The Poetry Marathon

I’m Sorry

I’m sorry, my poor babies.

Sorry for not catching your tears

while being whipped to speak English.

I apologize for not running to your aid

when you cried out in pain

as they yanked your hair

and chopped it off.

I know it’s not enough,

when you’re called degenerate

and savages by

the glaring eyes of your “teachers”

I wish I could’ve cut those

nightmares of constant abuse

left by the government.

I’m sorry, children,

that you were silenced

and thrown away

like ragged dolls.

All I can do for you now

is to pray for your peace

and share these unsaid apologies

through my work.

Remember Your Worth

Dedicated to the First Nations of USA

“We’re Worth It Too”

Society may not think we are.

But we are.

We are adorned by the stars with turquoise.

Entrusted to keep the land safe.

Looked up to for wisdom.

We are Indigenous.

We’ve survived the many faces of death:

drought, disease, and genocide.

We rose up like a rose in the sidewalk,

and bloomed with endurance.

Others may call us ugly and inferior.

Remember, we taught people skills,

we should them how to survive.

We are so worth more than a pint of beer.

More than a grain of rice.

Remember, we travelled through 4 worlds

and were led by our ancestors to where we are today.

Never forget,

You are more than just

“Native American”,

you are Indigenous

and surpassed “Manifest Destiny.”

The Red Hand Paint

The news avoids us

while we fight to save ourselves.

Women go missing

children give up on growing up.

Our voices like mouse squeaks

as we raise picket signs

“MMIW”.

Only to be overlooked

with misused references

by pop culture and influncers.

The red hand paint

is a homage to the

moms, daughters, sisters and wives

who were taken by force.

It’s symbol of grief

anger and a cry of help.

The nation turns away

as we plead with war cries in the night.

The media bans us

as we post our hearts

and tributes to our winged angles.

The red hand paint

is not a joke.

It’s a symbol

of a cold truth that no light is shed on.

The Poor Little Souls

The school’s foundation was your graves.

No prayers were given,

Charlise motto was your eulogy.

“Kill the Indian, kill the school.”

No one knew your names.

Your faces faded long ago.

Only the real Higher Beings

cherished your shadowed memories.

The news came as a shock

like the nation never heard of a genocide before.

Can Canada really do such a thing?

“More than 200 children bodies found….”

215 lost smiles.

215 future leaders gone.

No laughs to echo the school’s horrid past.

No child was safe from discrimination,

as they were buried like jane and john does.

My heat aches as I recall this discovery.

For I can not say RIP

to those poor souls.

Code Talkers

An archaic language

that has survived the test of time

by facing the judgment of manifestation destiny.

This language was thought

to be unpure,

useless,

and disgusting.

In reality,

It is a language of

pictures and

definitions.

A language that

saved

the very people who wanted it dead.

It became a sealed code

kept by the government,

a code that no one can know,

a secret that isn’t to be told.

Until years after its creation

it was freed and shared to the public,

but wasn’t included in history books.

Those who spoke Navajo and Hopi

gathered and shared their tales

of how they formed the Code Talkers

and helped win the war.

Good morning everyone. How did the full moon treat everyone? It kept me up pretty late for the past few days. I am excited to be back here again for the marathon. Wahoo! good luck to everyone!

“History repeats itself”

Here we are again in

“the good old days”.

Where your fate

is predecided

by a government

that believes in

“Equality.”

Women,

Gays,

and non-whites

are being thrown away

in a dumpster

hidden by Wallstreet

and false news.

Lies are now the truth.

So, history repeats itself.

Sacred grounds desecrated

for greed.

Warnings from Nature

are disregarded

and called hoaxes.

Those called

“Sisters in Christ.”

Are lesser than

your green paper

made of a tree’s carcass.

Greed now rules

with ignorance at its side.

We are blind kittens

in a world of hungry Hyenas.

On the way home

Shades of green blanket the horizon,

I look

in the distance,

as my love Says,

“Looks like someone spray-painted the Mesa’s white.”

The scattered, surviving snow cowers in splotches.

And the crouching cedars stretch out

with the rabbit-like bushes

together they dance as the wind creeps through.

Everything is alive.

Our car jolts to the rise and fall

Of the ancient drums

And hums with the age-old songs.

Songs that only the privileged are to hear.

To the right,

The Peaks stand tall with a white veil

Waiting for our Father, the Sun

To kiss her forehead.

Everything is alive.

As people of the land race each other

Like they’re in the Indie 500,

But only

To escape the barren land they live on.

But to me this land that we call “Home”

Is alive.

Vampire bites littered

My little bothers forearms,

Exposing his lifelines.

Crouched to the ground, he cried,

“Don’t look at me, Sister. I am not your bother anymore.”

This led him to place a gun to his head,

Red and blue flashes raced to his aide.

Only to see the villain in his laugh

As they cuffed him and took him to jail.

“It was only a joke.”

This is where

Bottles of false hopes

Gave my dad a kaleidoscope vision of life:

Dizzying him to drink more, to blackout

As he veered to a sign and walk away unscathed.

When I pulled on his over-stretched shirt

Pleading him to come back

To come back to us.

Because a rundown trailer with vacant fridges

And dust-laden cabinets is all we had.

“Dad, can you hear me?”

Only silence answered.

Cut to my mom,

Falling to her knees as

Rives flowed from her eyes,

Followed by stuttered apologies

And a pause of realization

That her life was over:

She had lost her marriage and us, her kids.

Nothing was worse than that.

“I’m so sorry. It was all a misunderstanding.”

But to be called a liar by her

is like a silver bullet to a werewolf,

.

Iraq was his tour and he was to serve again.

“I swear I miss Dustin too!”

“Liar! You’re just copying me!”

I cried for my big brother to save me that night.

Past a decade ago,

My world of Lisa Frank stickers and folders

was shattered by a boy of platinum hair,

ice water eyes, parchment-colored skin.

He walked up and stole my smile,

“You’re ugly. Your skin is the color of mud and you don’t belong here.”

Speechless. Collapsing into a fit of tears. No one defended me.

Your birthday is in September,

When the leaves fade to sunset colors,

and I sing

“Wake Me Up When September Ends.”

Each day

I wish you are here.

I still check my phone

when a phantom buzz vibrates

and there’s no sign of you.

All I hear is:

“Nothing Else Matters.”

I can’t help

but stand still in a moving world,

and hum your favorite songs

thinking:

Why am I talking to the Moon?

One again

I hear an echo in my heart,

and pray that

you found your

“Stairway to Heaven”

and not the

“Highway to Hell”.

Because you lived your life.

you were my jukebox hero.

When these songs on repeat,

I cry out that you’re

“So Far Away.”

And wish once again

that you were here.