I have learned the ways

my father has spoken of;

the ways taught me

to be a man of my people.

He taught me respect,

to honor the sky which brings light,

the sun to give warmth,

the rivers which give comfort.

He gave me simple rules

to build my life, my home,

and one day take a wife.

It is like this very day,

I ride with my brothers,

bow and arrow in hand,

and take part in the hunt.

Grasping the mane of my pony,

swinging myself upward onto his sturdy frame,

legs kicking as we move as one;

today’s hunt has begun.

We ride across the vastness of the Plains,

yelling, screaming, anticipating;

my final test of manhood near at hand.

The ground trembles from the onslaught,

preparing both offense and defense;

an arrow pulled, bow-string taut,

pacing myself for what I want.

We ride alongside, waiting out the moment,

when we each sight our target;

patience, my father spoke of,

and I use that word to strengthen me.

My eyes, like my brothers,

lock onto my target, my prey,

and with all the knowledge given me,

I let my arrow fly straight and true.

The ground no longer trembles,

my brothers ride together,

as we count our kill.

One for each of us.

Today has been a good day.

Today, the Great Father shines,

bringing to us a good hunt.

Today, our people will eat hearty.

The buffalo will fill our bellies,

they will give us combs from their bones,

they will give us clothes and blankets,

they also give us sadness.

Father once told me

the buffalo will one day disappear,

just as he will.

Just as we all will.

But take comfort he said,

when we come to the Great Father,

He will have more for us to hunt,

more for us to be thankful for.

But today, I am no longer a boy,

I return home a man, a warrior,

and I see in the face of my father,

pride in unsmiling eyes.

I dismount,

give my father the ear of the buffalo,

he nods in acceptance.

His hand also stretches out with his gift.

A feather.

Grandchildren;

I tell this story because the buffalo are gone,

we are almost gone,

but only of this world.

As your father’s father told me,

we will all ride again.

Hold to your traditions,

keep our sacred truths,

do not let go the mercies Mother Earth,

and the Great Father give us.

Always remember,

no day is a good day to die,

if you forget your people, your family,

and those who give us all things.

You who have been the wind,

You who has given us food,

given us land,

the buffalo to hunt,

sons and daughters

that we may carry on;

this old man gives many thanks,

and looks forward to final blessings

when I reach your lands,

where the sun remains bright,

rivers run pure,

where lands are always green,

where buffalo remains plentiful,

and where an old man

can run young once more.

Any day is a good day to die

knowing You will greet me.

Looking out across blackness,

save the sky filled

with millions of blinking eyes,

she searches out the land below,

centers her vision upon her village,

so quiet, so peaceful.

Mother kneels on slated rock,

hands clasped to her breasts,

lifting her head upward

and pleads in tortured prayer

for the return of her husband,

her son;

when they leave at first light for battle.

Prayer and belief holds her together,

but the return of warriors

without those she cares most,

may not be enough to keep her strength,

her dignity,

from becoming dust.

She prays for a good day.

As light breaks open across the land,

from deep within her village,

she hears the chant filling her soul,

knowing her prayer has been answered.

As tears slide across deeply bronzed skin,

her eyes come alive,

and a smile escapes through her tears.

In a land of natural beauty,

she stands apart,

her skin bronzed,

by a filtered soft sun.

A gentle breeze kisses her hair,

softly held with feathers from her warrior,

a testament of his love,

his protection for her.

Soft seduction is held on her face,

whispering thoughts of fulfillment

as she waits.

Crossing over into a still lake,

its coolness caresses her,

in her moment of waiting,

as nature touches her flesh;

a longing energy rushes through her soul.

She lies in a field of wheat and honey;

one to feed the belly,

the other, to sweeten the heart.

She looks beyond where field meets sky,

where her eyes hold compassion

in quiet communication

only he can hear,

only he can feel,

through her singing heart.

In sleep, she feels his strength,

the power of simple contentment.

Fed through her dreams,

she finds solace in knowing he has returned.

Sharing his heartbeat,

his breath, a coolness across her lips,

she sleeps the sleep of love,

knowing her warrior shall return.

She sleeps with smile,

with understanding.

Her hand gently touches feathers

shared in her slumber.

… and she waits.

Sitting proudly atop his pony,

another trailing behind,

loaded with food for his family.

He sang a song of thanksgiving,

to be able to provide for family.

The morning sky

emits a warming pride to his features;

a proud warrior,

when in battle, reaped many coups.

Today, as in all days, he battles for peace.

Back-dropped by sister mountains,

surrounding a valley of trees,

lies his home in waiting,

and the road home,

a silvery lake of pureness.

As he approaches, there is no sound,

save hooves splashing water with each step.

Ever closer, he spies his woman,

his young sons.

Before his gaze,

stands his heritage, his pride.

A breath of nature’s coolness

sweeps over his bronzed flesh.

He stops, dismounts,

stares intently at all around him.

A small thin smile emerges on his scarred face.

He looks upon his sons with pride,

and his woman who shines with welcomed love.

He is home in this valley of peace,

where struggle and war are but a memory,

but the ways of his people continue.

When night has fallen,

bellies filled, stories told,

sons sleep,

and his woman provides him warmth;

he knows today has been one of the good days.

Many years ago the air was pure.

Rolling fields of green,

pure and plentiful,

as were the buffalo.

There was abundance

as far as the sacred eye could see.

Clean flowing rivers,

open space in which to live,

to hunt; raise family.

There were no machines,

no such thing called technology,

no piece of paper

to say where our people could live.

No lies to betray a man’s soul.

As a nation in the early days,

to so-called modern times,

we have always protected our own.

It is our way, our only way.

Long years ago stretching beyond tall mountains,

we lived on a land protected by swollen oceans,

untouched by the future’s pollutants.

In years past when sounds of Mother Earth

gave my people sustenance;

when Father Sun gave light and warmth;

those were when years held tranquil beauty.

Days now no longer as before,

where a boy grew to manhood,

learning the hunt,

learning to provide for family,

learning the ways of our ancestors.

My heart grieves.

Rivers are muddied, the land, congested,

buffalo, no longer plentiful,

and the air reeks of technology.

My people have suffered much.

Years of pestilence, starvation, ridicule,

pushed beyond human endurance,

to face hardships as in days gone by.

As life ebbs from this old warrior’s flesh,

as I prepare to greet my brother’s,

waiting for me across the great divide;

I pray to Mother Earth for solace,

and to Father Sun for giving us life.

I also thank Father Sun

that my people remember the old ways,

to give them continued strength

for days of destiny awaiting them;

days yet that cannot be seen.

The history of our people,

our traditions,

our blood spilled,

and of our spirit,

should never be forgotten.

It is everywhere.

The four corners of the Plains,

given to us by our ancestor’s,

generations long before

pale skin of the blue eyes

with the white lies,

and cold blood

running from an even colder heart,

came,

as they slaughtered my people.

Forced away from sacred lands,

hunting grounds that once ran rampant

with mighty Buffalo,

now,

when you stare outward;

metal machines run havoc across pathways.

And we are slowly becoming nowhere.

Oh, today, we have tribal lands,

villages, the government say we own.

This government would say I speak falsely,

but I speak truths given me

by the Father’s long since dead,

in stories my father once told me.

Yes, we are slowly going nowhere.

Where once, a great continent,

was truly nothing more than space,

where all people’s lived their way,

with space to move freely,

to hunt, raise family;

teach our children the Indian Way.

When the long-hair, Custer, fell,

on that day so did our freedom.

When Sitting Bull was killed,

when all the chiefs of the great tribes

were washed away by soldier’s guns;

when all my ancestors

were herded like stray Buffalo,

it was then, we ended up nowhere.

But we do have our tracts of land,

We do have our gambling casinos,

We do have our own laws to enforce,

We do have our own sovereignty of life;

And we still hold onto our dignity,

our pride,

and cling to the histories of our people.

Those are things

the white man’s government

has never taken from us,

has never defeated.

The blood of many bloods

have flooded streams, rivers;

soaked dirt to rust color

and our word,

has carried far and wide,

with the Spirit of Winds,

that will never die.

We have fought

alongside many, many white-eyes;

some who wished for destruction

of other white’s,

and for those like us,

wanted only peace.

History tells my people,

both have lied,

for we are without our rightful place,

in what is called history books.

From the Crow to the Delaware,

Seneca, Iroquois, Apache, Ute,

Algonquin, Sioux, Cheyenne,

Piute, Huron, Wyandot, Navajo,

Black Feet, Comanche, Seminoles;

to all tribes, all brothers,

all races of my people,

and of those who are no more,

to those who still cling to the old ways,

in prayer, in hope,

to one day have back what was taken from us,

torn away and raped by this thing we call:

Government.

This thing a piece of paper,

a treaty calls: Promise.

The only truth is the promise found

in the spirit of our Father’s,

and the ghosts of all Father’s past,

and in the spirit of Father Life, Mother Earth,

and the ghosts of our history

travelling in our dreams.

Yes, the white man’s land is everywhere.

But, so too, are we.

Vows of love, simply given,

are never enough, my love.

To have and to hold

is but a beginning.

To love and to cherish,

only begins life’s adventure.

I give you warmth

that you may know love

will never grow cold.

I give you memories

you will always remember.

I give you a glorious wealth

of never-ending experiences.

I give you my life,

that you know you are always protected.

I give you the purest of water

that you will never know thirst.

I will hunt for the purest of food,

that hunger will never strike you.

I give you shelter

to be more than just a home.

I give you strength,

to surpass all weakness.

I give you understanding

that you know you are my equal.

I give you hope,

when you believe all hope is lost.

Vows of love run deep, run strong;

to honor and obey is a sacred trust.

Until death us do part,

is but a physical ending.

I will honor you as I do,

with nature’s blessing.

I will obey your guidance,

as truth is the ultimate emotion.

As year’s pass

and age takes command,

our wrinkled eyes and smiles

will have seen us through life’s mysteries.

When death sweeps us away,

I will know all I have done,

I have done for you.

So say I always.

Your Spirit Watcher.

Wherever you walk this land,

I am never far away.

When you know not where to turn,

listen for me, I will guide you.

If you are blinded

by what is before you,

I will be your eyes,

to see in the darkest of days.

I will be your voice

to speak when you are unsure,

and avoid confusion

in a confusing land.

I will be your ears

to listen for the unknown,

where distant sounds

ring free from fear.

I will provide you lodging,

when night chills your flesh,

and with your flesh I give my own,

to stave off the night when lonely.

When you grow hungry,

I will pillage the land,

provide you nourishment,

give you contentment.

I will be there to listen,

for you will never be alone,

and I will give you calm

to quell your unknown fears.

I am your protector

to give you strength

in times of troubled strife,

where no harm will befall you, ever.

I am a power within you,

burning with true desire.

I am all you will ever be,

that, and so much more.

So say I,

Spirit Wolf.

It went on for hours,

even when the great sun

dropped into nightfall,

and long past the rise of the white moon,

the sounds of many drums echoed,

voices ringing out in an eerie chant,

sometimes a sound screaming,

pierced all those who gazed at center stage

as flames licked the night air,

and faces now seen as fiery voices were heard,

as they sang to the death of their brothers;

fallen in combat.

Mother’s wept,

and dirt beneath their feet

became a river of tears.

Long after the lamenting songs died,

the sound of drums,

still played upon the soul.