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Author Name: FreeMarkS 4 Comments
Date Added: October 18, 2009 06:10:36 Average Score: (Needs 2)
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One day while I was hiking through

The Pacific north west,

In an unfamiliar region,

On a random quest.


I came upon a hallowed place,

Unsure of what Iíd found,

Could this be some kind of sacred,

Tribal burial ground?


Many artifacts were scattered

Around that holy site.

I set up camp, then looked around,

While I still had some light.


I searched until the sun went down,

And then I went to bed.

How could I know my presence there

Might awaken the dead?


I did not know how long Iíd slept

When I abruptly woke.

Though I heard voices call to me,

I could not see who spoke.


Then spirits of the honored dead

Gathered all about me.

Proud people who were massacred

In eighteen sixty three.


A man of regal bearing spoke,

And asked why I was there.

He wondered why a man alone

Would hike the river Bear.


He told me this was holy ground,

Their final resting place.

Remnants of a peaceful tribe

Of the Shoshone race.


The blood of fallen warriors,

Had stained the white manís hands.

For it was they who led the charge,

To drive them from this land.


The California Volunteers

Cared not for who they slew.

They killed this tribe without regard,

Women and children too.


The Bear River ran red with blood

That January day.

The greatest loss of native lives

That history can say.


And as he told his tale to me,

I saw it in my mind.

In visions from another time,

So vividly defined.


This tranquil land was deeply scarred,

Left broken and tattered.

To satisfy anotherís goal,

Peaceful lives were shattered.


They fought until the last brave fell;

Not one was left alive.

Three hundred proud men understood

That they would not survive.


Their women were raped and murdered,

Their children killed as well.

And when the Volunteers were through,

Ninety innocents fell.


And so their story went untold

Until that fateful night.

When visions from the spirit world

Completely filled my sight.


And even to this very day,

I still see their faces.

As I recall a spirit quest,

To far away places.


I have chronicled their struggles,

Their pursuit of glory;

As visions fade, this brings me to

The end of my story.


If you live in America,

Perhaps youíll understand,

The price these people had to pay,

In making this...your land.

Author's Notes:

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'Visions' Copyright © Mark Spencer
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Comment By: FreeAngelface on October 20, 2009 10:42:23 AM Report
Well I'm proud to say, that I'm 1/2 native ameican. I respect the Indians and I cherish, my family blood, as I learn more and more about where I came from! This poem, was sad, but you did a awesome job on the write! Tks you for sharing the insight!





And PS... What James said below.. Amen!!

Comment By: Freee. Gene Myers on October 18, 2009 04:24:06 PM Report
 Bad subject to get me on.  Feelings run deep for those we stole our country from.  Go to Oregon on the coast and see how the natives are getting even with our ancestors.  They own the casinos we are loosing to.  They are buying the country back with our own money we are giving them..     Good for them and       good poem    gene
Comment By: FreeJames Lagoski on October 18, 2009 10:32:04 AM Report
Dear Mark-
It is such a shame that those who want no more
than to simply exist are subjected to the mortal
obsenity of want and greed-
I was watching a show the other day about the
history of the 10 comandments and when speaking
of the 10th, "Thou shalt not covent what another has",
A man said that rule can not be followed in the United States.
For it is the desire to want more that drives its population.
Kinda says it all don't it-

Thank You for sharing your renditions of reality-
Best Wishes to You and Yours My Friend~

Comment By: FreeZyskandar A Jaimot on November 25, 2007 12:17:07 PM Report
to m - enjoyed this thanks for sharing regards zaj


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