Though I am not Native American, I enjoy writing poetry about the people of the First Nations.
Speaking of the ways of his native people, Luther Standing bear wrote, “Conversation was never begun at once, nor in a hurried manner. No one was quick with a question, no matter how important, and no one was pressed for an answer. A pause, giving time for thought was the truly courteous way of beginning and conducting a conversation. Silence was meaningful with the Lakota, and his granting a space of silence to the speechmaker and his own moment of silence before talking was done in the practice of true politeness and regard for the rule that thought comes before speech.”
~~Luther Standing Bear
Weeping at Bear River
Screams of children sliced through
the icy morning winds—
they could find no place to hide.
One after another, young bodies
crumpled to ground…
the light of morning taken from their eyes.
Black smoke billowed
from the barrels of guns.
Moans of dying mothers withered
into the fresh-fallen snow.
Their cries muffled,
watching the children die—
one by one.
The breath of the mothers of the Shoshone
disappeared into gray vapors
amid the blackness.
And whispering spirits tarry,
weeping at Bear River.
Fear gripped the daughters of the Shoshone—
violated, bloody, and
spittle-covered, they stared into
the eyes of vile,
vehement men.
In winter’s past,
the daughters played here,
close to warm tepees,
creating figures in the snow.
Now, they lay naked, exposed,
lingering near death,
trembling,
far from warmth,
awaiting the hatchet’s blow.
Unborn infants,
once comfortable in the womb
of nurturing mothers,
lay scattered about,
tossed upon crimson-stained snow,
ripped from the belly,
the life-blood flowing from
their unformed bodies—
wretched,
wanton acts of wickedness.
And whispering spirits tarry,
weeping at Bear River.
The warriors, young and old,
fought bravely
to defend the homes of the
the Valley People,
as the guns of the militia
exploded across the river.
But soon, the Shoshone rifles
were silent. The rounds had all been fired.
But the cold, angry soldiers
rode rampant through the village,
firing bullet after bullet after bullet after bullet
into the bodies of the unarmed Shoshone.
Two hundred and fifty Shoshone People,
creations of the Great Spirit -
men, women, boys, and girls -
lay dead, their tortured bodies
left for the wolves and crows to
feast upon—frozen in crimson snow.
“Lice and nits,” the white Colonel called them.
The survivors wept and their tears tasted like salt;
their hearts felt heavy; their souls grieved;
the blood of their wounds ran red
and they prayed to the Great Spirit—
the Shoshone People.
And whispering spirits tarry,
weeping at Bear River.
Weeping at Bear River
~~Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”
And We Danced
Head held high,
in the traditional dance,
a mother smiled at her child,
as if she were dancing
for him alone—the pride
of many generations shone
in her eyes.
Like an elegant butterfly
on painted wings,
in a celebration of life,
a young woman danced the
dance of the Fancy Shawl –
the hope of many generations
beamed on her face.
Moving, with grace,
to the beat of the drum
and of their hearts,
as the chanters sang,
the Jingle Dress Dancers swayed—
the blood of many generations
pulsed through their veins.
Like a warrior,
swift, skilled, and agile,
he danced the dance of the
hoops, moving in the
circle of life—
carrying the strength
of the generations.
The prairie chicken dancers and
the grass dancers
thanked the Creator for life,
and danced as though they danced
for him… and all the generations.
We came together in a circle.
Slowly and reverently,
we teemed within the circle of life, dancing.
Among us an ambiance existed –
one words cannot
sufficiently describe.
The drums and singers stopped.
A man spoke.
I didn’t know the words.
Maybe he was praying.
I heard his heart and
the passion of his native tongue,
as I listened,
glad that he speaks his language,
though once some tried
to take it from his ancestors.
On a Saturday afternoon,
with our hearts as one,
within the circle of life,
we danced.
And We Danced
~~Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”
Lost Voice
Wave upon wave the herds wandered
across vast plains, endless prairies,
stretching out, reaching to the horizon.
The earth trembled beneath hooves;
the noise of their bellowing echoed,
thousands of voices blended as one.
Tromping through valleys, o’er hilltops,
en masse, moving slowly, methodically,
single bodies crowding, indistinguishable,
into the huddled legions of rolling fur.
Clouds of dust and swarms of flies
followed them into ancestral grounds.
They roamed freely, proud and unfettered,
preyed upon by the skillful Plains Indians,
who sought only a source of sustenance:
meals to appease their hungry bellies
and furs for warmth against winter freeze,
thankful hunters, taking only for need.
Then the intruders came, pleasure hunters,
torturing, slaughtering wave upon wave
for the mere joy of sport, the thrill kill.
Skinners, for pay, ripped away precious fur
leaving pile upon pile of bleached bones
and decaying flesh, the smell of death.
Putrid landfills, naked corpses rotting,
bones scattered across ancestral lands,
until they returned back to the dust.
Gone, the once great herds are no more,
the sound of the bellowing, the trembling
diminished and fragmented, a lost voice.
Now, but a few of these great buffalo remain
of what once formed the huddled legions,
a remnant, protected on reserves, fettered.
Hired mercenaries, ruthless marauders,
leaving bones of ancestors piled in heaps,
brought the herd to the edge of extinction.
Lost Voice
~~Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”
In the late 1800’s, mercenaries were hired to kill off the buffalo in an attempt to starve out the Plains Indians.
Children’s Eyes
The breath of morning’s gentle breeze
aflutter, lingered, whispering
amid the leaves of linden trees.
The timid light of dawn awoke
where mating doves of mourning cooed.
The genesis awakening spoke,
alluring, lodged in solitude.
Along the banks of splashing streams,
he heard the voice of ancients sing,
reminding him – preserve the dreams.
As side to side his body swayed;
in native words of old he prayed.
He saw his people’s children’s eyes
and raised his hands toward the skies.
Children’s Eyes
~~a Saraband Sonnet
Larry Powers
“kansaspoet”
