A Storm Upon Us, poem by Ana Castillo, 2015.

(A poem included in my new unpublished collection, MY BOOK OF THE DEAD, dedicated to John Trudell–like most poets, also a prophet of sorts.)



but it wasn’t.  We go on.

Disaster has happened to someone else.

We venture out and buy more.  We take more.  We discard. We pillage the earth.


 The storms take sinister forms, go by isms, neo, and post-hyphenations.  Be afraid,  leaders of the faceless enemy, warn.  Beware.  

Be aware

when you travel we cannot protect you. 

We will be vigilant of your whereabouts.

Our watchful Eye will know your life. 

Long lines to survive much less thrive lie

before you.  You’ll feel shame like in naked dreams

but worse because we, in fact

are watching you.  We will make sure you don’t question.

And when the storm is upon you,

when it has destroyed your homes,

and your children are not fine

and your dreams of golden roses and bright days are nowhere

but in the pages of a storybook,

we will be content in our heavens eating peeled

grapes, sipping fine wines from our vineyards of abundance,

sitting on our thrones,

new gods.  We’ll smile down upon you

our creation of ruin,

pick our teeth with your bones.

(Ana Castillo: NM, 2015). First appeared in FIFTH WEDNESDAY JOURNAL, 2018.