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firefighter140's blog: "native poetry"

created on 05/30/2007  |  http://fubar.com/native-poetry/b87194

native american poetry

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.
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