MAY MASSACRE

from history of native american battles around clear lake in california as told to me

MAY MASSACRE
in the blue hour of morning
as the first cannonball rammed into the badonnapoti camp
her grandmother pulled her from her sleeping place
“go child, something bad is happening, go hide in the reeds
and when there is need,
breathe through a tulle tube,
stay hidden no matter what you hear,
but watch and remember what you see”...
and as the water turned to blood
she stayed hidden,
she saw the soldiers toss children into the water from the points of bayonets,
she saw the men and women savagely shot, stabbed or slashed to death,
they died all around her hiding place,
 on the island,
on the rocky sand beach,
they died in the water trying to swim to safety...

and

the water in the tulles turned thick and sticky
against her skin from the blood flooding down the banks,
some of the people were savagely raped by groups of “horse soldiers”,
claiming it was justice for the death of two white settlers,
tribal women and little girls begged,
weeping as they as fought and died,
braves killed trying to protect the tribe,
cut to pieces and left where they fell...

and

 in the end, when the people no longer could be heard dying ,
the white soldiers leader, lt. nathaniel lyon,
ordered the bodies to be dragged into a pile to be erased with fire,
 the smell of her people burning
soured the night wind over clear lake...
 in the sunset blue hour
she placed a tulle tube in her mouth
and moved away from “old island”
under the red blanket of water...
that night she crept
 through crimson cover
along the far shore
seeking freedom as far from the slaughter
as her weary limbs would carry her...

and

in her mind, she began the memory song of the “bloody island” massacre
 to make others understand why all people must try to live peacefully
side by side helping each other to survive...
this song she told her children
and when the ash mound of her family was gathered,
 mixed with clay to build dykes for new settlers,
she added that truth to the song told to the children,
and my mother told me...

and

thorough our history
wherever the tribes gather the tale is still told,
in the drum circles and traditional dances,
in the patterns of our weaving
and the designs on our pots,
we share what she learned on “bloody island”
on a spring day in may so long ago...

Reviews

[marcus]

Yes, I really liked this. Excellent write! Thanks for sharing.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

this just tears at my heart strings, and it makes me so angry---how can people do this to others and then sleep at night...such bigotry and hate.

your poem is excellent in depicting the situation and giving us the feelings...

j.