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I wanted to give something of my past to my grandson.
So I took him into the woods, to a quiet spot.
Seated at my feet he listened as I told him
of the powers that were given to each creature.
He moved not a muscle as I explained
how the woods had always provided us
with food, homes, comfort, and religion.
He was awed when I related to him
how the wolf became our guardian,
and when I told him that I would sing
the sacred wolf song over him, he was overjoyed.
In my song, I appealed to the wolf
to come and preside over us
while I would perform the wolf ceremony
so that the bondage between my grandson
and the wolf would be lifelong.
I sang.
In my voice was the hope that clings to every heartbeat.
I sang.
In my words were the powers I inherited from my forefathers.
I sang.
In my cupped hands lay a spruce seed-- the link to creation.
I sang.
In my eyes sparkled love.
I sang.
And the song floated on the sun's rays from tree to tree.
When I had ended,
it was if the whole world listened with us
to hear the wolf's reply.
We waited a long time
but none came.
Again I sang,
humbly but as invitingly as I could,
until my throat ached and my voice gave out.
All of a sudden
I realized why no wolves
had heard my sacred song.
There were none left!
My heart filled with tears.
I could no longer give my
grandson faith
in the past, our past.
At last I could whisper to him: " It is finished!"
"Can I go home now?" He asked,
checking his watch to see if he
would still be in time to
catch his favorite program on TV.
I watched him disappear and wept in silence.
All is finished!

Written By Chief Dan George (chief of the Salish Band in Burrard Inlet, B.C.)

Through the morning mist
they ride their horses like the wind,
The echo of the thundering hooves
take them back to when
The land they ride was wild and free
As they once had been.
And now they ride at breakneck speed
trying to outrace the end.
The end to the way of life they had known
as long as they had been.

They ride across the prairie
where great herds of buffalo once roamed,
They ride through the valleys and forests
that for the wolves had once been home,
They ride across the mountain tops
where the eagles once had flown,
They ride throughout the land
that once had been their own.

On they ride through night and day
never stopping for food or sleep,
On they ride with the hope
If they keep riding they will keep
The fire of hope alive in those who remain.
So, if you listen with your heart
You'll hear above the din,
The tireless steeds that bear the eternal spirit
of the American Indian.

written By Marty Soaring Eagle

My eyes behold the first fall of snow
as it falls from the clouds above to the ground
below.
Each flake so unique and unlike any other
Delicate and fragile so breathtaking in its
beauty.

My tradition demands that I walk the first
snowfall
Barefoot with nothing on my feet, nothing at all.
Cold and invigorating this blanket of white
It is Mothers winter coat so fluffy and bright.

I am reminded how humble to be
as the cold reminds how fragile are we.
We live in a narrow margin indeed
of comfort that satisies our human need.
this poem i'm sending is about snow maybe i can
find a pic for it that you could put snow on like
you did that other one
A delicate dance of natures making.
A balanced system of giving and taking.
I wonder why this can't be seen by others
Who keep taking natures dance away from their
brothers.

Written By Swift Eagle

Winds blow gently,
as the blades of grass do wave
Moving to and fro,
they gently weave a tale
They tell of a time long past,
here upon this plain
When the Buffalo roamed,
herds so very large.

Sometimes it took days
for the herd to pass on by
Dust clouds rose for miles around,
sky darkened
Grazing as they traveled,
clustered at the water hole
Cutting blades of grass for food,
as they moved on through.

One day, the Iron Horse
made it's journey west
Flat cars with hunters
ready when the herd appeared
As fast as they could load and shoot,
they fired rapidly.
And the bodies of the dead
piled high for miles around.

Some foolish white General
got the great idea
Kill off all the buffalo
and the Indian will soon go
Starve him and he weakens
and soon will disappear
Never thinking how resourceful
our Ancestors really were.

Yes, many of our people starved
and sacrifice was great
But gradually we see in time
the resurgence has begun.
With them, small pockets of the herd
are growing larger still
The blades of grass so gently blow
and tell of things to come.

The land will soon be returned
to those who love her best
And will sustain the multitudes
who are gathering here and there
As the herd is growing,
food for many coming is appearing
The people are arriving home,
their legacy to claim again

Yes, winds blow gently
as Blades of Grass do wave.
They are welcoming happily,
the first wave to come.
Will you be there with them,
is your heart still on the path?.
For Creator stands and beckons
his children to come home

written By Wak' Tame - September 4, 2000

A Native American and his friend were in downtown New York City, walking near Times Square in Manhattan. It was during the noon lunch hour and the streets were filled with people. Cars were honking their horns, taxicabs were squealing around corners, sirens were wailing, and the sounds of the city were almost deafening. Suddenly, the Native American said, "I hear a cricket." His friend said, "What? You must be crazy. You couldn't possibly hear a cricket in all of this noise!" "No, I'm sure of it," the Native American said, "I heard a cricket." "That's crazy," said the friend. The Native American listened carefully for a moment, and then walked across the street to a big cement planter where some shrubs were growing. He looked into the bushes, beneath the branches, and sure enough, he located a small cricket. His friend was utterly amazed. "That's incredible," said his friend. "You must have superhuman ears!" "No," said the Native American. "My ears are no different from yours. It all depends on what you're listening for." "But that can't be!" said the friend. "I could never hear a cricket in this noise." "Yes, it's true," came the reply. "It depends on what is really important to you. Here, let me show you. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a few coins, and discreetly dropped them on the sidewalk. And then, with the noise of the crowded street still blaring in their ears, they noticed every head within twenty feet turn and look to see if the money that tinkled on the pavement was theirs. "See what I mean?" asked the Native American. "It all depends on what's important to you."
What's important to you? What do you listen for? Some people say that there is no God, and that He never speaks to us anymore. But perhaps they can't see or hear Him because they aren't listening for Him. They are living for themselves, not for God.
If you are in tune with God, you will be able to notice Him at work in your life and in the world. And you'll be able to hear Him when He speaks.

Written By..-Author Unknown-

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