What! What's this!? I'm... I'm sharing POETRY with you guys!? Who IS this!
Yeah, so I figured I would share a poem I wrote in 10th grade about Mormons. I really liked it... it was pretty personal to me when I wrote it, and I really didn't like any of my other poems. It's sad... if I wasn't facing a lack of inspiration I would write more. I just can't find the motivation these days. What am I going to do with myself? Anyways, here it is (after the pretty temple picture):
Is This America?
You glare at us,
spitting tobacco from
your dirty mouth.
“Mormons,”
you mutter,
spotting my family
as we cross your path.
You wonder silently
if we really are.
We hear your remark
but show no sign.
We’ve learned.
My mother eyes the rifle
clutched between your grimy hands.
You notice
and give her a quick smile-
your cold, yellow teethed, smile.
Your eyes then flick to mine
and they change.
A new found lust grows within them,
while a sudden fear
over takes my heart.
“Purty, ain’t she,”
you cackle,
running a dirty hand
across the barrel,
“Used ‘er tah kill
them maggots at
Hauns Mill.”
I flinch,
then, regretting it,
pray you don’t notice.
But, your beady eyes
are too quick
and you chuckle.
“Don’t worry purty lady,
I won hurt chyoo.”
you pause,
a malicious grin
spreading across you face,
“’Less yer Mormon.”
We halt,
suddenly fearful.
My thoughts are ransacked
as visions
of the week’s happenings
come flooding back.
I glance to my mother
as she clung to my little sister,
her eyes as wide and bright
as the moon.
My older brother
looks you in the eye,
unafraid, courageous, bold.
“And, if we are?”
He’s challenging you,
and you know it.
Your eyes glint,
interest sparking.
How you longed for a game.
You step forward,
rifle tapping
against the palm of your hand.
“Then I’ll haft a
kill yew.”
Your voice is mocking,
daring.
My brother doesn’t waver,
standing his ground.
Your anger is rising
with the hairs
along your sweaty neck.
My mom cries out,
“No Will!”
He glances to her, pleading.
She backs down quietly.
You smile,
challenge presented.
More blood
to please your thirst.
“What are you saying boy?”
Squaring his shoulders,
My brother replies,
“Why, no sir,
We’re not Mormon.”
You’re surprised,
though mostly relived-
you really didn’t want
to kill again.
But then,
“We actually prefer
to be called
Latter-Day Saints.”
Angered,
you cock your gun,
pointing.
Now appearing his full glory,
my brother continues,
“And this is America!
I watched my father die
at the hands of you ‘brave soldiers’
dressed as Indians
to cover your iniquities!
He died unlawfully
along with countless others
all because
you don’t believe the way we do!”
You’re amazed,
but not taken completely.
Unable to stop,
my brother finishes,
“You’ve been duped
into believing
that we have stolen your property
take your things
but, alas!
It’s the other way around.
Is this not America?
We deserve the right
to worship as we please!”
You’re through,
and you decide to
finish this.
Fully enraged,
you yell,
“You deserve nothing,
but death!”
Your palms
grow sweaty
as you pull back
on the trigger.
There is an explosion
then,
silence.
It is over.
We lost
once again.
Motionless,
my brother is sprawled
across the ground.
First my father,
then my brother,
all over religion.
Is this not America?
Scared,
my mother and I
run, my sister
clinging to my mother
silent,
shocked.
We find safety
in the woods.
You don’t peruse,
still surprised
by your ‘act of bravery’.
your cold,
vile,
heartless,
bravery.
One less Mormon
to take your land.
One less Mormon
to preach about
the teachings of
‘Ol’ Joe Smith’.
But, in the woods,
I’m silent,
reflecting.
My mother turns to me,
as my sister lay sleeping.
She informs me that we’d get Will’s body
tonight,
in the cover of darkness.
I nod, unshaken,
it’s happened before.
Once again
the images
of my father,
running into the blacksmith shop
thinking it was safe.
It soon became a death trap,
as the guns
were inserted
into openings,
leaving them unable
to escape.
But now,
father and son
were together
again.
As I sit
next to my brother’s body that night,
I think of his words.
Why?
Why are we persecuted so?
Is the not America?
Did we not come here
for religious freedom,
because we were sick
of being killed for what
we believed?
As you lay in your bed tonight
you think of your kill,
proud that,
because of you,
there was one
less Mormon
to worry about.
As you lay in your bed,
I kneel to pray-
pray that my
posterity may worship
as they please.
I crawl into bed and dream-
dream of a better place.
Little do I know,
nothing much will change.
Though we will not be killed,
Mormons will still be
persecuted,
made fun of,
mocked,
teased,
hurt,
blamed…
because we think differently.
Is this America?
Or not?
Playing by the water's edge!
A little daring, aren't we?
