Long Massacred Poems
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The year 1890
December 29th
Wounded Knee, South Dakota
My tribe lost their lives
The USS 7th
On their orders so
To round up the Sioux
Railroad herd them and go
Us Lakota were next
To disarm their request
But my cousin Black Coyote
At best he was deaf
Not hearing the orders
To lay down our guns
A chain reaction
Ensued on my tribal ones
Chaos and mayhem
Distressed our grounds
This proud nation
Beaten down
Men, women and children
300 slain
Another reminder
For the white mans gain
To disrespect the fallen
Slows our souls to our gods
We were left in a blizzard
Hardened like logs
In three days we rose
Civilians did lift
And dumped us unceremoniously
In a hole in the drift
My corpse and my peoples
Stripped and robbed
As flakes of snow
Confirm our spirits have sobbed
As i am reborn again
In another country
It gives me the freedom
To look back and see
That December day in 1890
Gunning down innocent ones
Not so mighty
The Medal of Honor
In their distinguished past
The record still stands
On their chests they flash
But attitudes change
As two centuries pass
The Medal Of Honor
Has won back its class
No longer the weak
Gunned down by the strong
Its man against man
Sometimes they do wrong
So as i sit back in my adopted nation
Will i live again past this lives station
Writing the wrongs of modern man
This Lakota warrior who never ran
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/native-americans.php
He is eight and confused. He has been borrowing ideas all year.
He asked his classmate if he could copy off her.
She has always said yes until today.
Maybe four weeks of copying was enough?
Now he is irritated and angry.
She did not say yes or no, she told the teacher.
The teacher talked to him about plagiarism.
He thought he would be handcuffed and put into prison.
I tried to reassure him.
Refocused him.
He told me a story about his dog being massacred.
I asked about that.
His dog has a sore paw.
Then he told me about his thirty-two family members
Who all live in the same house.
I am thinking maybe there is a bit of exaggeration in this child.
16th April 1746
The day a country ceased to exist
British Army, Hanoverian scum
Defeated our Jacobite's
Scotland's is on the run
Our Tartans banished, bagpipes no more
To lead our troops, to frighten the foe
Cumberland's men hunt us down
In every village and every town
Massacred, slaughtered
Wiped from our earth
Erased from the country of our birth
2000 men died to fight for their right
Against the British Armies might
Cameron's, MacDonald's and Fraser's slain
Many other Clans, population drained
The survivors facing Hanoverian bans
Led to
The Scattering of the Clans
The Clan Chiefs lands, vast and many
Asset stripped, taken by the enemy
Alleged traitors tried, treason their crime
As Hanoverian Scum, on our riches dine
In the aftermath, many Scots left their shores
To distant lands to open new doors
Many writers on here
On their Ancestors scan
You may be here, because of
The Scattering Of The Clans
Always sad to see descendants of slaves with chains around their necks and wrists.
Some of my ancestors were hunted down, kidnapped, confined, sold, raped, flogged, exploited, gagged, tortured, executed, massacred, and dehumanized for centuries on the slave plantations of the Caribbean.
Too many dark skins were forced to curse their melanin, prostituting themselves on the dilapidated sidewalks of servitude.
Too many traitors among Afro-descendants.
Western prisons profit from carceral negrophobia.
Racialist statistics like the supremacist articles of the Code Noir.
I will not kneel for the death of a macaque who believed in the racist ravings of the West.
I no longer bow to their God since I read the Code Noir and the papal bull of the pedophile slave trader Nicholas V.
I am at war; I see the world through an ethnic prism, like the apostles of the Ku Klux Klan.
I loathe miscegenation when I reread the tragic accounts of the horrors of the savagery of slavery.
I do not raise my fist to the sky like a Black Panther.
I would rather brandish a Soviet Kalashnikov to defend my dignity on barren lands hostile to my Africanness.
I fiercely believe in the salutary brutality of violence.
You who read me are suicidal if you seek comfort in the rawness of my death-obsessed ravings.
I am neither a poet nor a dreamer.
I live the daily life of a hardened criminal in the labyrinths of the illicit.
I cannot recount the offenses of my judicial pedigree.
A worshiper of the principles of Omertà.
I am an angel if you mind your own life without poisoning mine.
I have never loved; I do not believe in love; my life is not glamorous.
Human beings worship the sweetness of lies over the warmth of truth.
Everything is clear in the stench of my incurable wounds.
Everything is written in the darkness of my indelible scars.
I am a free man.
I am not racist; it’s just that I don’t like your ugly mug.
I won’t tell you; you’ll know it by watching the flames of hell writhing in the depths of my eyes reddened by suffering.
My forebears survived the overcrowding of slave ships only to be displayed on counters by slave traders.
Far beyond the eternities under the spell of the blue moon's arch
fiery eruptions spread throughout the galaxies
purging God creations with a lustful revenge with unrelenting gravity
and destiny’s mischief's majesty hastening its ceaseless destructive march.
Ascending into a higher state of consciousness, in this intrinsic illusion
while the sun implodes spewing molten glass filling the blazing sky
his terrible destruction no longer nothing more than devious confusion
but a Cosmic and universal crisis in which all enemies must die.
The fiery warrior of the crimson moon of flesh and bone
journeyed from the eternities, passing through cosmic light
a tormented soul seeking his virtue’s bride, beyond the galaxy
In the land of the twin moons, where the sun has never shone.
He travels through the fiery sky, toward the blazing sun
lifting his heart to God above and keeping his conscience pure,
though a surging mist in greater part justified though he must endure
a chasm yawn both wide and deep, his raging fury had just begun.
He stood before the gates of a fiery hell where bitter
is the waters from the fountain dour and faced all its evil
and all its soldiers that massacred innocent people
shrouded by the atomic sky where the stars lost their glitter.
His soul engulfed with endless enmity for Knights and kings that perished
at the blades of his fiery swords they succumbed and lost their jewels
emerging victorious from the final conflict now he rules
though along the way warriors fell for the freedom that they cherished.
(A string of haiku/senryu with triolet at the end)
in the forest’s dusk
emerging with the shadows. . . .
he who hides from day
in the day’s cruel light
a proud village massacred. . .
one alone remains
Ezhno is his name -
the name means “solitary”. . . .
for the dead he lives
summoning spirits -
Ezhno pipes a melody. . . .
August’s moon-gold sky
a round sturgeon moon
drops low and big behind the trees. . . .
as if to listen
The flute’s wistful sound
echo of the wind’s soft moan. . . .
a blue gloaming
He sits upon a mossy stone,
a flute pressed to his lips and plays
the notes with melancholy tone.
He sits upon a mossy stone.
No human hears him; he’s alone.
No dear one there to meet his gaze,
he sits upon a mossy stone,
a flute pressed to his lips. . . and plays.
Written by Andrea Dietrich
for the Contest "Tell HIS Story"
Sponsored by ~Constance La France~A Rambling Poet~
That dreary August Sunday morning
Peace like a river in Ozubulu was flowing
Merchants of death wielding the tools of their trade were lurking
To strangle peace Of the day just dawning
Vengeance was the mission
Anger from business gone awry the vision
But missing the ultimate prey
They pounced on worshipers assembled to pray
And they died!
Victims of a society in search of lost values
And they were massacred!
Martyrs of a society in a hypocritical quagmire
And they were slaughtered!
Like lambs on the altar of mammon
And they were brutally sent forth!
Unwilling partakers in man's depravity
And they were summarily dispatched!
Innocent victims of disobedience to God's injunction
Give to Cesar what belongs to him and to God His due
But they did not die in vain!
Their demise showed us whom we are
A nation in need of redemption
They gave their lives so that we can live!
.
My distant spirit is dying,
disheartened, disintegrating and self deprecating.
Defenceless, as hope disappears,
emotionally shipwrecked in deep waters,
yet to be discovered.
In the sadness of sentimental sighs,
silence is the sinister sister of separation.
Abandoned in an abode of unfairness,
my heart shimmers creating a crepuscular crescent,
emanating into an emotional eclipse -
in splitting darkness I've become invisible.
I've lost hope in being found
among faded stars and moonless nights.
I'm as transparent as an icicle,
melting in frozen fields of forgotten forever's.
In the deception of dreams,
gradually, the roots of grass begin to decay.
In misty meadows of manifestation,
sanctuary of my subdued supernova soul,
slumbers among rotting massacred moths,
motionless in a crumbling charcoal cocoon.
A slaughtered spirit spawns a suicide of sunshine,
as ebony eyes create Cimmerian shadows of smoke.
I've been taken hostage in a vault of torment,
hoping celestial spheres return soon -
but all I can hear is angels screaming.
I search for those susurration sounds
of homecoming birds of spring,
bringing the clarity of velvet sheen skies,
floating free like dandelions blowing in the wind,
unlocking shackles of sorrow,
easing stubborn tones of reasoning -
but no serenades can be heard.
The season of death is upon us,
so I remain disjointed in discomfort,
displaying dismay at being disowned -
leaving me feeling dizzy in dismal disorientation.
h e a r this h e a r t …
as hurt hangs low
with cursed fidelity
of fame-lit fakeness,
attached to expectations ~
as wraith-leaves coil
around my neck,
under the veil
of mockingbirds,
wearing a cape of blames
and futile boldness,
caught up in
the hypocritic hisses,
where life is tangled
in a sprawling spool
of moon-moths ~
dwindling in
dreamless desires
where materialistic
monks lilt away
in fatal laughs,
and your crimes
remain lethal,
mummified like a
feather-dressed devil,
taming the loyalty
that laments
without the lustre
of Lucifer
in calcified flames …
lifeless … I lurk ~
in the estuary
of dyslexic dialects
running across
those spinal clusters ~
stemming aimlessly,
from the
kryptonite backbone
of kohl-kissed sky,
these headless
accusations
cannot kill me
with the haunt
of telepathic terror,
because, I am
massacred till the
apocalypse of ashes,
pressed between
barbaric petals
of sunset sapiens
and sea-smiths,
one amongst the
awakened dead ,
feasted upon
and forgotten ~
by those
opportunistic
omen-keepers
roaring in the
carcasses of
vivacious vultures …
some skeletons
do not weep
waning fossils ~
within fondescent tombs,
rather, they
metamorphose
into a twilight-
tipped tree ,
bearing the burden
of unblossomed
spirits who refuse
to let go ~
of their delusional
weightlessness,
as they remain
a shackled souvenir
of satanic inflictions,
that the reaper
could not obliviate.
so, you cannot
set me aflame
with aries eyes,
for, there … uprooted,
I am the Madonna ,
the skull of a
hopeless sorceress
left abandoned ,
as an obsidian oasis
of the femme fatale,
shipwrecked
in your deserted heart …
for, this horizon is nothing,
but a vessel of venom,
a framework
made of bones
and stardust frost ~
where poets perish
pulse by pulse ,
and souls lurk
in osteoporotic caves,
like ticking grenades
in the monet of time …
" but I wish,
if only my satanic tears
could be touched by painless paint ~
unafraid to the horror ,
of the artist's frozen eternity … "
*** Inspired by the artwork ~ Ghosts on a Tree, by Franz Sedlacek, 1933.
Again!
We woke up to the gory tale of another one
A carnage of a gargantuan quantum
An appalling scenario
That left us wondering of an inferno
Once again,
Terror reigned like King over us
Jos, the capital city of Plateau
Was agog with an unbridled massacre
The warriors of faith are at it again
The unfaithful ones fighting faith's fight
Were let loose once more for no cause
Hundreds of innocent lives were wasted
Houses scorched at will
Human life was made cheap
You need not haggle price
Corpers lives were not spared
In their quest to observe the land’s clarion call
Striving for national integration
And dreaming of an elusive unity
They got massacred serving their father’s land
Whilst!
Their fathers were served with cup of sorrow
Their mothers served with plates of tears
In their prime age in life
They were cut short like a tree destined for firewood
Dreams of Tola Odesola (23) got shattered
Aspirations of Ibukunoluwa Akinjogbin (23) got buried
Hope of Leke Akande (20) got twisted
Fate of their families became ill-fated
Indeed, another black day in our already black calendar
Jos carnage in our land
It is another . . .
Chapter of insecurity
A page of dehumanization
A paragraph of brutal killing
A sentence that carries dreadful thought
A phrase of intolerance
A line of political bigotry
A word of hatred
Alayande Stephen T.
9.46pm
December 4, 2008