Category Archives: Truth

The Miss Trial

In thirty years he will have forgotten you, but the memory of him remains methylated in your DNA, and blood does not betray in a court of law. In thirty years that feeling will thaw and become raw when you see the likes of Brett Kavanaugh take the stand, only then will they understand the gravity of what holds us down as women and them up as men. As all the world took a stand against the man in the robe, our sisters were willing to throw their lives under the bus for us, and for the first time in history, even men took to the streets and contested for the girls who were molested, while Dr. Ford invested her reputation to speak the truth. You watched as the girl in you died and though you couldn’t revive her, you went on to become a survivor. The laughter of their leader added salt to the wounds of everyone who had been abused. The message was clear, speak and lose your dignity, whilst another man’s life was held in supreme honour and civility. Mothers held their daughters, as the ones in cages were spared the rage of those so-called victimized men, yet for the ones deemed savages there was another plan, because you must understand, in a country where no privileged white man is truly legal, speaking the truth can be lethal. So while we go on living like warriors with the past coded deep in our cell methylation, we mustn’t forget what that tells of this Nation, we must fight injustice as long as Brett sits on that throne, for though they may have sworn him in, we never condoned, because somewhere in our bodies lies a seed, and no matter how deep they try to bury it with violence, it comes back like a weed which they will never be able to silence.

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Filed under Abuse, Feminist, First Nations, Freedom, Gender Issues, Grief, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Identity, Pain, Past, Poem, poetry, Trauma, travel, Truth, Uncategorized, writing

Body As A Burial

My body is an ancient burial ground

It gets desecrated by someone else’s

idea of progress.

When you enter me, you stir the dead,

the anger of a century in red

pours out in tainted rivers,

the Red River,

where the missing ones were buried,

floods over and curses any attempt

I might make to love you.

Your heart gets haunted

by something unnamed,

something buried

too deep to be translated.

Your hands are the only evidence

that I exist beyond this.

You frack me without a thought

for what you take,

but what hurts most

is what you leave behind,

was once so sacred.

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Filed under Aboriginal, Anishinaabe, Canada, creative, Cree, Displacement, Earth, Environment, Feminist, First Nations, Genocide, Human Rights, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, introspective, Longing, Loss, Oil Fields, Ojibwe, Pain, Past, Pipe Lines, Poem, poetry, Political, Pollution, Pride, Prostitution, Rape, Self, Sex, Sexuality, Silence, Sorrow, Spirit, Trauma, travel, Truth, writing

I am America

All the honest ones on the bottom rung,
hunger without a green clue about how to grow food.
Yet our ancestors had the heirlooms, which would later
be bought by corporate leaders to make
toxic morsels, without real sustenance.

They would see dollar signs in the leaves of the trees,
ignoring the animal need in the seed we
received when we breathed our first
naked breath here, when we were taught to
respect here, this wilderness,
and the corrupt ones with their
pockets lined with lies,
grew rich off our trustworthiness,
or took it, with force, when we
were powerless to defend against them.

We watched what was once fecund,
become what is now a wasteland.
An ashy womb of indifference,
too poisonous to bear fruit.
We said mother earth must have
closed her legs and refused,
and yet they pried and forced
a millennia of greed a thousand feet deep,
so that the scope of it,
could be seen to permeate
every sector, from produce,
to health care, to political
sway, still she lay there
unresponsive to their touch.

It’s like I am America
and you are Europe,
like you rush towards me
with bloody hands,
fresh from raping your
own land, and you come here
hungry, looking to build a
new empire, from the ruinous
resin of your burned down world.
Like I have only an arrow to defend myself
against your lead battalion.

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Hemlock (Truth#1)

I found in you, ephemeral but indelible, this bruise
purple as a twilight sky before the thunder,
where black around the eyes, as charcoal,
accompanying a crimson smear,
your cheek was stained by the memory of my presence.

Each day I arrived to see you sleeping,
bandaged, scarred, and profane, the words
never came, the sentences were anesthetized.

Your disdain grew like a tumour.
Inside needless cells,
carrying comets towards
hell.

The first truth was as bitter
as hemlock in the trial of Socrates.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, travel, Truth, Uncategorized, writing

Deference

No baby, I don’t think it’s that you are incapable of being happy, I think you just have more receptor cells for sadness. The little molecules of joy float away from you. The reason it hurts is because your threshold is low, and you’ve built a tolerance for sadness.

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Filed under Pain, Poem, poetry, Trauma, travel, Truth, writing

Women of the waters that are never still

The missing and murdered indigenous women all gathered together at the lost city of Atlantis.

“No one believes we are real,” said one to the other, “they will never try to find us here.”

“If they never believe then we are free. If they start to remember is when we have to worry.” Said another.

“Yes the great spirit has made an ocean of oblivion and in all their crossings they forget..

They think their cities are real and ours is a myth.”

“Yes.” spoke the chief.
“We are safe here.”

They are distracted by the stars. The stars that died centuries ago.
The apocalypse has happened already. They just don’t know it yet.

They are all dancing together in a Matrix of dreams.

They wake up with new scars and wonder how those wounds ever healed.

“Sometimes they forget to hurt when we touch them,” spoke the child of agile deer, “and they mistake this pain for pleasure.”

The turtle will rise once more. When the time is right.

“The time is close,” spoke the hungry hawk girl. I see rust over the towers of progress, it stains their rivers and kills their fish. The white men in their polished houses laugh louder now. They laugh with terrorist eyes. And all the world is quiet in disbelief.

We are safe for now, but it won’t last. This time when they come dressed as brothers we will know the truth in that horse’s eyes.

We won’t drink the fire.

We won’t accept their dirty blankets.

We know how to keep warm. We are the keepers of the fire. We must never forget who we are, even if they have. They have all fallen asleep. When the sun rises it will be too late.

“It has already come to be,” spoke the ominous owl. It has already been written. They will burn the treaties. There is no honour in sickly pacts. They are a lost tribe.

“We have already been found what is there to search for now?” The sad squaw pleaded.

We must find ourselves here. We must honour our mother and father and give our respects to our grandfathers. One day all our relations will come together and they will lose their blindness.

Only when they have regained this vision can we be one again.

“One tribe under one sky” spoke the eager eagle.

So it is has been spoken.

They passed the peace pipe from hand to hand as they gathered around the roaring fire and danced.

You could hear the echo of their drums in the lost world where the rhythm of life was mute, their voices carried in the cries of the wild.

The forgotten ones were there and they remembered. Some of them had wolf eyes that lit a path through the dark.

You could never go hungry if you followed them.

But the eyes of the others were a deep abyss surrounding an ancient island, where they held a sacred vigil in honour of our fallen sisters

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Lost

I awake to my breath in a ghostly cloud above my head.
This white clarity blinds the city.
Unable to rest, unable to dream.
He said our people, the Anishinaabe were possibly the lost citizens of Atlantis, true Atlanteans crossing the Atlantic. Thousands of years ago the Mediterranean was more like a lake and less like an ocean. The land mass of Atlantis formed a bridge from North America to Athens Greece. My kin, the Algonquins migrated to the ancient city and throughout parts of Europe, including Britain and the East. Is it possible the whites were decendants of us? Is it possible an old seed buried deep split open and released a very ancient desire to reclaim itself? He speaks of Sakimay as a place where our people originated. This was the land of my ancestors. He speaks of the seven fires prophecy and the crystal energy our people harnessed, which led to their own downfall, the sinking of our island, the melting of the glaciers, the light that flooded in like razors on our skin and stained us with the red ink of Indians. The turtle island that sank and swam down again, lost in the reaches of time. Oh Turtle, teach us of the truth sewn in hand with the ilk of our ancient medicine, until then we are lost like a city under the sea.

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The Enigma

Each day I am becoming,
I am also unbecoming,
becoming who I am,
unbecoming who you want me to be.
The hero in you, is the hero in me,
cut flower bleeding pure.

I am steel gaze of blazing spirit.
I will myself into what I envision.
Puff of opium, syringe of heroin,
this clean body, that never
succumbed to the dragon.

I am wizard woman on mountain,
casting spells to bring you out of
your last heroic nod, poppy seed
in eyes of foreign God.

I will learn the art of resuscitation,
resurrect the fallen, the street man,
who held my photograph in his hand,
wondering what I might become,
the mystery man, with braided hair
and dark skin, the one who never
found his way out of the stem.

My father, the enigma.

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Filed under Addiction, Alone, Cleansed, Crave, creative, Death, Heroin, Loss, Memory, Overdose, Poem, poetry, Purity, Sobriety, Sorrow, Tragedy, Truth, Unwanted, writing

She Said

No baby, you can’t take me for a ride,
I’m not a car, not by far.
I’m a shooting star
whose legs only open to fate,
and we’re not destined for eachother,
so why even bother?

This sacred temple was not built
for fun and games.
Not that way.
Not that way.

She said.

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Filed under Sex, Sexuality, Truth, Verse, writing

Without You

The whir of the air-conditoner,
the taste of cigarette smoke,
tea, honey, milk,
a warm inner glow, a cool exterior.

The lights from the building
across the way,
myself alone this way.

A book in hand,
opened to a world
that only exists
in my mind,
like you and I,
and our
verbose love.

What about silence
and the body,
with it’s vast vocabulary
of expressions
and meanings
that come as real
and true as this
moment, now
without you?

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Filed under Alone, Coffee & Tea, Crave, Desire, Emotions, Life, Longing, Love, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Self, Silence, Solitude, Soul, Technology, Truth