Native American Poetry
The Last Warrier
By W. J. Bruce
High on bleak, stony rag,
Unmoving, he sits astride
His ragged coated pony.
Only telltale frozen breaths,
Separate them from
The still, winter black boles
Of ancient leafless trees.
The pony, blown and lame,
Stands with lowered head,
Ears flattened to the sound
Of a distant wolf pack.
The man on his back,
All weapons lost,
Ignores the trickling blood
From savage wounds,
Mingling his war paint.
Eyes burning fiercely
He strains to find
The sign he seeks:
Behind, the sound of enemy
Draws ever closer.
At last, faith rewarded,
He sees far below
In the deep valley,
Arriving at the edge
Of the fast flowing river,
The great she bear
With two gamboling cubs:
To fish the racing salmon,
Drawn relentlessly toward
Their age-old spawning ground.
Silently, the wounded brave
Offers his final prayer
To the eternal clan bear;
Totem and guardian
Of his battle slain tribe.
The enemy, exultant,
Are almost upon him,
Yet he looks not behind:
He sees only the Great Spirit,
Surrounding him kindly
In loving, firm embrace.
While the enemy closes in,
He straightens himself;
His voice rings loud and clear,
Echoing across the land
To the distant cloudless sky.
One last defiant war cry
As he spurs on his pony,
And leaps...
Into the world of his ancestors.
The Trail of Tears
By Brian Childers ©1998
I look to the long road behind
My heart is heavy with my people’s sorrow
Tears of grief I weep - for all that we have lost
As we march ever farther from the land of our birth
On the Trail of Tears
Mile after mile and day after day
Our people are fewer with each rising sun
Disease and starvation they take their terrible toll
And though we suffer still we march on…
On the Trail of Tears
I watch my beloved weaken and fall
Upon the road like so many before…
With tears in my eyes I hold my wife to my breast
And in my arms she breathes her last…
On the Trail of Tears
Mile after mile and day after day
We march to a land promised us for all time
But I know that I can no longer go on
I know that is a land that I shall never see…
On the Trail of Tears
As my body - it falls to embrace the earth
My spirit - it soars to greet the sky
With my dying breath am I finally set free
To begin the very long journey towards home
On the Trail of Tears
Lord Wolf ~how I percieve myself.I am He
I Am He
By Robert Ellis
I am he
that cares too much
and allows this world to penetrate.
I am the man
that loves too deeply,
while others merely perpetrate.
Do you see this man
or the boy inside,
with emotions to great
and plentiful to hide?
They've shorn my hair
and crushed my pride.
Taken my land
and my wife from my side.
A man of honor,
whose spirit remains free
with love to give,
but finding none that need.
So take the hand
of a distant Crow child
and with the Spirit of my fathers,
the wolf will run wild.
Rainbow
By Red Unicorn (Barbara Mann) ©1997
Shimmering color arched against grey sky,
Painted by dancing light on air-borne mist.
Wide flung by a sacred hand...
The Hand that formed of dust nothingness
The solid Earth below.
Beauty and promise together blended,
Beauty ethereal, promise divine.
Given to grace the clouds and the rain,
Given to bless the world-weary heart...
Shimmers... fades... brightens...
To vanish in brilliance...
Shines through the dark in my soul.
The Calling
By Gerald Fisher
The fire is dancing tonight and the winds are talking
Dancers from past lives enter the circle
Leading me back and forth through the history of myself
The mind searches as the spirit dances
The drums...dancing to the heartbeat
Memories of long ago insights to the future
I hear the winds whispering my sweat lodge dreams
I see Sungmanitu tanka (the wolf) my guide
He shows me the ancestors, not mine
They are not Lakota, or Tsalagi, or Iroquois
But they are all Nations, one Nation
Speaking with wisdom to share with each other
Yesterdays create todays and promises of tomorrow
The lies will die with the smoke
And the whispers of the winds are clear and loud
And we shall all see the return of the buffalo
AHO
Summer Rain
By Gerald Fisher
Father Sky is gray
As the new light appears
And the laughter of the birds is still
the clouds shed their tears
and the land drinks of this heavenly dew
puddles replace the dust
irresistible temptations for little feet
Turning my face to the sky
and feeling the gentleness of the mist
washing away my cares
filling my heart with happiness
Lifting my spirits
like the quenching of the crops
Raising my arms
I turn to the four winds
and give thanks for this
gentle…Summer Rain.
Call To The Four Sacred Winds
By Spirit Wind (Pat Poland)
I call to the East, where the Father ascends
to all Mother Earth where life begins.
I fly through the cedars, pines, willows, and birch
as animals below me wander and search.
I call to the South, to the land down below.
Turtle stands silent, as man strings his bow
to hunt food and fur for his kin before snow.
A life will end so others will grow.
I call to the North, that yansa once knew.
I follow their path til it disappears from view.
Once vast in number, there stand but a few.
I hear only ghost thunder of millions of hooves.
I call to the West, to the ends of the lands,
to the Tsalagi, Kiowa, Comanche ... all bands.
Unite for the strength. Teach the young and demand
that you are Native Americans. Learn your tongue and stand.
My name is Freedom... I fly through this land.
I call to the Four Sacred Winds of Turtle Island.
Ghost Warriers
By Donald Hook
Shadows dance on canyon walls, They are shadows from my fire.
And from these walls Ghost Warriors call "Your history is a liar."
"Our sacred lands were stolen and this we can't forget."
"The spirits of our warriors who gave their lives for it."
But the wind whispers to me that the shadows I see are visions of when the west was young.
And the Indian danced around his council fire where prayers to the Great Spirit were sung.
They asked the Great Spirit to guide them in this their troubled time.
For the white man walked upon their land and said "This land is mine."
It was the search for yellow iron that became the red man's curse.
For the white man swarmed upon their land each fighting to be first.
And no amount of prayers could stop the coming flood.
Soon the yellow iron was bathed in Indian blood.
The Great Spirit couldn't help them they had to fight alone.
For the mountains and the desert that had always been their home.
The Indian was defeated and just seemed to fade away.
And his sacred lands were ravished it seemed in but a day.
The mountains were blasted open; the gold ripped from beneath the earth.
The wounded land lies silent now and has but little worth.
The Indian is gone forever from this land that once was his.
And no one seems to want it now not the way it is.
So now that you know their story, will you listen to the whispering wind?
The ghosts of ancient warriors are singing their songs again.
They're singing to the Great Spirit their sad and mournful prayers.
Asking Him to make whole again this land that once was theirs.
Grandmother's Blanket
By Ann Murray Smith
Grandmother's Blanket holds the sweet smell of sage
Woven by enchantment, as the Spirits feel no rage.
Trimmed in eyelet shadows, cast into the snow
Tumbleweeds and deserts She traveled long ago.
The threads are Her wisdom She passes on to you,
Reflections wrap around us, as if we always knew.
The patchwork shows directions North, East, South, West
The needle points the way so we know when to rest.
Grandmother's Blanket holds the soft warmth of down
From fine-feathered friends and foliage all around.
Covered by a breeze and a soft summer rain
Lightning dances wildly, as the Thunder heals Her pain.
The colors are Her passions beneath the cotton lining
For She knows the Spirit world, is free and never binding.
Footsteps walk below the soil, Mother Earth is listening
Frost paints the Blanket edges, above the stars are glistening.
Grandmother's Blanket has many stories to tell
The colors have faded, for the years have turned it pale.
Comforted by the Oneness, Her head bows down in grace,
Thanking Great Spirit for Her Honor in this place.
