Do this in remembrance of me.
It’s psychological warfare
Our sanity means nothing
to the intentionally persistent
assassins of our humanity.
Our humanness has no value in the
confrontation of violent entitlement&
and moral disregard that assumes
murder of “others” is the
white person’s right – a privilege
awarded to hunters; a prize
for the domineering.
I cried out to Jesus, only to be
consumed by His weeping and grief.
I raged at Democracy, only realize
my own invisibleness.
I shouted out to my neighbors
but their thundering silence
I too may be America,
but who is America?
What we’ve become is
who we’ve always been.
There’s no justice in this land.
Original sin remains
throughout the encampment –
lies, deception, greed –
lead to displacement,
abduction, countless abominations
culminating in genocide
Followed by more genocide to justify
imperial colonialist capitalism
domestically and abroad.
Murder of innocents by the millions.
Blood crying out from every inch of land
around the globe to the Atlantic coast,
across the Mississippi, through Colorado,
spilling into the Pacific
north and south
the annihilation of seeds
birthed and unborn
the enslavement of bodies and spirits
through tens of generations
Those drunk on power,
intent on control, deceived
by their own malignant characters,
they can’t hear the cries
from the blood they claimed.
They can’t see the light
of the spirits thought to be extinguished.
They can’t see how people they killed
multiply in me.
God said, “Why are you crying out to me?”
So I wrote this poem and
continue to hemorrhage.
Blood weeping into the ground.
Invisible unheard tears drying in air.
What comes next is in remembrance of US.
All those who have been annihilated.
All those who have been decimated.
All of us who have been chained and caged.
All us who have been disenfranchised.
The many who have been made invisible.
The gone are not forgotten.
They are embedded –
in hearts, minds, spirits.
They’re still standing, united here, now.
Our spirits remain strong.
Our seeds did not turn to dust.
They became roots.
In remembrance of all
the names we don’t know,
bodies we haven’t seen,
and lives that continue to matter.
by LaShawnda Jones
Spirit Harvest Publishing