I think that wherever the Great Spirit places his people,
they ought to be satisfied to remain, and thankful for
what He has given them, and not drive others from the
country He has given them because it happens to be
better than theirs!
We shoved off. White, tanned
by sun, a coastal breeze beckoning,
Religious persecution was another
Freedom. Freedom to believe
Freedom to advance past a certain
station, to be socially mobile.
Some just wanted to escape, some
forced out, some came in shackles.
A long trip across a tough ocean in at
first small vessels was so dangerous,
That I think by the time the survivors
made it to the shore of Virginia or Carolina
There was a pride. Perhaps by then a damning
one that made the folks
Folks who saw a land, but failed
to truly see the Greatness of the People
who already lived there.
Great as the waterfalls, green and splendor
of any Eastern coast was a people to
match the hills and valleys of the land.
I can only say “sorry,” and plan
my return trip back across the sea to
May all white eyes follow me who
can, and reset. Let the native peoples
make their land great again.
Wipe out the white man’s roads, cement
Its guns, sirens and helicopters.
Welcome back the coyote, wolves, the
deer and birdsong, decorate again the
country with silence.
A peace in mist.
I dream to make Wales Great like
America was before we called it
“America.” It had an indigenous
name, and was doing fine.
We thought only of ourselves.
We failed to see them.
The Great Mistake. Someone told me
recently that it “just isn’t practical
to go back, to do anything about our
I disagree. The only thing to do when
you make grave mistakes is to go back,
make amends. Fix the mess.
And the “Metro,” half-dead with
zombies and trash: will die.
The corruption in suits will parish.
And the land will thrive, the Great Spirit
will soar again:
Me in Wales—
My gift to God, to leave this land and people
Just one white man gone. My amends.