NATIVE AMERICAN POW
There is a legend in Africa
It says that you cannot ever really
kill a people or take over their land
Because their souls
will be reborn in
your children
WOW!
Tag Archives: Indian
JOHN HAWK
JOHN HAWK
John Hawk came down
out of Kansas – moving fast
Black Hair and feather flying
Bare feet grip the floor
as
he breaks from the crowd
Seize the mic seize the hearts
seize the minds
Look out world
there’s a warrior out there
A warrior rearmed
with the weapon of words
EAGLE ON THE MOON
EAGLE ON THE MOON
When the Eagle lands on the moon
the Indian will come back
into his power
When the mother is in pain
the children who never forgot
will remind
They will have the medicine
to heal her wounds
They will sit with her while
strength returns
And the children who forgot
will remember
and bring flowers
OLD WIVES LAKE MASSACRE
OLD WIVES LAKE MASSACRE – THE LEGEND
About a hundred and fifty or two hundred years ago, in what is now south west Saskatchewan, a band of Cree camping on the shore of a prairie lake were surrounded by a much larger band of Blackfoot warriors.
In order to save the lives of the young and strong, they slipped out under cover of darkness while the old and infirm stayed behind to keep the fires burning and keep up the appearance of an occupied camp.
When the Blackfoot attacked the next morning they were furious at having been tricked in this way and massacred all of the remaining inhabitants of the camp including all the old wives.
This unusual and powerful occurrence is remembered to this day in the name of the lake
I grew up and ranched along its shores.
OLD WIVES LAKE MASSACRE – THE POEM
I have eaten the beef
that ate the grass
that grew on your unmarked graves
And the sadness I sing, I sing for you
for all sadness is one sadness
all pain one pain
and all treachery one treachery
Many have eaten of the buffalo and the beef
They wake in the night
and do not know why they are sad
The Legend
The Poem
DEER GONE
DEER GONE
A tough shot, 600 yards at least, running left to right
in the open sights of the 303. Aim to the top of the
third jump ahead, move the gun in a smooth arc
and squeeze slow
It was a kill
I saw it as great skill
a source of blood fed pride
and the deer… well it just died
The Indians used to see it as a kind of revolving door
the spirit of the animal would come back soon
enough in another body if you used the one
he had given up to you with gratitude
There are not many deer in these parts anymore
I wonder if they are trapped
waiting for the gratitude
Indians lost in whiskey
and we never knew