#Poem for the Spring Season: “In The Clover”

 

Though supposed to be
somewhere else
he’s improbably there:
stretched out on his back
in a field of purple clover,
hands beneath his head,
feet crossed at the ankles.
Humming a tune,
he smiles as the wind
ruffles his hair.

Stretched out on his back
in a field of purple clover,
hands beneath his head,
feet crossed at the ankles,
humming a tune.
He smiles as the cool spring wind
ruffles his hair,
knowing he’s supposed to be
somewhere else.

By Red Haircrow

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“I Am Not An #Activist, I am #Lakota”-A #Poem by Wanbli Gleska Tohake, Oct. 24, 2016

I created this graphic with a 1891 photo by J.H.C. Grabill titled, “Indian Council in Hostile Camp”. The words of Wanbli Gleska Tohake, regarding Standing Rock, and all the other assaults of the sacred, of water, of land, of culture and identity, of the lives of the People that is still on-going 500+ years. The cycle of  genocide. Among other things, Wanbli is the voice of AIMCTX Radio Show, a weekly online broadcast on current events, news & cultural history in Indian Country. Every Saturday night, 10pm CST.

i-am-lakota

Poem: Spring Lament

Branches by Red Haircrow

Branches by Red Haircrow

Another year of days has passed,
days now longer and which the sun truly warms,
again branches blossom.

Looking up into their pale glory
I think to ask: has it been so long
since last we walked together
beneath greening trees and through cool grass
still wet with morning dew?

My heart knows the answer and my spirit the pain,
for even the gentle beauty before me brings no pleasure.
The brightest day is still dark without you.

–Written 18 April, 2013 to
Mahler’s Adagietto for Symphony no. 5,
on the journey from Fürstenwalde to Bad Saarow-Pieskow.

Poem: January 26th by Red Haircrow

One of eight of my poems published in

Sibling Rivalry Press’ Assaracus poetry magazine, Issue 09, (10 Jan 2013).

 

JANUARY 26th

The taste of tears,
in a room,
on a bed,
through my fingers
the light rises and falls:
silvered blush to
shadeless gray,
the unspoken suffering
bleeds the skin hue
and drains away.

Frozen Sea by Red Haircrow

Frozen Sea by Red Haircrow

Photo is at Scharmützelsee, Bad Saarow-Pieskow, Germany, from a set of photography I took Winter 2012.

Poem: Two Girls by Red Haircrow

I wrote this poem, which will be part of my forthcoming poetry collection CORE,  long before I read the search term leading someone to this website, it was, “Red Haircrow’s connection to Nazis?” I have no connection to Nazis. I have, however, been a long time student and researcher regarding pre- and post-WW2 Germany and the Holocaust. Some of the main reasons for that interest I wrote about in a posting, “To Die-A Poem by Hannah Senesh“, a Hungarian Jewess freedom fighter captured, tortured and executed during WW2.

My poem, Two Girls, was written from emotions I experienced while riding a train to Sachsenhausen, to visit the former concentration camp in Oranienburg, a little town north and just outside the city boundaries of Berlin. To view that terrible place reinforced in me a deep, abiding fury to always combat discrimination, racism and inequality, whether it is the aggressive type or passive, even beyond what my own people have experienced. That trip reminded me of the biography I read, “I Have Lived A Thousand Years: Growing Up In The Holocaust.”  Another poem on a similar topic: Conversation With A Former Nazi.

TWO GIRLS

Past the edges of the city,
serpents
lie hidden in the grass,
vagabonds
crouched in the night
lurking just outside the light
slit eyes cut to the doorstep.

Old stations
innocently, evilly
still there,
relics of the past,
their bricks not concussed to dust
glass broken yet not ground to powder
but the people are all gone.

Final freedom came only to those
left after the death march,
the ultimate release
only to those who never
reached the sea,
never reached
the forests.

Be silent, be silent!
Say no more or I’ll kill you!
But nothing else can you do,
it’s in there forever now,
the memories of that girl,
only survivor from my village
in the stinking group of skeletal women.

Newly freed we,
so close to home
I could recognize trees
from the open door of the train car
when the Allied bomb struck
taking only her eyes.
One word she whispered,
empty sockets blackened,
weeping blood,
she whispered, “Mama…”
and died.