Pandemics and Politics.
Both have seized the day.
Masks and Mandates.
Both have paved the way for
a lack of education,
a certain mind castration.
A funeral held in vanity.
Mindless of our sanity.
Humanity lies.

In eighteen hundred and thirty-eight,
tens of thousands met their fate.
Some in wagons, most by foot.
Children strapped to backs – they stood
in solemnity and pride,
till the frailest among them died.
The wife of Chief John Ross
considered her own life lost.
Her Christian life she gave
to an Indian girl she saved.
Old Man Cherokee
on the Trail of Tears.
Choctaw and Muskogee
on the Trail of Fears.
Lost to disease.
Lost to freeze
in the chill of a drizzling rain.
From New Echota
forced to walk.
Forced to be buried
where they dropped.
4000 silent graves.
4000 never found their way
to the bittersweet aroma
of Tahlequah, Oklahoma.

Lazy days,
vermilion craze,
staggering shyly,
buzzing,
waggling,
slurping,
bow before me.
Without me,
you are not.
Will you sting me?

Narrow shade,
scent of musk,
quick death
beneath a clump
of clustering,
filtering,
dappled dusk.
Without you,
I am not.
Will I crush you?

I watch the shadow-wings
swooping/gliding,
blocking out the sun.
I feel cold death
looming,
tingling through my veins,
as I scurry/flee
through my field home-
swiftness, silence,
chasing me down.
The blackness
blinds me
until I feel my bitty bones
crunch and crush
beneath the weight
of talons strong-
so strong, the lifelight
fades from my
ebony eyes
and the lush green grass
of my field home
is no more.

Reach out. Let me feel your sorrow.
Hold it in my hand.
Tempt me with your grace and quiet madness
as I browse among your pain.
Mold my pathos with your clay.
Let dawn tend exquisite sadness,
then slip quietly away.
Your footprints sketch a path
on gilded grains of sand, they wed.
Each night they curl
around my pillow,
sweetly singing
to the darkness
sleeping in your bed.
Your dusty portrait blinks at me,
its oily eyes encased
within its musty wooden frame.
It longs to brush the silence.
It aches to hear its name.

The twisted trees are shedding leaves
Upon the autumn wind.
The air is cool. So peaceful, now,
I turn my gaze to view
The powdery clouds suspended
In a sky so soft and blue.
The lily pads ablaze with green
Across the water top-
Waterdrops like diamonds in the sun…
The red-orange trees are set afire.
The colors take my breath.
They shimmer in the morning sun-
Too soon they meet their death.

empty vagrant shout
like secondhand beans spilling out
pebbles on the flies
dubious disguise
crumpled leg shadows
on deserted dusty walls
on a sidewalk window display
on a child’s broken doll
to what fate entice her here
to cornered streets
to stinking fear
useless years
upon her breath
city sounds
play out the death
of the mendicant she was
waiting once to borrow
a fraction of today
by a bare thread of tomorrow

While sorrows mount
and trials reign,
a silver lining
yet remains.

In the dark of the night a child screams,
a wisp of cloud drifts on.
Mothers and others with faces so pale,
tributes to days long gone.

No one really knows
that I am here.
They only know
that they are there.
I am a clown,
a puppet without strings.
My imaginary movements
are so clumsy.
I’m a bird
without its wings.
No one sees me
when I smile,
but they applaud
when I fall down.
I taste my salty tears
as I pick myself
up off the ground.
I sometimes feel so alone.
I cannot bear the pain.
I’m dancing only
for my peers,
to see their smiles
and hear their cheers.
And I will never know
that I am here,
while they will always know
that they are there.