Ph: Life: End Of Days Poem by Brian Johnston

Early Days

An epic story told of men on earth,
My father's life, and also mine
Wind planted weeds, we had a humble birth,
Not sprung from rose or grape on vine.

Our whole existence born of charity,
A 'gift' of former Indian land,
The 'Cherokee Land Run' was spoils of war
White farmers, lines drawn in the sand.

The Indian's thought that land was gift from God,
No dreams of owned fields for their young,
Astonished by the European greed
That slaughtered buffalo's for tongue.

As if our guns were not enough to win
Our broken treaties proved intent,
Dead buffalo destroyed their livelihood
While armies slaughtered innocent.

America now celebrates its gain
Today on battlefield of tears
As if it was God's will so many died
To open up our new frontiers.

I do not want to claim all men are bad
But only fool would call them good
Yet every man surely deserves
At least a chance at livelihood.

One hundred forty acres all one man
Could farm alone with horse and plow
That settlers ran to claim some Indian land
Just seems profoundly awful now.

It truth my countrymen chose 'might makes right, '
The Golden Rule for fools who fail
Both God and kin, forgetting karma's sigh
And thus drive home last coffin nail!


My Father's Life

As boy, my father plowed behind a horse
And prospered at the land's largess,
But still unanswered questions seem to rise
That shame the heartland's emptiness.

As evidence of death on trail of tears
Lost all of its salinity,
My father's eyes saw rocket land on moon
A small step toward infinity

But in-between States birth and dreams of stars
Came plagues, wars, droughts, and growing pains
Ambition always seems to rule the day
Scant stewardship in mankind's gains.

Yes, farming practice had to change to end
The dust bowls deadly claim on life,
Though banking practices still go unchecked,
Abuses, that cause damage, rife.

'Let devil take the hindmost, ' seems the call
Of politicians left and right,
'We're not our brother's keepers, let them groan,
Their starving so how can they fight! '

At this point still I'd like to know if you
Remember fate of buffalo?
Let's take control and neuter their egos,
The code word's Michaelangelo,
Just sing it as you come and go.

There never will be profit found for poor
Man on the Indian's Trail of Tears.
Perhaps it's time to point the votes we still
Have, Right at space between their ears,
Let Trump and friends be ones with fears.