conquistadors…

in the harbor
a black ship
sails toward shore
the new land
the americas
below the decks
crimson warriors
satan’s own
wearing crosses of white
we see them come ashore
so many men
with strange dress
metal arms and heads
weapons that flash
like thunder
killing without a single
blow of the axe
elders tell us to flee
but we the young eagles
say we shall fight
for our sacred ground
for freedom
for all that the gods
have given us
but
rocks burst open
the blood of our nation
pours from each stone
of the village
flames consume
the living
and the dead
waves of fear
cover all who stand
before these beasts
our gods
have forsaken us
our gold
our freedom
our land
raped
by
messengers
of a
foreign
god
who
came
to
save
our
souls

This poem represents my fourth response to  the third challenge series between Jade and I.  This challenge is somewhat different in that the prompt is now an audio prompt.  Each poet provides the other with five instrumental songs (so that the song’s words do not interefere with the poet’s) from which the poet is to write a poem.  Jade has written her first response which can be found here. 

moon weavers…

 

perhaps this is some foolish
childhood memory
but
within each memory
lies some strand of truth
i speak to you of moon weavers
few outside these walls
know of them
so you must listen carefully
and heed my words this night
at the edge of the forest
in the small meadow
where the fog crawls
along the ground
are the spirits of warriors
the ancient ones
they spin silver threads
into braids of tears
placed upon our doorsteps
as gifts and protection
for those of us
who should own the land
if you must walk at night
you must not let a moon weaver
pass through your body
for if you do
you will feel
the sorrow of a hundred years
ancestors will appear before you
their death will feel like your death
the slaughter and rape
of those who loved this place
bathed in fire while they slept
ran down by horses
branded with bayonets
such visions have driven some mad
so beware my friend
for what you see
may be
your own history
or
mine

the king is dead…

here lies
the king
shot
fallen hero
his bones
carved into spears
and thrown
into his sons’ eyes
and his cross
melted down
and used
to ordain his followers
while young warriors
dress in his cloths
repeat his chants
but sleep
with his enemies
while those
who slept with the king
know
that the king
is
dead