POEMS by PinkEagle

INTRO

C.S. Lewis, a person I admire, wrote some words on poetry that have stayed with me.  I paraphrase his thought.

 

There are two kinds of poetry.  

Poems that are written with all the intellect at the disposal of the person. Taking hours, days, weeks and even years to finish.  Aware all the time what is being written. 

 

The others are just the opposite.  The intuitive having written without pen and paper a finished poem.   All the person need do is take up pen and paper. Then reading the words as if for the first time.

 

What C. S. Lewis was getting at is this: Both need to be honored and appreciated. Not judged against each other.

 

Just like my animals and shells, my poems emerge unbidden.   

 

The poems started the end of January 1993. I have no clue of why. I never know when one is ready to reveal itself.  But like a good photographer, I try to be prepared.  

 

I will open with the first poem I wrote.  “Who are my people?”

This was written in order to honor the Original People of the Land I grew up upon.  And to express my dilemma as clear as possible.  Why my pen name is Pink Eagle.  The Red and White in me at peace flying together.

WHO ARE MY PEOPLE?

My People lived across an ocean called Atlantic. 

My People lived by a lake called Michigan. 

My People wanted Freedom of Religion. 

My People had Freedom of Religion. 

My People left their home across an ocean called Atlantic. 

My People had their home by a lake called Michigan. 

My People settled by a lake called Michigan. 

My People were settled by a lake called Michigan. 

My People now have their home by a lake called Michigan. 

My People no longer have their home by a lake called Michigan. 

The People of my skin are white

The People of my heart are red. 

THESE

                      ARE

                                     MY

                                               PEOPLE!

Who are my people - hand written.JPG

Our Land

Our Land

       Is not

          Our Land

Our Land

     is

          Their Land

How can this be?

We wrote the treaties

     We got their marks

          we gave the beads

All seemed so legal

     TO US

Legal?

     Surely

          not in

               their eyes

European Law

     was not

          is not

                cannot

Be legal

     in a land

          Across the Ocean

               called Atlantic

So - - - - - - - Our Land

                                    Is not

                                         Our Land

                            Our Land

                                     is

                                        Their Land

Alcohol

     Guns

          Starvation

Moved

     their hand

          to make

               their mark

So - - - - - - - Our Land

                                    Is not

                                         Our Land

                            Our Land

                                     is

                                        Their Land

Greed

     Gold

          Glory

Broke the Treaties

     Leaving

          Crimson

               Beads

          Scattered in the

               Christmas

                      Snow

So - - - - - - - Our Land

                                    Is not

                                         Our Land

                            Our Land

                                     is

                                        Their Land

Their Land

     cradled

          her

               fallen

                     children

     lying

          in the

               bloody

                      snow

Welcoming

     Them

          Home

Who will

     Welcome

          Us

               Home?

Written 3/12/1993

Our Land 1.jpeg
Our Land 2.jpeg
Our Land 3.jpeg

 © 2020 by Essence of the Spiral - Annie Olson.

Created by Robin Canfield www.rcanfield.com