Dying… men run from it… In groups, in gatherings, and in masses they do…I did too… for the longest time. Then, like a fugitive slave sick of being afraid… I stopped, I turned around, looked the devil with his barking and spit frothing hounds square in the eyes, I clenched my fist, flexed every muscle in my body and screamed at him “ My name is Pack Redfeather! And I wasn’t created and born to be ur damned slave! So $&@) u!… ur going to have to fight me for mine’s because I’m done running!… I may be alone in my vision’s direction and completely out numbered in what faces me… but I got a smile on my brown and bearded face… I’m a believer in what I see…and I’m not talking about this petty world everyone’s so attached to… only spiritual warriors can understand… do u?…
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Published by Pack Redfeather
I am a walking contradiction of traditions some say. An African American and Native American Muslim poet with a personal life history as violently turbulent as a Storm. A visionary from the bottom of life’s social barrel striving to share the hope found in the light of faith through sometimes dark but real poetry. I’m a former member of the Bloods street gang, former serial bank robber, and both federal/state prison convict. I live on my mother’s tribal reservation of the Leech Lake band of Ojibwe in Minnesota.
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