The damage was done
he was hung on a cross,
a ragdoll now
his body crucified by last words.
Idle soldiers cast dice for his torn garments.
One stopped in mid-throw - a spearpoint of doubt
had cut his mind open and right there and then
he began to weep.
His companions jeered good naturedly at him.
Later when he returned to his wife
he confessed what he had taken part in.
She already knew; it was the talk of the town.
"It's your job" she said,
"you can't not do what you are ordered to do."
He replied: "I could have tortured him more."
Ego’s
not armies
destroy an empire
Inside
to rampage
—pillage and burn
(Dreamsleep: March, 2022)
To preserve this day, I pick red plums wild
Within my soul, I dream a while
A vision ancient, to me smiles
Of plums growing wild in thickets dark
There for taking by man or lark
Beside running waters where beaver barks
I hear the drum for miles
Smoke signals lifting high in sky
On summer's breeze they drift and sigh
Indian village steals my eye
Women gathering, pounding, grinding
Saving fruits for summer's ending
In cakes for winter's cold day feasting
'Round evening fires, high and dry
Painted ponies heading west
Hunter's talismans cover chests
Put their knapping skills to test
Not one willing to be the lag
Arrow drawn to down his stag
Rights this night will be to brag
Whose spearpoint flew the best
Allegiance to "Great White Father" sworn
Many moons later, treaties torn
Their ways, their days, their hopes forlorn
For wild plum cakes and venison stews
Thought safe in tepees 'neath cold skies blue
Sore gleaning here in peaceful view
For them I shall forever mourn
While picking I shall forever mourn
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