,
Clearly symbolic.
But people seem to
No longer grasp the extent
To which that symbolism goes.
The gobblers which we free,
Where do they go?
To live out their lives in solitude
On a quiet reserve.
The rest?
Well, we just put them to death
Enshrined in a yearly ritual slaughter.
Nothing like that situation of the natives
When we boil off all the water..
And you may say,
"You think of it too much,
Sign to it too much importance."
But I say you think too little
And too small.
You think of all the easements
As entitlements
And not ones which we took
Through invasion and subjugation.
Nov 26, 2024
Nov 26, 2024 at 8:44 PM UTC
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.
Apr 26, 2020
Apr 26, 2020 at 3:30 AM UTC
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 ∆
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 2:00 AM UTC
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
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
speech on mercy
sleeping in New Jersey
or maybe
Chelsea
reading peace verses
no natives, no war
no nurses
dictating democracy
how sweet
thanks to the geography
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 7:20 PM UTC
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.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC
No, they were never killed
by those who came to conquer them.
They are still alive and they are getting ready.
There are still praying to their gods
for the strength.
There are still here, hiding,
getting ready for the war
against those who thought that had killed them
long time ago.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
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
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 3:02 AM UTC
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.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC
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.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
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?
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
Among the mountains and oceans we claimed,
Environments we no longer know,
Starvation from the knowledge lacked.
Strange men of unknown origin push us away
With feathered spears and their spirits
Flying above us like the angels we seek.
The spread of our culture like margarine
Angers the earth it's ancestors tread on;
War and thievery. Disease and infection
Was wildfire in a land containing no such
Immunities to the harshness.
First cities died as infants, stillborns
Of history and freedom, yet
They survived in their determination.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 10:16 AM UTC