The Bloodied Ground We Walk

A meandering rant at history's expense.

This white skin betrays me

with its blackened root.

The blood soaked ground that rises around me

cries out for the vengeance my countenance owes.

Who am I to deny this wallowing of spirit,

the invisible tattoo laid across

my translucent flaxen shadow?

Outside my window, in the ground,

on the land by a muddy river,

the tall grass murmurs,

arrowhead and old glass mingling.

Native hut specters scream from

under the dirt.... “do you know

where you are walking?

Follow our eyes to the river

and remember this place

that was not covered

with towering fort, boxed coffins.

It once held- fire in the open air

and brown bodies

in fur raiment,

the scents and sights of struggle and triumph

laid bare upon the open plain,

the smoke of agreement rising

off a circle of men.

In the Charleston plantations of my ancestors

the field's of white cotton burn still in

the veins, the fingers, the backs

of my daddies b*****d heirs.

Are we, all of us,

this master race, a sociopathic lot?

Do we lean toward a heartless impotent throne,

a wilted prick that must draw blood

to satisfy?

Will we never relent

to gas and gorge this lust of plenty,

bodies piled to our Babylonian skies,

our white Jesus in his alter boy frock

awaiting our triumphant, expected return?

They too have purchased this land with their blood.

I sit upon the ivory towers they built,

my weight a sack cast upon their backs

while my mothers drank tea in the shade.

Would that we walked in our own blood,

red cotton dresses, whip stripes oozing

over blackened veins, our tarred and feathered hearts

smoking with our blazing fire tinged hair,

our lineage redeemed only with the drinking

of our father's own blood as it is poured out

on the hills above us, our sins rolling down like hot lava,

skinned, red devils burning in the light of a raging sun.

How can we atone for an inheritance

born on the backs of someone else's father?

How can we rest in the shade of another man's tree

as we gingerly suck the light

from the eyes of his children?

Would that Valhalla would rise and call them blessed

that laid down in Gethsemane and waited for a dove instead.

That we would lay Ishmael upon our own alter on the sacrificial day

and find for ourselves a god who does not require blood to sate his lust.

That we could be born again into that new image

Jesus plead and wept for, but we did not listen,

we never listen. Our old gods march, Mayan and Aztec

skulls stacked in the streets, a pleasing aroma

to the gods we have named.

Our third reicht's chorus, an anthem to reigning hearts,

that our gods be raised above others, their name above all names

our god above all gods, Ishtar and Isis, Yahweh, Allah

and Elohim, our god is thirstier than your god, he owns

life and HE IS the better death.

You will see him and fear.

We prefer this worthy destruction

to truth, to peace, to love...it is for death

that we were born and it is for glory

that we live on the backs of our brothers

one selling another down the river to another land

all of us are slaves to survival's palad story, as we crawl

out of the mire and into light, it is a slow march

onward, converting funeral dirges into palatable hymn

to the same tired end.

Why can we not in a land of honey

choose to take another's hand instead of

running ahead, alone?

It is for this that we were born,

unlike Ayn Rand's

anthem-

to tell, can we not, another story,

without drinking anew

a martyr's fresh death for

our god's virgin sacrifice.

Can we yet find 

our own sweet rest in

'as you have done it unto the least of these

you have done it unto me'

and lie down in the grass, the lion and the lamb

on a hill toward an ark that can

hold ALL

of tomorrow's children?

Author's Note

There are too many philosophical issues in here to address each one with sense. It is just a rant, what was flowing from my mind one night. That's all. History repeats and we try with our limited view to make sense of how we got here and why we keep walking the same furrowed paths of our fathers to carve out a place to lay our wearied heads in the halls of eternity. The paths we choose fascinate me.

Reviews

[Charlie McEwan]

I'm blown away by this piece, yet again. History has always fascinated it. I see an urgency in learning from it in a way that I think many don't. I like to know what made people do the things they did and what allowed them to do it. Over and over again I see history repeating itself.
I am an adult by age but a child in my knowledge of the world and the way it works. Reading the above made my heart pound and my breathe catch. I cannot express with words my love for this piece.

Thank you for sharing it.

[Kristina Moulaison]

You are a brave woman reading this rambling thing. I thank you so much for plowing through it and leaving these wonderful remarks. I think we are all children when it comes to understanding history, especially our own. :) Even if we understand where others have erred, we seem hell bent on repeating it. It takes such courage to overcome our instincts. I think that's why people like Gandhi stand out and are so reviled. They illustrate to us how small and petty we truly are. Rising above those things is no small act, but as Mother Teresa pointed out, we need not do it in grand gestures but in small defiant acts of radical kindness.

[Charlie McEwan]

I'm not a woman.. I'm a man, but thanks.

[Kristina Moulaison]

Just read your message. ;)

[Kristina Moulaison]

I am sorry about saying that. I wish I could edit my comment now. I can't remember what gave me the impression now. I must be identifying you with my daughter.

[Charlie McEwan]

It was an honest mistake, nothing to dwell on :)

[Kristina Moulaison]

You're sweet for saying that. Thank you!