Tag Archives: Native

Maga

26 Monday Nov 2018

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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Donald Trump is not the problem.
He is not the disease, nor King Evil
in this experiment we call the “United
States!”

He did not come over by ship and armor,
lay down a fort, look down a nose
at brown people who saved white lives
from starvation and cold,

praise God and Matoax, her servant—
protect us from ignorance, racism
and violence, Trump a Symptom of
“More-ism,” he’s not the first.

Trump not the devil, just a man vulnerable
to the elements and bedevilments
we’re all susceptible to falling into, the
hole is endless!

We fall and we fall, thinking we’re flying
until we walk into a doctor’s office
and let him or her be our god.  They
tell us we’re sick, and we’re ready
to die…

Maga!

We think politics is power, we hail
chiefs and man’s achievements—
putt-putt, we burn earth going fast
downhill, the cement and asphalt holding.

The cake baked on native blood, risen
up by the yeast of black slave labor,
we push it all aside, fight for white
rights, push all aside that might slow us.

God forgive the right.

Maga!  The fly in the ointment,
the lie in the fight!  Trump the evil
he projects, fake news, a total loser
like me I’m a drunk!

But in admitting truth we rise,
asking for help, apologizing, doing
the humble things that yield peace
of mind!

We cry at Trump’s tear gas at the child?

We cry at shooting towels and lies while
Puerto Rico suffers dark and prolonged death.

We cry at the protest leaving one dead,
talking about “culture” and race?

He separates mothers from children,
desecrating his own mother left and right,
the sickness is not his alone he’s got
ten thousand at the rally,

millions okay, coming out against
difference, immigrants, ethnic
cleansing disguised in code language
like “Make America Great Again.”

“When was is great, sir?”  Maga,
hah!  A slogan so negative and backwards,
flying under radar like it’s no big deal!

Make America White Again!  Bring
back the good old days!

A native American thinking “great!”  You
mean the days before white men brought
disease and beer?

Cursing and disrespect for the earth?

Maga!!  Throw tear gas on the little
girls, they’re brown,

reminding those with soul of Andrew
Jackson’s Trail, Donald’s favorite
president of course, mass murder a thing
okay as long as money’s in it!

Donald Trump is not the disease,
nor King Evil in this experiment we
call the “United States!”

God, not presidents—are solution.
Higher Power, Earth, the great
Mother, Great Spirit, gratitude
for one more day of life.

Maga!  The suit is toxic, embrace
our child, get out of the car, walk
a while barefoot on Truth.

Only God is great.

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I’m a Pussy? Thanks!

28 Saturday Jul 2018

Posted by in Earth, Native, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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We grow up cursing, when
we don’t know another way,
many of us so far from the land
God gave our people, disenfranchised,

lost, discombobulated by years
of concrete, asphalt, sirens and
the worst invention by man to
date:

Helicopters.

***

The native, the first people, the
“pagan” was one with the land
and sea, never cursed—for why
curse, when all of life is a part
of you and what you do, no
separation, gratitude so natural
because the cycle is endless hope,
story and adventure, a tie between
you and all the generations?

But I walk L.A. today, walk over
and by the trash, the litter, under
the thunder of metal fueled by
the earth we try to master, not
honor.

But I walk L.A. today, the big city,
civilization with indeed some decent
plumbing, I guess; harnessed power
giving us light when we want,
electronics on which I write tonight.

But as I walk, they curse at me—
little boys becoming men by the
train station, calling me a “pussy”
because I called the police.

Me saying “thanks,” because pussy
is good.  Our moms, sisters, and
women good and essential, our
body parts essential—especially glorious
and wonderful the reproductive
organs.

***

There are no curse words in Native
American language.

We’re All Up Here

25 Monday Jun 2018

Posted by in Great Spirit, Native, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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At that time the disciples came to Jesus
and asked, “Who, then, is the greatest in
the kingdom of heaven?”
He called a little child to him, and placed
the child among them. And he said:
“Truly I tell you, unless you change and
become like little children, you will never
enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore,
whoever takes the lowly position of this child
is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.
And whoever welcomes one such child in
my name welcomes me.

***

Jesus touted children.

Painted life a journey to discover
the one within us;
when discovered, ahh!  There you
are.  Like a Moana song, there
is your path, your best you…

Heaven.

***

Native Americans often pointed
to elders, at the other extreme.

Kids could not talk in groups; elders
with priority.

Shhhh.  We listen.  Listen to God,
the Great Spirit through an effort
at silence.

Breeze through trees, the leaves
a dance against the face of
wisdom, yielding a trickle-down
Reagan and Bush would envy.

The peace of streams.  That and more
we left behind when we sold all
to build our cities.

History Knows

15 Friday Jun 2018

Posted by in African, History, JFK, Native, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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We’re obsessed with now.

We’re so sure of our reports, that
this or that thing caused this, and
it all happened this week.

The shiny balls bounce, “Trump
is tweeting again,” but history knows
why he is.

What is a Trump “president of the
United States?”

First, the States are not united,
all of them pulled together and
over the years have bullied
minorities, starting with the
American Indian, then of course
the African slave, then the
freed slaves, to name a few.

“United States of America” declares
itself so, historically, as a bastion of
hope and freedom for white males.

European people.

Next, we fought some wars, replaced
the sixth commandment with the
second amendment, made killing
“good.”

We killed and killed some more, got
good at it, and prided ourselves in
winning wars, winning territory, often
overlooking original sins against black,
brown and other people—

the “country” had an official line,
ones drawn by…

White males.

****

So we fought World War I, jumped
into Europe, played hero and “won.”

Instead of being humble in victory,
and mourning all the dead on all
sides, we raised our hands and did the
flapper dance for the next decade—

most of it all over the German people,
who we made pay for starting that dang
war.

We could have graciously helped them
to their feet and forgiven them, but
we drove the stake in hard—

enough to create Hitler and a backlash
good enough to start another war,
and the Jewish holocaust.

The United Nations formed after
World War II, and unlike the Kellogg-
Briand Pact of the 1920’s, this world
peace gig seemed like it could really
work until the American government
ratified its CIA, who along with other
nations kept waging covert wars
behind peace talks.

Shaking hands with the right, stealing
and killing with the left, hiding
documents and lying in the name
of “National Security.”

“Everybody’s doing it” was surely
put forth as they gathered on the
White House lawn in cloaks and
dagger outfits, a ruse of not-so-
funny don’ts and do’s in front
of Truman, Eisenhower then
Kennedy until they killed him
in 1963.

CIA kept its rule of the USA until…

the present day, but the leash is
very long, you might not notice them
unless you loved the Kennedy hope
of the ‘60’s, miss it, and miss truth.

JFK wasn’t perfect, but by ’63 had
grown into a man of peace, amends,
just a little naive on the power of
covert ops and the growing target
on his back.

“They wouldn’t do it, would they?”

They did it.

Cowards from behind a bush, covered
it up just as in Latin America they would.

A pattern attack, this time in our
own land, Julius Caesar by Brutus,

JFK by CIA, Howard Hunt and all those
ticked off Cubans killed or captured
or wounded when Kennedy balked
at helping take the Pigs’ Bay.

But did all that make Donald Trump?

Not yet.

***

Look at Cold War, from Kennedy’s murder
to Vietnam, the CIA’s baby, the path
clear with LBJ, then Nixon to execute
this impossible but profitable fight.

(At least our families are eating?)  Wide
that path to destruction, and boom!

The “American army” blowing a darn
good path through Southeast Asia!!

***

But we “won” the Cold War!!!

Right?

The wall came down in 1989…

Right?

A good day.  A great day?!?!

Make American Great Again?  Reagan
says, “Yes, We Can!?”

Or was that Obama?  Definitely this:
Clinton and the Americans rubbed the
victory in Russia’s nose, and like in
1930’s Germany, we had created
another villain.

This one, named Putin, rose and rose,
and rose some more and again, until
he rose to a place that he could
get his sweet revenge.

Put Trump in the White House; put down
Hillary Clinton and the U.S. dance
with Global Authority, democracy and
another frickin’ flapper dance across
a fallen enemy!

***

History knows, even if the news does
not, why the news is crazy, sad or
weird today.

It’s none of those things, but is a perfect
growth of history’s seed.

We planted everything that is reaped
on TV today.

Mothers and babies separated at the border,
the UN reprimanding the USA!

Puerto Rico shunned and neglected
by a racist regime in the USA!

Putin smiles, a short-lived win,
revenge is sweet, the games may
begin—

Politics and history lost in the eyes
of a child, God’s will charging on—
the aware forging a narrow path,
Wyatt Earps, Bob Muellers, Truth
and Comey with your morning coffee—

John Adams against the Hamilton
frenzy, Lao Tzu and Jesus himself
offering truth against all this hoopla
walking around the White House
dangling pardons and tax scams.

God is good, Trump is not, but seek
history before you judge him or
the present moment too harshly,
for history’s to blame and they are not.

Lifting the Shroud

14 Thursday Jun 2018

Posted by in Awareness, Enlightenment, Native, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Politics

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We grow up unaware—

Especially those of one silver
spoon-fed table or another, it’s
not about the money or ease only,
but about the hidden pool of
vomit under the Christmas tree.

Alcohol is a good hider.  Wealth,
too, anything like “false gods” and
false hopes that lock us in or
addict us to something untrue.

We curse a lot, those especially
from the east who came west
to steal native land.

They did not curse, the natives,
the first peoples living simply
with God on the ground, Nature
their supplier, one day at a time,
a task or two to do.

Nothing ever changes, but if you
try hard enough, you can leave
the human race.

It starts slow, by setting sail from
a homeland without first checking
motives with a decision-helper like
prayer, meditation or even the
advise of respected elders or
medicine men without the dangerous
medication.

Peace was there, but adventure lacked
and the disease of more, of wanting
to be famous and rich—

pervaded until in armor we showed
up to take a land by force.

Cursing we brought with us, disease.

Ingratitude for the land—nothing was
good enough until we could bring
gold out of it for money, it seemed.

***

None of these thoughts occurred to
us, who went to private schools,
played in private sports clubs,
sought junior championships in
sports, and cursed our way to
apparent blessings like college
(false god) and other ways to live
apart from God, nature, and the
healing ground.

***

We laid cement down, crushed
the glorious rocks to pebbles to
pave our walk.

We burned Earth, traveled fast
past most of our senses’ need
to express or feel, so that unaided
by alcohol or drugs we could enjoy
life on its terms—

just as it is.

We were clueless.

Holding trophies and prizes up
against our ancestors’ lies, the
lies told to native people, slaves
we kept to build our lives.

And we kept going, because to
go back now seemed like an
impossible work, unless…

Unless you found Alcoholics Anonymous
or some other program that okayed
and even encouraged a look back
to make amends for wrongs done.

We look back enough, see and admit the
faults, that glorious destination
called Peace of Mind awaits a quick
jaunt back to fix, apologize, maybe
even return to the homeland to
stop cursing, start blessing
ourselves and this one life given
to make a crooked childhood straight,

the path to Heaven’s gate.

Wilson Lake

12 Tuesday Jun 2018

Posted by in California History, History, Native, Native America, Native American, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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San Marino used to have a lake.

(The San Marino in Southern
California, not the tiny country
in Europe.)

San Marino used to have a lake
until the settlers came, made
a claim, had ideas and acted
before asking what the land could
actually take.

Soon a guy named Wilson “bought”
God’s land, called it his, used all
that water to farm aggressively—
crops not always indigenous or
natural, or free.

“The lake had dried up into a swampy
morass due to excessive water usage
by local settlers”

an article reads.  So, then,

They brought the dirt down and filled
in the lake.

I have no judgments to make,
nothing biting or sharp, just
the observation that mistakes
mostly happen at high pace,
on the way to claim a lake—

or even on the way to the bank.

When we fail to ask before
we take—

The mass of swirl that is “Karmic
Gate,” opens up to teach us,

sometimes a hard lesson that will
be remembered and never again
re-made.

Every choice has a consequence,
every single one—

so maybe it’s not the first thought
that should win, but a third
thought fought for, prayed
for, asked for and won.

Wide is the Path

22 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by in Nature, Philosophy, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Religion

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The narrow to “heaven” is a hefty
mount, a lofty walk and a harrowing
drop—

the leap it requires of faith, fasting
and prayer?

Atheism, wordlessness, meditation
and just being there?

Hard turns, listening, being, breathing?

A rose by any other name as sweet,
brevity the soul of it, god or Shmod
you decide what to call that which
yields its famous bliss—

words ascribed to it in English
being “Peace of mind.”

It’s hard to have a firm view, open
up, and listen wholeheartedly to another;
but to do so allows a soul to advance
toward childhood,

life a journey of return to learned
senses without words, then a
departure of body leaving spirit
and words, ideas which never die
no matter how many killed in the
name of “National Security.”

Wide is the Path to Destruction,
and Many are On It.

Some call “Jesus” religion; I do not;
I call the Son a Sun, the art of war
being to never wage it.

The true artist restores peace when
out of alignment, moving on without
celebration, without declaration of victory,
for a combat yielding injury is never
cause célèbre.

Tend to those injured, and start to
glimpse the road less traveled, build
your rock, ascending and secure, on
the bed of weedless sunshine providing
no rain to the cowards, no judgment to
the fallen, no gifts to the barren;

It is dry, the valley of history, with
all its un-amended sins and mistakes.

If you stop reading and talking long
enough you see the rainbow in the rain;
the end of pain,

The coming of solace for the argument
that Higher Power must exist.

Why not call it God?

Because that word offends those abused
by those who would use a Name to harm.

So fall.

Let the words go, and let Mom embrace
you after we demolish the concrete,
find the stones, the path back

to Nature.

Looking for Native America

22 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by in Native, Native America, Native American, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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It’s a long journey from Wales
to here;

400-plus years of wandering
makes one wonder what they feared.

We left our fathers’ graves behind,
Welshmen and women ground into
the winter soil, Celtic calls for
adventure, armored up and ready
to go, sir!

Captain John Smith is noble enough,
we can handle this sea, this new
land, the savage race—look at us!!!

We’ll make the Crown proud, become
stars, make names for ourselves,
but only if this colony comes off okay.

We’re British and militaristic; we see
these brown-skinned people, compare
and contrast, seek advantages, a way
to squat and succeed.

“Success is a peace of mind, knowing
you did the best you could to be the
best you were capable of becoming.”

Best Christians, John?

Best warriors?

Best Explorers?  Businessmen?  Reps
of the Crown?

People.  The best People we could be
requires more looking back than forward
if the looking causes you to cringe with
regret and shame.

Go back, see the poverty of the native
tribe, the reservations in shackles
of bison’s spoiled hide.

Hunted and sold, looking for gold—

Not realizing the real value was in
the wisdom of the land, expressed through
its proud care-takers.

There are many differences from nation
to nation today, and as much or more
between the native nations then and
now as the Great Spirit

hides under Western medicine, civilization
and money.

Stop taking it.  Fight for your land, still,
Native America, seek out the documents,
the treaties, the promises made, take
them to court, and win.

Hire attorneys and win.  Reclaim and rise,
never give up the spirit to try, we are
a part of the land, it is God’s

and is our pride.

They break the rocks for concrete, burn
the blood for rocket fuel, we pray for
the lost Europeans, that they find
their way back home.

Amends

22 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by in Native, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Recovery, Slavery

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You feel good, yesterday a gem of service
instead of a face-down rumble into rum
and the glass,

All is possible looking down at a schedule
for one day, with God at the top, sleep
at the bottom,

Recovery the dream of getting back what
you never really had, so hallelujah!!  It’s
back to youth,

the dream of all that could be and the action
to “move the chains” toward it, as footballers
might try to say,

In love with life, just for today.

***

You feel good, no more running away,
acceptance the key before changing
what we do and what we say.

But before all that, truth must shine,
we must admit our faults to God,
ourselves and another human being

this is a basic AA thing, 12 steps
to freedom and growth, to
God only knows—sunshine and rain

producing a golden rainbow to block
out and record the pain.  Write a book,
or just plan this day, God laughing with you

as we climb the trail toward the
Great Mother’s sinewy sinew, a waterfall
worth a thousand pictures, a stream

trying to win back Los Angeles and
become her river once more.
Concrete from rock, we break down

our modern thoughts.  We seek
a Native voice, but must study and go
back to see the facts for proper choice.

God be with us, to turn our good
into better, to rise in our sobriety
to remember the native and slave

in chains.  To make amends for the
pain that stains, the rain that reigns,
the peace that shames because it

was not justice for all but for only
the white, privileged kings. God
grant us more than shiny new things,

but the wisdom to see what the
Chiefs saw and were: the Gold of the
land in its true love.  Gratitude.

The lost art of standing.  Sitting.  Laying
down in the midst of greatness when
the buffalo spirit returns, dirt to the shirt,

Take off our ties, go back to England
and tell the Crown at Last!!!!

“We found the gold, Ma’am. Yes,
it was the native people.  Their wisdom.
Their love of land and connection to it.”

Sound the pipes, rattle the skins,
scrape the strings, the Celtic song
revives to the native revival, a sign

from all the gods that to call yourself
a child of God, be grateful for what you
have, forgive the wrongs done you,

help another find shelter, if you are
blessed to have it, and join the alcoholic
as he or she marches backwards to

right the wrongs never more wrong
than now…

It feels good.

Yes, Animals

20 Sunday May 2018

Posted by in Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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What is man without the beasts?
If all the beasts were gone, men would
die from great loneliness of spirit, for
whatever happens to the beasts also
happens to man.  All things are connected.
Whatever befalls the earth befalls the
children of the earth.
—Chief Seattle

I need to dumb down to reach
God and the masses, animals all of us.

Donald Trump uses the word “Animal”
as a curse or put down, which to me
puts himself down, as of course we are
all animals.

Donald Trump has no idea what this
poem is about, would bluster “he
doesn’t care,” but the truth is that
he deeply cares, and is ashamed at
how low his education is.

He cares, and is ashamed at how much
debt he is in, his sexual habits caught
on tape, money paid out to quiet
ex-lovers.

I love Donald, and so did his mom
and dad.

It IS PARTIALLY OUR FAULT—
ALL OF OUR FAULT!!!!—for letting someone
like Donald Trump be “president,”
for letting someone with NO
PUBLIC SERVICE EXPERIENCE even run
for president of the United States of
America.

(By “United” I refer to what rich
representatives in a Continental
Congress claimed this country was
in 1776, ignoring Slavery and native
people, who were not considered,
nor counted.  Women left out,
children discriminated against a few
years later in a Constitution that
sets “age” limits four times: to
run for Congress, Senate, President,
and to vote.  To judge a big group
of people on an arbitrary quality
like gender, race or AGE—and to
restrict that group
based on that quality from having
rights or access to something is called
discrimination.)

So, Donald’s campaign sought outside
help from foreign nations, Russian
money, and others who own FIFA
and where it plays its soccer games.

Bribe and play, pay to play, go
to work one day, and there you
are in the White House because you
sold enough racist followers that
“brown people will not replace us,
Nor will Hillary, or Obama and his
blacktivists!”—and they voted for
you to…

Lead or tweet?

Campaign for 2020 or lead?

Troll people online, watch Fox News
and play golf on the government’s dime?

Geez, you wanna change things,
Donald and Devin—you wanna root
out the deep state?

Stand up to CIA and its covert
mission of violence and secrets!!  Put
the spotlight on JFK.  The real
president of this Country IS
CIA!!!!

Since November of 1963, we are under
their covert thumb, the leash long
enough to feel free—

and although God is truly in charge
of all, we pretend down here that
we have power.

We do not, no matter how many Samuels
go up the mountain and ask God
for a king.