Flying Native Spirits

Poem indigenous

Being homeless is nothing new for me I have red skin and long black hair I am native to this land I know what it is to be without

I sit on a low stone wall in front of the free library with friends and acquaintances who are equally as poor and dispossessed

When I am lonely, I blow a wooden flute like a bird’s song, calling the flying spirits of my ancestors

I long for my people, my tribe to be free, to drink the sacred water, walk proudly on the Great Plains, and live where the spirit manifests itself for all who welcome it

I hold onto an eagle feather, a crescent moon, the whispering wind, and the map of our nation in my wounded, bloody hands

These are all that remain as I linger in the muddy trough — what my culture is now composed of, after years of living under the wasichu — what I refuse to surrender.

*Wasichu is a Lakota word meaning taker for the fat or greedy one. Pronounced as wha-see-chew.

© 2021 Mark Tulin

To Join Medium, please click and become a member today.