This week let’s write a native poem. You could describe some native talent or some feature from your native land. Of course, thanks to imperialism, you could “go native”. Whichever path you take, be sure to come back home and post your poem in the comments below.
Living Poetry 
So interesting, all of these poems. Here is my contribution
The Belgian asked what I thought of Obama
I did not realize how racist my country is replied I
America’s twin original sins
razing Native bodies to the ground
enslaving Black bodies
are coming to a gruesome reckoning
the cacophony of all those voices
drowning our ability to hear each other
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Posted by Second Act Blogger | July 15, 2022, 6:05 PMToo true, too true. Love the last three lines. Well done.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 15, 2022, 7:47 PM“America’s twin original sins” – definitely. The basis for all the rest.
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Posted by JeanMarie | July 16, 2022, 3:08 PMIn a foreign land
alien yet familiar
drivers careen without care
wires hang
pendulous
old poles
creosote long drained from them
from years of storms and snow
remnants of curbs
from a time when this was all-new
along streets like Austin and Oceanside
Henry and Pearl
capillaries regrown
collateral circulation
leading from our mother
the sea
Ambrose calling
beyond
a narrow line of dunes and grass
tankers fill the view
a humor to keep the city alive
and beyond
far beyond
a blue against blue
a line drawn
ragged
the land of my birth
native yet unfamiliar
stretching beyond the channel
as foreign as is this land
where I stand
——
I slip into our bed
as native as you are
lying asleep
the whirl of the compressor
outside the window
the soft purr of your breath
cool sheets and cool skin
and know this is home
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Posted by Chris Clarke | July 14, 2022, 10:25 AMLove that last stanza, especially the whirl and the purr. Good work!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 14, 2022, 5:39 PMBoomerang
Bart sends out weekly prompts
hunting for prized written arts
Sometimes they return empty
right back at his wanting hand
At times they return a surprise
making his waiting heart sing
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | July 12, 2022, 3:29 PM*in….right back in his wanting hand
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | July 12, 2022, 3:43 PMHa! It is pretty cool when the poem written to one of my prompts surprises me. Thanks for making me the subject of this one!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 12, 2022, 7:04 PMYou are welcome 🙂
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | July 13, 2022, 2:15 AMI can’t write a poem. I’m just transfixed by the kilt and the socks.
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Posted by JeanMarie | July 11, 2022, 5:11 PMHa! Put some line breaks in there and it’s a haiku.
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 11, 2022, 7:49 PMAnd that’s a poem of some sort. 😸
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | July 12, 2022, 3:43 PMMama said don’t mix stripes with plaid. Mama was a native Scot …they are out of style in more ways than one.
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Posted by ts19page | July 16, 2022, 4:13 PMkookaburras
our favourite birds
why?
because they sounds as
if they are too many beers deep
in the back bar of the pub
are wonderfully crazy
loud uninhibited
like a lot of the natives
down under
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Posted by Rall | July 11, 2022, 3:49 PMWonderful. Thanks for the video too.
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Posted by JeanMarie | July 11, 2022, 5:06 PMHa! Love that “too many beers deep in the back bar of the pub” Thanks for sharing!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 11, 2022, 7:47 PMHaha I love this
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Posted by Cassa Bassa | July 12, 2022, 3:42 PMThis is a wonderful poem, with flow, rhyme, and reads like what it is, a prayer.
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Posted by ts19page | July 11, 2022, 3:18 PMGreat-Grandmother
By Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris
She spoke to Manetôwa daily
In her soft and aged voice
Morning noon and night
before each meal or perceived slights
Great Manetôwa protect this girl
blood of my blood bone of my bone
her parents now reside with you
I know I will be there soon too
I hear your distant call
Oh Great One in the Sky
Soon to see my mother
my father and the others
My time was long
my life was blessed
I pray I’ve passed all your tests
In truth I am ready for my long rest
My soft brown skin is saggy now
not firm and strong as once it was
My braids once black as night
now reflect a white moon bright
Many years have come and gone
families slain to steal our lands
What once was pure clean and good
reduced now to ash gray wood
Great Manetôwa hear my prayer
look down from your mountain high
Protect and keep my children safe
especially the littlest waif
Into Your soil I’ll commit myself
Your essence healing broken spirits
Until one day when it’s right and true
We’ll all return to honor You
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Posted by Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris | July 11, 2022, 12:45 PMLovely!
These two lines!
“My braids once black as night
now reflect a white moon bright”
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Posted by JeanMarie | July 11, 2022, 5:09 PMThank you so much JeanMarie! 🤗
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Posted by Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris | July 11, 2022, 5:10 PMLove the “braids once black as night / now reflect a white moon” and the “reduced now to ash gray wood” Nice work!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 11, 2022, 7:46 PMThank you Bartholomew – fantastic prompt! 😊
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Posted by Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris | July 11, 2022, 7:46 PMLongevity
She stayed put for fifty years back in the origins,
there was no choice for her, no way out of town.
She had work to do, not to leave all hanging,
flipping in the wind, it took forever, never finished.
Easily trapped by those more innocent than her,
toddler minds demanding a love that pierces like swords.
Her ancestors thought a lot of singing, living by the slim recompense
of infrequent tune, drum beat, a cappella, thin and rising.
The dance was a woman swaying, baby at her shoulder,
one hand on his bottom, one behind his head.
They lived stringy, belts never had but one notch,
reinforced five times, and worn thin.
Meeting the slow gravity of hard work bodies, whitening hair,
they became skilled at emptiness and resignation.
These were the people who never ate too much, sang too much,
sexed too much, were good at parceling.
Health was the art of refusal, and they excelled,
lived to ninety-nine and counting, you can’t kill these.
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Posted by ts19page | July 11, 2022, 8:16 AMI love the “slow gravity of hard work bodies” and the “toddle minds demanding a love that pierces like swords”. Nice work!
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Posted by Bartholomew Barker | July 11, 2022, 7:43 PM