Recently I stood looking down on the Little Big Horn River and hundreds of stones that litter the hilly acres marking where every American, native and immigrant, fell. I must confess I don’t understand it. I wish our history had been different.
Greasy Grass
Wind blown ghosts feather hair and flip Dior collars playfully into sallow faces just inside perception when observed from Lookout Hill the river plain inviting today that day must have seemed other wise men would have marched on honoring inalienable rights saving their own skin. That day the Greasy Grass ran red with immigrant blood native-born joyous in victory righteous in indignation elegant in ignominy that day the women sang and warriors whooped and laughed and loved their women in freedom’s lust for life and one more day to stand erect.
Photo by Jeremy Kemp at Wikipedia.
Husband. Father. Grandfather. Pilot. Pastor. Poet.
4 responses so far ↓
L.L. Barkat // Oct 27, 2007 at 8:42 pm
“And loved their women.” Yes, how ordinary life infuses even the violent, threatening days.
(Thanks for stopping by Seedlings… I’ve been here before, but silent! And, I wonder, with a last name like Goodyear if you are any relation to a good editor friend of mine? Or is that simply poetic coincidence?)
Mark Goodyear // Oct 29, 2007 at 12:33 pm
I like the language play in this line break:
“that day must have seemed other
wise men would have marched on”
The day seemed other. Wise men… The day seemed, otherwise men… The day seemed otherwise. Men…
That sort of thing keeps me reading a poem over and over.
Nice picture of Little Big Horn too. I’d never seen it before.
Papa Goodyear // Oct 29, 2007 at 2:36 pm
L. L. Especially the violent and threatening times. It’s our link to sanity.
And yes I have known and loved Marcus since the day he was born… my beloved son in whom I am well pleased.
Marcus. So thanks for posting the picture for me.
real live preacher // Nov 26, 2007 at 9:24 pm
So many things are impossible to understand. This part of our history is one of them.
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