Ghost Dance

The souls of the ghost dance appear for me at will.

Their restless presence weighs heavy on the shackles that already bind us.

Their silent whispers tell me stories of pride and honor.

Their resounding cries tell me of the fall of the people.

In the day, they fine tune the parables of our people.

They relay reminiscent stories of days past and victories won.

In those days, Their buckskin teepees and wood longhouses stand strong.

Today, our cement houses whistle under the slightest will of the wind

Our descendents are a shadow of our former selves, they cry in despair.

The strangers who came to our land were neither benevolent nor fair.

They landed on our isle and stripped the hearts from our ribcages,

And the language from our tongues.

In the night, I can hear the moans of the hungry children on the trail of tears.

They send me visions of their daughters and sons who fall en route to the prison we are now inmate and warden to.

The ghosts of Wounded Knee scream the loudest.

Their souls still wear the paint and dresses that caused their deaths.

They sing the songs of the Ghost Dance.

Still hoping for a miracle.

Still hoping for peace.   

The Native peoples as well, still dance this dance in a drunken stupor.

Their chants and mantras fall deaf upon the ears of our ancestors.

And still, here in the reservations we remain.

The ghosts of America.