POEMS by PinkEagle
INTRO
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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.
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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?”
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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?
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My People lived across an ocean called Atlantic.
My People lived by a lake called Michigan.
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My People wanted Freedom of Religion.
My People had Freedom of Religion.
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My People left their home across an ocean called Atlantic.
My People had their home by a lake called Michigan.
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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.
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The People of my skin are white.
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The People of my heart are red.
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THESE
​
ARE
​
MY
​
PEOPLE!
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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
