Ohio by Noah Berris

Do you remember the day you were born?
Your mother’s cries shaking the walls of your wegiwa.
While the lead from the white men splintered your home,
And took your father from you.
Do you remember the sounds of your squalls?
The way they fluttered through the air like
a hamo searching for an orchid.
All while powder smoke curled blue and white from the gun barrels,
The same way that meθoθo breath hangs in the air
When summer is gone and the world turns gray.
Do you remember the pallid face of the man whose Kentucky rifle
Split the air in two, so loud, like a man-made lightning.
The lead ball spat and loaded by this devil
Crashing through your mother, silencing her.
Do you remember the way this man crumpled under the tomahawk,
or the way the brave who wielded it snatched you from the ground?
Is there a memory alive in you about the lurid colors of this brave's blood soaked buckskin,
Contrasting the vibrant leaves of the oak trees racing by above you?
Can you still picture this man’s raven hair
And his glossy eyes?
Can you see him in all his vain-ness letting loose
Tears enough to flood the banks of the Maumee River?
But only when his mourning could be witnessed by you, the trees, and Moneto.
Truth is I pray for you, Little Shawnee.
I pray that one day your little hands and feet will carry you to the lands of Chillicothe, and that your lips will one day taste the cold water of the bubbling spring that gave your people life.
I pray that your moccasins may tread freely
And that you will not forever be bound to fearfully
Scan the tree line for
The Blue Eyes that hate You

 

Biography: Hello, my name is Noah Berris, and I am at Aims to pursue my Associates. I am not really sure what I’d like to do, but figured it best to get a headstart on my education. Writing, to me, is a form of comprehension. I write when I’m having feelings about something, good or bad, that are conflicting or complex, and it helps me to see these things on a page. It makes them tangible, and I’d say this is why I continue to write. As a writer, I don’t feel that I have a set or permanent identity; my writing comes from anything that I come into contact with, so my subject matter and style are in constant flux. Some writers that I admire are Langston Hughes, Truman Capote, Allen Eckert, and Frederick Douglass. All of these writers have inspired me, and they are all writers that I aspire to be like.