Too Many Miles, Too Many Tears
by Michael Doyle

Looking back on all the miles I've driven
Over lands other believed they were given
I find a lot is needed to be forgiven
Were it not for being too busy living

I remember coming to Indiana at my ex's request
Feeling as though it was maybe some sort of test
I learned that it was once Indian territory
Finding few around made me curious of the story

After all, there was a hint or two in my lineage
That made me proud of this part of my heritage
Curious to learn I thought I'd look and photograph
I found as many tears as paradoxical reasons to laugh

One of my idols, Thomas Jefferson sought expansion
Looking out on the horizon from his Monticello mansion
He thought it was honorable to wipe a people out
From my 21st century perspective, I have my doubts

At Prophetstown, I learned of Tenskwatawa's decision
To a attempt a protective circle united in his vision
It was a last stand for unity and cultural revival
At stake was the essence of Native American survival

Trail of Tears, Trail of death
A native people scream to their last breath
Fighting for their way of life against fracture
For harmony and against brutal erasure

The betrayal of broken promises led to dispossession
As acre by forced acre, native land faced aggression
Called callous savages by those seeking their portrayal
To be one of honor instead of stark naked betrayal

Despair played its savage hand with brutality's assistance
A flood wave of 'civilization' stole despite resistance
Sacred rivers, forests, and prairies were desecrated 
By civilized, troubled brothers who wished to be segregated

There would be no attempt at sharing this magnificent land
As long as there were flint locks and armies to command
Unlike the wider trail blazed by the oppressed Cherokee
The Trail of Death was through wetlands for the Potawatomi

Despite many attempts to silence the outcry of oral history
As treaties were broken and people crushed in living memory
Time traveled on and Pow Wows taught me of my people's resilience
As they struggle in sacred defiance for our renaissance

The drumbeats faded in the distance as the dying cried out
But quiet adaptation is the way of the warrior without doubt
And in this modern day, ghostly children remind of broken circles
A disrupted community revives and is reborn in our sacred cycle

(c) March 17, 2025   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved