Two Attempts at Publication: Two Rejections Created Three More Poems of Resistance (5 total)

Two Attempts at Publication: Two Rejections Created Three More Poems of Resistance (5 total)

Poem 1

“Governance and Poison”

I am near,

I see you over there,

You stand here with such grace

An alteration has taken its place

Wandering through the crowd

I smell the movement by being here

Though you stand over there

We chant the same,

I am near,

I ponder on the things to follow

Learning as I grow spiritually

A bond in growth is taking a stance

I do not dance for those corrupt

A bubble indeed waiting to pop

Minds are weak when they are shut

I am near,

I fear you to be deaf to muted ears

Though you are loud to me

Mother Earth is a teaching I hold

Stories are told

They are fonder of gold

You are old now

I am near,

Awaiting for your return

Standing in the way for you

I protect you even still

Maybe for a fond thrill

To stand in resistance

Seeing his wrongful position,

I am near

Poem 2

“Today He Visits,”

Okay,

I stand

Where?

Over there

Okay

How?

Perfectly still

I speak?

He creeps

The moment

To utter

Yes, a shutter?

Okay,

He weeps

The time

Is now?

Perhaps

Okay,

Tomorrow

We chant

He comes?

Okay,

Sorrow

Borrow a time?

Poorly strewn rhyme

Create an image

What type?

Sickly sweet

Okay,

Like a rotten apple?

Something stronger

Sure, a rotten ear?

One that stays closed

Lost Indian’s?

Mass Genocide

Okay, but

Today He Visits

 Poem 3

“I am the Indian”

What does that mean?

I am not entirely sure

I am just me

But who are you?

Can’t you see?

I am the roots

Roots, of a tree

Just agree,

Move forward

Silence is the vocation

Colonization is my life

Racism for many white people is dead

Left to a guy name Fred that nobody knows

Race and their ism becomes stereotypes and Pan-Indians expression

You know those moments?

To die dramatically without the death

A looming fear that my Indian culture is

Encased within white society

And

Disported

Disconnected

Cut off

Shown off

Tokenized

Racialized

Immortalized

Radicalized

Yet we are spiritualized

Kept at bay in some national history museum

Unable to die naturally

In the ground,

There is no sound for death,

An everlasting breathe,

My mistake is to leave you alone,

Hey Vader,

You’re nothing but a hater,

Shit,

You always talk

But with such malice to join forces

Though with corporate or industry,

Reaching on nothing,

Only death in mind,

I’m rationalized,

This country calls me marginalized,

I’m tired of governmental quotations

To what I must be,

I’m me at the worst,

I’m an Indian at best,

Don’t forget it,

Forever you see,

“I am the Indian”

Even when everybody is mocking me

Poem 4

“Impairment of Sight”

Stop hating

Start celebrating

What to do

Where to go

In a colonial age

Hearts are broken

You’re just another fucking token

The Indian or the coin,

The motorcycle or the people,

The statue or the totem pole,

The dance or my white sadistic trance,

My sanity

She is reaching the highest steeple

Stop the rhymes you’re driving me into madness!

You create this sadness within my soul

Oh, stop whining, you claim this heavy toll to carry!

But you’re neither addicted nor drunk anymore,

I sunk deep and was once very still

Into the depths of my brain

Oh, get off the pity train, you’re pissing me off!

I ask a question

Brushed into the bucket

I walk in a circle

I’ll seemingly die in vein

I took drugs and drank booze

Both were equal to the end of some rope

Creator,

He granted me life once more

I was not willing

To see the sky

A higher power

With a sense of humour,

Cruel but proper

Prim and neat you now must be,

Privileged and white

Is how you must speak

Indian,

You will always be wrong!

I shall stand strong

Despite this opposition

We will unite with our culture,

Regardless of my family’s oppression

Unification shall place down the foundation,

We will beat this forceful occupation,

Written,

Paint,

Photo,

Or video,

Cultural resistance through artistic expression

Manifestations made without violence,

Meeting us on the field is

Resistance from the machine,

So-called Kanata will crumble,

When the people

Arise and awake fully,

The sounds of the fall,

Concrete and all,

Silenced

My mind

Parliament, no more,

Corruption of the lands, no more

Governance from white forces

Dissipates into nothing,

Restoration of Mother Earth – Earth, dirt, and soil,

Beneath my toes, below me is the essence of my very being

Minds, Hearts and Souls,

For a beauty timeless and old,

No more suppression,

No more hatred,

With those of colourful skins,

No, no more division at all

Poem 5

Decrepit Way to Get to Here: Plasticizing the Indian Canoe, Paddle and Puller

You used to be original, you AB-original man…I stop, from those words, dance to the rhythm of the Mother Earth, tones, drums and frolic with glee, though you see me in pain, you are quietly watching me going insane, until the day I awake, my identity remains entombed, a history set a blaze, we are left to wander and rot like flesh of the ancestors no more, a thought, from those tones, we are caught in the white maze, a beast building up through thousands of historical white pages created with nothing save hatred in mind, all British Nations united for an embodied proposition to seek out loot in the ground, to the discovery of black gold from a forest scrapped bare, I judge myself much like I judge everyone else for I simply go down to the Indian gas station and fill a tank with industries greed, staring endlessly as the number of liters roll up, I stood each time in a daze as I am silently looking at something much more as the symbols bled through the lands: Suncor, Syncrude, Enbridge, Enron, Standard Oil, Husky, Shell…any gas station, all gas stations, the blood of our Mother and somehow, I stop here though, hand them my status card, hand them my money, then I go stand in a crowd and boo big oil, down with tyranny but excuse me, I need to go buy some gas before I get there…I am in excruciating pain, medieval torture, like the rack, then kept in a dungeon, a creature looms in the depths of my toes, knocking on the wooden gate since 1492, there below is an Indian, too, he awaits me to unlock his bind and give him back a dugout option, a paddle to seek out new lands, sustainably, simplistically, such a technique so unique the white man says my cedar canoe is me traveling primitively…Dance to the noise…She is Antiquated…The Lands Are Supressed…She has Heart Beats…Rhythms…Sounds…She Cries…She has Joy.