The Indigenous Enigma

John Gregory Evans

Native dust of flesh and bone where the blood of the humanity factor is red as red as if all are cloned.

Why, an African man once saved my life…a gesture of humanity offered only through the kindness of his heart.

His fight was not with me but with authority.

I cling here upon the cusp of love and hate. Yet, there remained no animosity between he and I as I continued to wait.

From my heart to his, and from his heart to mine, we were as equals as equals find.

He was a soldier for his tribe. I was a soldier for mine. And, love prevailed without the flash suppressor’s rage and vehement call.

Color is a box of crayons, only if we could see without the adversity.

Upon reaching out I found a friend, but through trusting him not to fire his weapon I discovered a truth…

Within the midst of a battle between the gun, truth was dressed as a man in blue-jeans and a ragged old shirt. Yes, his skin was black, and mine was white, and I cannot recall the color of his bandanna he waved against my fright.

The enigmatic portion of this story is he set me free, without the alliance from a killing spree with authority.

I will always remember this stranger friend of mine, recalled in time, with verse and rhyme.

And now I know, black is red, and red is white, where all stand together for an equality right.

Straight from the heart we call each other friend and lose the aversion until the Supreme end.

For black is red, and red is white, and we all stand together for an equality right.

The Hospital Visit

Through an induced coma

I felt her presence.

She stood to the left of me

in all her honor, with Christ’s glory.

Her touch was mild

and warm. Loving.

There appeared with her

a warm glow, a kind of light.

Me, flat on my back –

An iron lung you might say.

And still, I kissed her

as I felt I raised her hand to my lips.

But, still, I kissed her, and

the rosary at the foot of my bed

prayed for me as my earthly mother

spared me a word, and said –

You could not have.

Your arms were strapped down

as in a cross of sorrow, for

I was at the doorstep of death.

I have wondered of these occasions.

Do they really happen?

And still, my parched lips touched

her hand in an instant

as if they had been pulled

to the warmth of her standing there.

I believe now, this mystery woman once foretold

was Mary, mother of Christ, my Protectress.

And now, as I believe, was also

her Voice of thunder heard as a teen

Who called me by name,

John. Not once, but twice.

I heard (Shamati).

The Power of God’s Voice as Woman –

These moments were as I encountered

deep within my heart, and

were required by my hurting

soul, left thirsty

gasping for the Absolute love of Christ

in what felt like, was my last breath.

I give thanks to the Holy One,

as a woman’s tender love became my truth.

And now, twenty years past, since’99 –

The spirits, of other women’s accounts

come close to my heart, women as

Rabia, Rahab, and Fatima…

All share their divine messages of Oneness –

rendering me the doorway – to a peaceful life.

And, the ecstatic encounter with God?

Whether in a deeply spirited awe

of silence, and cooperation – a divine bliss

has irrevocably swept me away, upon a

chariot of fire, I know dear One –

my life has not been destitute,

but filled with voluminous blessings

for a new kind of hope – through

the written words of my soul

sharing the experiences to render others the same hope.

We live between two dimensional windows of time, but

let us create a Third, where the angels sing,

And the glory of man, now

Becomes One with God.


A State of Occupation

A State of Occupation © 2018

Foreigners, dwelling upon the muddy earth, hopes are waning far behind the promises for a better tomorrow…sinking, always sinking, into the abyss of each failing poem trampled into the mud-spattered ground.  Everyone has a future to write upon the dirty pages of history’s dawn.

Contorted faces and hungry eyes, wet to the touch from a rain-soaked night, living in tents that wash away at the silence from beyond this border front.

Fingertips perched upon rusty wire, a heavy-gauge I would presume, detailed by four – inch bars squared, haven’t we seen this somewhere before?

Papers ready to the eye, yet, melting in this misty day of dreams gone by.

Blankets always at the ready. The massive grays of cumulus clouds to release its deluge upon flesh and ground, as the pains of hunger felt from a child of Syrian descent, as he sets before him a simple soup, diluting in the drivel of murky rain.

Children screaming, panic grows real, and the world left frightened to grant their passage into the annals of a historical novel. Have we (humanity), any last requests?

Why, fear has crept into our minds, ‘occupied’ until our hearts become roses in time.

A Message to my Wife

A Message to my Wife

John G Evans © 2017

You know, when we have our long talks about trauma, I can’t stand myself. Why? I don’t know, except that I hated living a regimented life. As if all this shit was not enough, and for some nature verses nurture kind of reason, I followed in my dad’s footsteps, and volunteered for the USMC in 1971. I don’t clearly know why, except I wanted to be a military man. I thought it was cool, except that after two of dad’s buddies came back from Nam, they blew their fucking brains out. Later, a friend of mine killed himself. I was very sad. But, I volunteered, anyway. So, the conflicts of war, and the issue of dog-tags, depending on who you are, become a kind of tattoo wrapped around your fucking neck like a hangman’s noose, yet, I never complained. It became my duty.

I remember the first night there, at Parris Island, the blackness of night was so thick with rampant fear, there were dudes vomiting on the ground, or on the tables in front of them, and even now upon writing this I am sick to my stomach. But, I have purpose. So, I continue to write. The winter bore down upon our skin, no matter what color our skin was, we were all freezing, as screaming voices cracked as thunder in the night. The worst is yet to come!

Onward now into the scenario of combat zones, fire-fights, explosives, and M-60 cartridges spent with their gutted shells heading for their targets. Thus, we are taught the art of war. Explosive blasts of TNT quake these dirt clod bunkers (foxholes, really, covered in dirt), till my emptied blood vessels, and organ tissues cry out in anguished pain, with their fragmented effects forced upon my neck with blood and sweat snaking down my nerve damaged spine as I lay in a field of dust, and rock. Paralyzed for a moment by the spent cartridge that waited its time to vehemently strike my cervical spine. Shit! I’m in a surrealistic combat zone, and barbed wire spikes break the skin, as derelict voices command me to keep moving. Crawling, sweat and blood continue to drape down my neck, stinging, burning sweat in a fevered pitch on a hot day in ’72.

And, just nights before in his concupiscent rage, fed his hunger for salted flesh and a forced penetration of mouth and core, thrust his moistened lips around me, as I kicked and thrashed in my slumbered daze, yelling, “what the fuck are you doing?”

Sonnet V

Since early youth I have quantified the measure of a man seeking a distance between firearms and steely blades with an inborn sense…thinking – always thinking…and coveting a longing for the end of my humanity factor. Metaphor for metaphor, and regarding a severe ruminating ideation where poetry dwells upon a dangerous past.

Yes, my wounds of blood-soaked hemorrhaging from too many musing thoughts of contemplating a madness for suicide that endured decades of worshipping a concupiscent fear and the over-populated rationale from a biased land of gut-wrenching attempts to die as warrior, failure, and poet.

Through the inkwells of pen and poet I hear my name being called (as thunder), guided through sorrow and grief to the inferno’s call a first – person narrative to the land of Dante’s hall of fiery thoughts and a madman’s dream for a ceasefire.

Upon witnessing the past, hidden enemies fleeing the light and a powerful hand-held grip upon my shoulders, ready to jump off the ledge onto razors laced with the blood-soaked reality of fleshly wounds, where my enemies return, again, during the darkness.

This ethnic cleansing of my soul seizes then destroys my being from sleeping decades of prayer never allowing me to poeticize or hear myself think – and make sense.

Mahmoud Darwish – your eternal sleep nourishes my every word. Copiously, I write…making time for so much time lost to foolishness, despair, and at times even hunger, always sleeping upon the doorstep of destitution of residence.

I write with my pen and the blood of the martyrs from the decomposed depths from every word, as a poet’s purporting smell of rotting flesh for egocentricity – perhaps, the night dwells within too much darkness, and my enemies do not sleep – as yours did not.

And, also, dear Mahmoud, as you have already stated, perhaps

“the earth is too narrow | for people | and for the gods” (Darwish).

Sonnet III

So, from where am I from? Why, this preamble of my life lost to the tribal wars of schemes and dreams, forever hidden in enmity and possibilities. Enigmatic, per se? why, yes – I state!

Here upon the hills of the north, facing twilight days, and burnt orange sunsets, my birth surprises me once more, as I recall the days I nearly died.

My mother gave birth to me, in and out of life and death, my poetry cried out in a desperate plea for a gifted sanity.

I survived…

And flourished, nurturing upon a hope relevant to the interior gaze of a hostage with nowhere to fly. A caged bird from a foreign exile.

A creative and historical context of change permeated by the inner voice of faith, and a Kabalistic Reality.

The trees undulating in the distance by a copious force of nature where mystery upon mystery penetrates to the core.

The paradigms, the metaphors, an exegetic theory based upon the ancient history of the humanity factor and its religious context. So, how many are there with only One monotheistic Value? Why, the prophets all spoke from One. The Immortal One.

To forget our labor pains of birth, leaving tomorrow behind, we see the ever present and fortuitous Now.

Let it be, for you have become rich in Glory.

Flame and fore, as lightning fingers to God, we implore your mighty Nature.

Sonnet II

I write as the north wind chills a January air, early dawn

as the sun does rise in the eastern gates and a Rocky Mountain fair,

my soul carries a remembrance of the earthly pond during the terrain’s commencements –

and, a trauma dream, hidden in a haze of fiery schemes.

The epoch of years unbearably seizes the morning and the night.

I am touched by the fiery chariot told by Elijah to my mind, and

sifting through to my heart.

A new day is upon me, Sophia has found life

within my heart, my being of love and light, and now –

to witness to the world a testimony of faith, courage, and promise

in the Holy name of the Great Sustainer, the Immortal One

who gives new eyes to the un-born?

Sonnet IV

I am the warrior by word who brings peace to regions of the desolate, barren, and hopeless. Always, living on the doorsteps of death, I managed to survive, even as an infant, premature with all my dogmatic faith, I stood to tell the myth of how I survived.

Based upon the fear of a machismo earth, and to the inhabitants therein, fear kept hope alive in the dungeons of rebirthing a kindred spirit, a tiny mustard seed of faith, and a love for the language of the world, that is heard through tenderness.

Silver love brings to me a new word of praise within the fields of harvesting the depths of a love truest in the essence of each metaphor.

Denied from birth the freedom of speech, the freedom of verb and noun, the freedom of word, freedom.

A regimented life of pain-filled days, and nights from the sweat, blood, and tears of fiery dreams and words that kill, I survived. Oh, the depths of a pain-soaked life, where shall I travel, but the dusty roads of the pains of agony, and the ecstasy of a glory not bequeathed of man.

Vein upon vein, similes from a phantom guide, a teacher and her student, smile upon the same lotus flower that leads to the forest of a nirvana, comparative with an earthly Eden, and the Angel’s fiery sword of truth protects the gate with the Word of truth.

Time heals all wounds they say, liberation comes with each ripening word and verbal ray, as we pass through the evolutionary bridge of spiritual enlightenment in our perpetual state of grace.

The Weight of the Morning Dew Yields a Fertile Fruit Upon the Earth

“A bit of weakness in metaphor is enough for tomorrow for the berries to ripen on the fence, and for the sword to break beneath the dew.”

Upon reading Mahmoud Darwish & The Zohar – 1st Volume.

The crucible sword falls by the weight of the morning dew,

As the love of a rose draws near,

                The dance of the scarlet butterfly flutters to the music

                Of a suffering tomorrow with no end in sight, where

Every full moon has its name within the indigenous night

shadowed by the sleeping tree of life, where root and crown are inverted –

                A full hunter’s moon lay still beneath the skies

                of an October dawn, chilled by the breath of frost

Upon the lips of a stealthy warrior.

But where lay this unburdened rose?

                Asleep, until the colonization of societies shall reap

                A divine feminization of a fertile earth that becomes still,

Under the weight of the morning dew.

This poem was inspired by Mahmoud Darwish’s Sonnet VI in The Butterfly’s Burdon and the 1st volume of The Zohar regarding the New Jerusalem in Heaven and the Jerusalem on earth.

Thoughts Before Early Morning Coffee

Thoughts before early morning coffee

It’s 4:00 a.m. as I peer through my kitchen window

beckoning a smile from my beloved bonsais.

A blanket of snow covers the ground as I think back

to a memory re-call.

Trauma – I say, is a four – year old boy

devastated through the rupture of the hymen

of his undefiled little soul.

A privileged liberty owed to none.

Desecrated still. A disobedience to obedience.

His heart bleeds upon a scented floor of straw and hay

scattered throughout this deceptive soil.

This ground of wood that leave no tracks

nor an obliging voice of one who cares.

The ears of the caring lay quiet as stone.

The eyes of the knowing lay blind as bone.

Thoughts return to my sweet, sweet plants.

Will they survive, as I have, now in my sixty-fourth year?

Weather worn, but stronger still, bonsai and I –

 And yet, have I healed?

 Delving deeper and deeper

Into this query of soul,

Mysteries revealed through an epic old ode.

The deeper I sought, for rhyme and for prose –

Answers became as a mystical rose.

And, a co-laboring age is now upon me

Resting, peacefully, for our global community.

In a release of the machismo guides that once hunted me out –

Feminism, too, ran its course, in a dualistic hour, where I

Spent my time in prayer from the soul,

My last muse recollected, not in part, but

In Whole.