Thanksgiving (RWP #102)

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)
This poem only loosely follows the prompt idea, but is part of my "Native American" series. Thursday November 26th is "Thanksgiving"- the American holiday where we celebrate hoodwinking the Indians, so this poem seems somehow appropriate.

From Buffalo Soldiers to
the Trail of Tears,
we came to conquer-
to steal away everything.
Trading their noble lives for
sugar, whiskey and our one God.
Forcing it down through clenched teeth,
a poisonous drug -making them crave it.
Instead of maize, pinon and venison,
they eat potato chips, twinkies and bologna.
Their reverence of nature replaced with
the arrogance of church spires.
Killing them with our ways, our insidious gifts,
in a centuries long “Final Solution“.

Two Essays (RWP)

Over at the Read, Write Poem site, Dana Guthrie Martin came up with an interesting extra prompt entitled "The Games Poets Play". We were to write two essays. One being the truth and the other false. Her two examples were so imaginative and wonderful I felt very intimidated at first. But I always force myself to do things I am afraid of...so here are my two essays. Try to guess which is true and which is fiction.....

ONE
From as far back as I can remember, I used to think, dream, feel, and at times even see a man. He was short, slight, with a hooked nose and deep-set eyes under dark lids. He always had a sad and yet nervous look. I was sure I knew him. He was so familiar. I knew he liked a certain tilt to his brown fedora, suffered from ulcers, and was a chain-smoker. Pall Mall. Sometimes while in a drowsy state I could actually feel one of those cigarettes resting between my first two fingers, the ash coming closer and closer, heating my skin. Recently while at a bookstore I began thumbing through a large “coffee table” book about Intelligence officers during World War II, and I came upon a picture. In the picture was a group of seven men, each leaning over a large table, studying a map. This man, the man who had haunted me throughout my life, was in that group, third man from the left. Left nameless, but wearing the fedora


TWO
I have a pond. It is large, deep and ringed by waterlilies. There is a soothing waterfall that wends gently through large boulders before dropping softly into the water below. Everyone that comes to our home remarks on the wonderful oasis in the desert. But the best part of all is the Koi. Several dozen large fish with magical colorations glide within those waters, each one more beautiful than the one before. These fish know me. They see me through a liquid gaze and one by one they come to the surface, where I am allowed to gently touch their slick bodies in a loving caress, and where they eat watermelon from my hand.

Angry

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)

My brain’s become a spinning disc.
Cracked old vinyl, black and broken,
continuous stupid song repeating,
skipping, screeching chaos.

Nerves vibrate to this broken record.
Shards of tangled wild emotions,
shattering, splintering,
cut deeply into flesh and heart.

I must escape the manic screeching.
Hit and jar the stylus back to
smooth, melodious grooves-
Back to calm and normalcy.

Ragged breath- thick dark clots.
No music there, no soothing melody,
just frustrating, alienating,
trapped, choking words.

Suddenly the switch is flipped.
Anger dissipates to soft white buzz
as the needle reaches it’s quiet end,
leaving only helpless inevitability.

Silly Sonnet (RWP #101)

The "P" words for this prompt made me feel a bit more stupid than usual and I had a terrible time coming up with anything. then I thought, "Use your stupidity!" So, this is what I came up with...
(After reading this , if you are interested, I have posted another in my series about Native Americans directly under this post. It is a "scene" poem of the same type we did a few weeks ago for prompt.)

T'would be much better to procrastinate,
believes this poet of pernicious prose.
As I’ve tendencies to prevaricate,
while much loftier bards turn up their nose.

My pea-sized brain is but a porous mess
laced thickly with a plethora of cheese.
And the talent inside is so much less
than fortunates who have advanced degrees.

Whilst kneeling here in my confessional
I will admit to hopes of accolades.
But my posthumous processional
will only stop the critic's sharpened blades.

So thanks to You for each kind platitude,
as I extend my heartfelt gratitude.

(told you it was silly!)

4 Corners

(photo courtesy of Photobucket)

This is another piece in the series I am writing about Native Americans. The title refers to the area of the US where 4 states come together and where resides the largest reservation in America.

Under a convex roof
of azurite blue,
drifts of lace cirrus
race through mazes of currents
blown by mirages.

Vultures wheel slowly,
spiraling downward,
raptor eyes keen on the
rust covered earth, flecked with
sorry sad sheep, deflated and dusty.

The rough crackle ground
of impossible colors like
spilled paint box shades
splotched and meandering.
Cadmium, ochre, alizarin crimson.

Chaparral, sagebrush and
damned Russian thistle,
their stubborn roots grabbing-
an attempt to gain purchase of
the dry, dusty valley.

A rusted old single-wide
squats dumbly on cinderblocks
replacing the tumbledown hogan,
beside a Satellite dish
and new Chevy pickup.