The Killing Fields of Yesteryear…

I hear the cries of my grandmothers and

grandfathers, I feel their fear; I walk with

them in my dreams on the Trail of Tears.

Their feet bloody as they walked the rutted

trail, every scar on their backs another story

to tell.  They planted crops, gave blessing,

taking from the land only, what they would

need, a word they did not know… greed.

Strangers with pale skin came from the east,

my people taught them how to live, when no

longer needed they drove them from their

ancestral homes.  The Grandfathers and their

families stood tall, their backs they refused

to bend, herded like cattle to a far off land, to

die in hot barren sand.

My people believed that the land belonged to

no one, given to all by the “Great Mystery”; still

they died with broken souls never knowing that

their story in time would cover the blood-splattered

pages of history.  They watched as women gave birth

and warriors carried the dead; the children went to

sleep hungry with the ground as their bed.

The day came when these great people were corralled,

given musty water and bug-infested cornmeal to eat,

in a place with no hope, to the pale man they were

bound, a killing field where the blood of my family

spilled upon the ground.  I hear you my grandmothers

and grandfathers, your cries in the darkness of night;

for in my dreams I walk with you, I feel your fear; I wake

each morning with the taste of your tears.

©2013.annjohnsonmurphree

HONEYSUCKLE MEMORIES

Poetry EBook on Amazon.com link in sidebar.

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8 thoughts on “The Killing Fields of Yesteryear…

  1. As a small child, I remember an Indian School in town. Once a year there would be an event there for people to go out and see the Indians. I remember the boys who would come to our house to mow the lawn and pull weeds. It all seemed so wrong, I just wanted to cry. The contempt of my mother made me ill but more than that it made me question.

    Thank you for choosing to follow one of my blogs. I hope you will continue to enjoy the posts.

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    • Thank you for your response…we grow, we learn; had I been raised by my mother I would not be who I am today. She did not want me; how lucky was I to be with my father and his people. Keep blogging, I will enjoy your site. Ann

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  2. Colonial crimes exposed in lyrical tenderness in this epic of melancholy and loss. The message is more effective for its lack of anger. Well done.

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