End of Days

Early Days An epic story told of men on earth, My father’s life, and also mine Wind planted weeds, we had a humble birth, Not sprung from rose or grape on vine. Our whole existence born of charity, A “gift” of former Indian land, The “Cherokee Land Run” was spoils of war White farmers, lines drawn in the sand. The Indian’s thought that land was gift from God, No dreams of owned fields for their young, Astonished by the European greed That slaughtered buffalo’s for tongue. As if our guns were not enough to win Our broken treaties proved intent, Dead buffalo destroyed their livelihood While armies slaughtered innocent. America now celebrates its gain Today on battlefield of tears As if it was God’s will so many died To open up our new frontiers. I do not want to claim all men are bad But only fool would call them good Yet every man surely deserves At least a chance at livelihood. One hundred sixty acres all one man Could farm alone with horse and plow That settlers ran to claim some Indian land Just seems profoundly awful now. In truth my countrymen chose “might makes right,” The Golden Rule for fools who fail Both God and kin, forgetting karma’s sigh And thus drive home last coffin nail!  My Father’s Life As boy, my father plowed behind a horse And prospered at the land’s largess, But still unanswered questions seem to rise That shame the heartland’s emptiness. As evidence of death on trail of tears Lost all of its salinity, My father’s eyes saw rocket land on moon A small step toward infinity But in-between States birth and dreams of stars Came plagues, wars, droughts, and growing pains Ambition always seems to rule the day Scant stewardship in mankind’s gains. Yes, farming practice had to change to end The dust bowls deadly claim on life, Though banking practices still go unchecked, Abuses, that cause damage, rife. “Let devil take the hindmost,” seems the call Of politicians left and right, “We’re not our brother’s keepers, let them groan, Their starving so how can they fight!” At this point still I’d like to know if you Remember fate of buffalo? Let’s take control and neuter their egos, The code word’s Michaelangelo, Just sing it as you come and go. There never will be profit found for poor Man on the Indian’s Trail of Tears. Perhaps it’s time to point the votes we still Have, Right at space between their ears, Let Trump and friends be ones with fears. Brian Johnston February 20, 2016