Whisper n Thunder

The Whisper of Native American stories, the Thunder of stories that demand to be told.

Poetry n Prose

Frozen Teardrops

Our home for as long as time remembered,
We shared with the newcomers.
Who now wanted more,
As they saw the gold.

They called him Old Hickory,
Said his paper ruled the land,
Said they owned the land,
When we knew the land is never owned,
Rather shared and protected, respected.

Said the paper named us gone,
Gone from green hills,
Gone from fresh streams,
Gone from all we knew,
As we gathered at Red Clay.

Not waiting for the warmth of summer,
Not caring for our safety or health,
They herded us like their cattle,
Feeling generous with their blankets
Rubbed with disease and death.

Marching from all we knew,
Veering from settlements,
Shunned like pariahs,
The sickness took us,
The cold took us,
As our numbers dwindled
And tears fell for the lost.

Waiting by the river,
Huddled in the freezing cold,
Murdered at Mantle Rock,
Then charged eight times
What they charged themselves,
To cross, to march, to die,
As we cut the river to melt, to drink,
As we trudged through snow,
Through frozen swamp,
Sometimes sixty five of their miles only
In over a moon's journey.

For a thousand of their miles
We suffered and died,
For the words on this paper,
This paper that forced us
To leave all we knew and loved,
This paper that said ours was not a Nation,
That we did not deserve a hearing,
That all we deserved was
Disaster, disrespect, disease, death,
A place of blowing dust,
Where streams dried like bones,
Where crops shriveled,
Where they hoped our spirits would die
With the many bodies left behind,
In lands unfamiliar, alone,
And the trail we traveled was flooded
With our sorrow and our tears,
To be always remembered
As their shame
And our new foundation.

© 2010 Carol Dixon

Vision of Means

The caged wolf
Struggles to be free,
To run in the wind,
To sing to the moon
From atop the highest hill.
The pups born in captivity
Have walls on their spirits,
Accepting the blanket of oppression
And the chains of their confinement.

My people once stood proud,
At ease within the Great Mystery,
The winds of freedom
Blowing through their hair,
The rivers of life
Flowing through their lands,
The sun and moon
Charting their deeds
And their days.

Now they sleep on beds
Of broken promises,
Their spirits shackled
As they wander destitute
Through plains of concrete
And soulless landscapes
Void of beauty and hope,

Numbing their spirits
With needles and bottles,
Swimming rivers of tears
To hunt in refuse piles
Like ravens on the back of a pick-up truck.

My song is filled with sorrow.
My heart is heavy with pain.
I see them sinking
In the quicksand of loss,
One by one succumbing
To the weight of the years
As it sucks hope from their blood,
Erasing memories,
Turning life into legends of old
And legends into forgotten dreams.

Rebirth is my prayer,
Resurrection of the words,
The keys to the ways of the spirit,
So that we might lead with wisdom,
And the lost of all peoples
Might listen and follow
To a better way
And a land and life reborn.

(Inspired by an interview with Russell Means which I viewed)

© 2010 Carol Dixon

COMPLEMENTARITY

Women

Dressed and standing straight

Shoulders back

Faces resolute yet

Not grim

Women

Skirts brushing against ankles

Breasts unbound

Hair caught out of the way

Their sharp eyes intent

See everything in a sweeping glance

Men

Gather together

Dressed in regalia and dignity

Stoic and set apart

Tuned inward

Memories of elders and wise men

Invoke tradition

Women

Their steps measured and unwavering

Back and forth,

To and from

Weaving strength into our lives

Seemingly unaware of issues beyond

Picking up this

Gathering that

Silently complete their mundane tasks

Incense

Breathing the fragrant smoke

It carries wisdom to them

These unseen women

Doing their invisible work

Men

Sitting at feast

Drink the ideas women pour out

Eat the words women serve them

~ Nita Pomeroy

Wolf Poem

Like a Wolf
I trot in the light and in the dark.
I am a spirit that claims to be independent.
I am a spirit who is misunderstood, but proud.

Like a Wolf
I am strong, yet I Cry, I Mourn, I get Lonely,
I love my family, I am a Protector, a Teacher,
and a Lover, like a Wolf.

Like a Wolf
I believe in the impossible.
I dream dreams, and can see visions for miles.
I am a Survivor, a Climber, and a Fighter.

Like a Wolf
I can be undecided, yet I make good decisions.
The sunlight clears my mind and
The moonlight calls to my soul, clouding my emotions.
I have a daily cycle of feelings,
and I share them with you in my howls.
I invite you to share my soul, and then you can be;

Like the Wolf, I am.

© Patti Wolf Bass

Banner Graphic: www.firstpeople.us