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Blue-Sky Cloudmen danced with wolves

to willow songs on forks between two rivers.

They gripped the flowing robes of God,

and ran to feel his pleasure. We stood

tall like “Mother Corn” in harvest

fields filled with pumpkins and beans:

ripened our faces with the juice

from wild plums. Vultures bleached

the skulls of our enemies and the children

bathed in sweet streams, but owls

with greasy beaks came to spit darkness

into our council fires. They perched

on the sight of holy men seeking the ‘good

medicine.’ Our flutes breathed fever.

The people choked on white clay dust

and drowned in sand on the banks

of big-bellied water. We gazed

into the Spirit World through eyes

from behind a mask of death.

A Trail of Tears

Sorrows wept mud into bone dust

wandering a forgotten trail

of orphaned souls. They grieved

into vapors wisping through clouds

at the top of God’s Mountain.

He cried into woodlands rapturing

beasts, then formed seven true clans

from seven wolf ribs, and suckled

them at the breast of seven mothers.

They painted their faces

in conquering colours, and lashed

each spirit to the talons of an eagle.

2 Responses to Massacred

  1. Olive Heaton says:

    Very thoughtfully written. Almost as though the writer had experienced these events himself!

  2. Claudine Lackey says:

    Your interest in nature and history is being reflected in your poems. Hunting arrowheads in Oklahoma and reflecting on the spiritual in nature is paying off in the way you view the Indian heritage. How many words are left in that brain of yours? Keep writing!