Poetry Is My Protest: Poem #5

Cherokee blood communes in my Celtic veins.
My mothers and fathers came down the Appalachian hills carrying fiddles, bibles and liquor in tow.

My ears have heard the wailing ghost chants of the Dakota burial grounds
My ears still hear mallet strikes against the cowhide pulse of unborn hearts.

I kneel upon mountain tops
Uttering disheveled prayers
Across the engendered beauty of our land.

The words of my heart-wreck
are carried upon snow capped wings of angels
Into the distant arrowhead of tomorrow

Over walls, in utero
and through the shattered,
Solar paneled roof of my soul,
My litanies rise to the ears of
Great Love.

Whether headdress or high-rise,
Through Instinct or field-guides,
we remain caretakers of our nature's mood.
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