Death called Illness
I have it! She screamed.
Illness began guessing. The black plague? The white plague?
The red plague?
What the heck was the red plague?
Death remembered suddenly why she never called Illness.
I have to go, she said. I have a call on my other line.
She was coughing up a lung now; her throat was sore.
It felt like an oak tree forest was sitting on her chest.
Death called Lucifer’s assistant, Lola.
I am taking the day off, she said. No souls will be released today.
Lola said “Fine by me, I have paperwork, but you have to call THE MAN.”
Can’t you handle that for me?” Death pleaded.
She coughed loudly, hoping Lola would relent.
You’ll be fine, Lola assured her. It’s not like you do this every day.
Heaven’s lines were busy all day, so no one knew Death took the day off.
Suspicious arose in the middle of the afternoon though
When no souls had arrived for eight hours.
Prayers are in full force today, an angel said.
God smiled. Because Death took the day off.
A man indigenous to his homeland
was part of a tribal community.
And ancestral ties created a band
that lived off nature with impunity.
A man burnt red by a color-blind sun
had a history that preceded him.
And he lived free, subservient to none
before the white man arrived on a whim.
A spiritual man he turned to God
with no immunity to the white plague.
And finding himself homeless and outlawed
his traditions and customs became vague.
His beliefs upgraded from balderdash,
like a phoenix, he rises from the ash.
(Sonnet)
Nov. 21, 2018
TRIBUTE TO NATIVE CULTURE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
White plague like light,
brilliant beams haloed in contruse cubes,
consuming me, like angels wrapped in holy linen
turned vile and sinister. They beat their backs against
the hard earth .
Deformation of reality like ice turned to stone,
Dreams of snakes bitten at the leg by the tail.
Blood bought ages ago, lovers we were and dreamers,
cast out into the fire like little butterflies, fluttering
down in spiral patterns, releasing the spirit.