NATIVE american
BY
DAVID K. IRWIN
17 December, 1998
"I met a street-Warrior in an alley
in Rapid City, South Dakota.
From his cardboard pulpit he preached
past participles to passers-by.
I listened on that day and
this is what I heard him say..."
I've been hurt...
My "Life-Circle" is
beaten and bruised by white-man's blows.
I lie buried
beneath a blanket of shame.
My clay-red skin
has paled and cracked with many moons of his rain.
Our Father's ways
have washed away and Mother Earth cries out...
"Sons-of-Fathers
who once feasted on Buffalo-Brothers...
Why do your moccasins
dance to drums you do not beat?
Why do you plant
your corn in fields where it cannot grow?"
My "Heart" is lost...
My children taken to live in "White-man's Homes".
Their sun-shine faces
darkened by the clouds of the coming storm.
Hidden in alleys,
I look for courage to fight this battle in
my brown-paper bag.
Waiting for the "White Buffalo" who knows my pain...
My hurt goes on…
