Native American Heritage

I channel it often
without even trying
feeling the reservation
beating history's
drum of time

Dust devils swirling
around moccasins
summer heat distorting distance
into fractured particles  
across the Blue Ridge

Winter's stillness
under a Moon so engorged
children believed
it was pregnant with snow

We lived simply; rose early
knew our purpose
honored our daily duty
to the tribe as a whole

Never had money
but lacked for nothing
through sharing and trade

This poem is simple
uncomplicated
as the bloodline of a life  

I channel it often
without even trying
feeling the reservation
beating history's
drum of time  

And often wonder
If we'll ever find our way back again

"How is it most cultures are generally alike?"
-- the culture of a Rational Ethics,
 the sole exception to the rule

*

How could a humpbacked shaggy-haired wild ox
disdain to be among the Native stocks
to offer up its innards, skin, and flesh,
all making wholesome Native snacks sliced fresh?

How could the creature balk or hem and haw
on being asked to give its organs raw
to nuke in secs a healthy Native treat,
like but a bit of minced neat's tongue or teat?

How could the brute let out a hue and cry
against its shedding blood to pacify
the Native thirst for rank and rectitude,
besides a salty sauce for bison stewed?

How could the beast not yield its beastly breast
to spice each dish delish of those oppressed?

*

They are referred to as " americans "
but, prefixed with this word ' black, '
or ' native ' or ' jewish ' or ' hispanic '
but never prefixed - White - and, that's a fact.

As John Wayne shoots another red-injun
and drawls, " the only good un is one who's dead '
and " that's the way it's done son, with a gun "
with such pictures the weak-minded are fed.

black becomes derogatory
as do native, spic and jew,
but it's White folk who write the story
drop the prefixes, start anew.

 
The native Nawat has been slowly disappearing
Like a piece of art lost in the thread of time and history
You would have to go deeper into the hills to find it
The native tongue that sounds like legend and mystery
 
Amidst the small pueblos and cantones you find them
Living in small houses made of brick and mud
In the patios women make tortillas over brick ovens
And delicious beans in a pot to add iron to the blood
 
Nantzin sits with her visitor, speaking both languages
Her native Nawat and the Spanish everyone uses
The smell of wood, beans and corn a few feet away
As she regales with stories of her youth
 
Her voice is soothing and calming like a warm breeze
You can hear birds singing somewhere in the distance
Her eyes are lively her hair is gray and her smile is bright
Reminding us of a time and peoples and their existence
 
She’s not really mestizo but more original, indigenous
Families that have lived around the cerros for centuries
They wear clothes with traditional colors and patterns
Speaking a dialect of their Aztec-Mayan ancestors
 
Today towns bear the names of ancient people and places
The stadium proudly displays the name like a palace
As the modern age seems to weave itself through
A mix of the old and new tries to find balance
 
Now the dialect is being resurrected by young academics
Trying to connect to the forefathers, back to their roots
Trying to preserve what was once almost lost to the settlers
The Cuzcatlecos, part of my native ancestral attributes