Commentary and Philosophy Poetry posted January 29, 2019

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My tiny drum circle

Native Tears

by Clockwise

I saw
through the tears
of that traitor,
and the eye of a storm.
Neither a lover
nor hater
just anarchy
in human form.

He rose
like smoke
from a feather.
by the burning sweetgrass.
snaking together,
the shamans
of plastic
and glass.

Caught feeding
in powerful places
and playing
political games
in service to those
who've displaced us,
and given us
our English names.

And the pale ones
hoisted him
than his totem
would ever dare.
their kind of liar:
bought with long hair.

And somewhere
our Grandfather's
but not for the teachings
he cries
for the souls
of the sleeping,
and those who are woke
but speak not.

So I will pray
to the spirit,
and hang your sage
in the sun,
then bang so hard
you shall hear it:
this willful
drum circle
of one.


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Artwork by cleo85 at

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