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Poetry Prompts

Monday Poetry Prompt: Native

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.


About Bartholomew Barker

Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a collection of poets and poetry lovers in the Triangle region of North Carolina. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.


25 thoughts on “Monday Poetry Prompt: Native

  1. 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

    Liked by 1 person

    Posted by Second Act Blogger | July 15, 2022, 6:05 PM
  2. In a foreign land
    alien yet familiar
    drivers careen without care
    wires hang
    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
    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
    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

    Liked by 2 people

    Posted by Chris Clarke | July 14, 2022, 10:25 AM
  3. Boomerang

    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

    Liked by 1 person

    Posted by Cassa Bassa | July 12, 2022, 3:29 PM
  4. I can’t write a poem. I’m just transfixed by the kilt and the socks.

    Liked by 2 people

    Posted by JeanMarie | July 11, 2022, 5:11 PM
  5. kookaburras
    our favourite birds
    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

    Liked by 3 people

    Posted by Rall | July 11, 2022, 3:49 PM
  6. This is a wonderful poem, with flow, rhyme, and reads like what it is, a prayer.

    Liked by 1 person

    Posted by ts19page | July 11, 2022, 3:18 PM
  7. Great-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

    Liked by 3 people

    Posted by Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris | July 11, 2022, 12:45 PM
  8. Longevity

    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.

    Liked by 4 people

    Posted by ts19page | July 11, 2022, 8:16 AM

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