The Last Warrier
By W. J. Bruce

High on bleak, stony rag,
Unmoving, he sits astride
His ragged coated pony.
Only telltale frozen breaths,
Separate them from
The still, winter black boles
Of ancient leafless trees.
The pony, blown and lame,
Stands with lowered head,
Ears flattened to the sound
Of a distant wolf pack.
The man on his back,
All weapons lost,
Ignores the trickling blood
From savage wounds,
Mingling his war paint.
Eyes burning fiercely
He strains to find
The sign he seeks:
Behind, the sound of enemy
Draws ever closer.
At last, faith rewarded,
He sees far below
In the deep valley,
Arriving at the edge
Of the fast flowing river,
The great she bear
With two gamboling cubs:
To fish the racing salmon,
Drawn relentlessly toward
Their age-old spawning ground.
Silently, the wounded brave
Offers his final prayer
To the eternal clan bear;
Totem and guardian
Of his battle slain tribe.
The enemy, exultant,
Are almost upon him,
Yet he looks not behind:
He sees only the Great Spirit,
Surrounding him kindly
In loving, firm embrace.
While the enemy closes in,
He straightens himself;
His voice rings loud and clear,
Echoing across the land
To the distant cloudless sky.
One last defiant war cry
As he spurs on his pony,
And leaps...
Into the world of his ancestors.

The Trail of Tears
By Brian Childers ©1998

I look to the long road behind
My heart is heavy with my people’s sorrow
Tears of grief I weep - for all that we have lost
As we march ever farther from the land of our birth
On the Trail of Tears

Mile after mile and day after day
Our people are fewer with each rising sun
Disease and starvation they take their terrible toll
And though we suffer still we march on�?BR>On the Trail of Tears

I watch my beloved weaken and fall
Upon the road like so many before�?BR>With tears in my eyes I hold my wife to my breast
And in my arms she breathes her last�?BR>On the Trail of Tears

Mile after mile and day after day
We march to a land promised us for all time
But I know that I can no longer go on
I know that is a land that I shall never see�?BR>On the Trail of Tears

As my body - it falls to embrace the earth
My spirit - it soars to greet the sky
With my dying breath am I finally set free
To begin the very long journey towards home
On the Trail of Tears

I Am He
By Robert Ellis

I am he
that cares too much
and allows this world to penetrate.
I am the man
that loves too deeply,
while others merely perpetrate.
Do you see this man
or the boy inside,
with emotions to great
and plentiful to hide?
They've shorn my hair
and crushed my pride.
Taken my land
and my wife from my side.
A man of honor,
whose spirit remains free
with love to give,
but finding none that need.
So take the hand
of a distant Crow child
and with the Spirit of my fathers,
the wolf will run wild.

Rainbow
By Red Unicorn (Barbara Mann) ©1997

Shimmering color arched against grey sky,
Painted by dancing light on air-borne mist.
Wide flung by a sacred hand...
The Hand that formed of dust nothingness
The solid Earth below.
Beauty and promise together blended,
Beauty ethereal, promise divine.
Given to grace the clouds and the rain,
Given to bless the world-weary heart...
Shimmers... fades... brightens...
To vanish in brilliance...
Shines through the dark in my soul.

THE NEVER ENDING TRAIL

The whites honor the "Heritage"
And the man who once lived there -

But, that leader of our Nation
Was cruel, unjust, unfair -

He ordered the removal
Of the Cherokee from their land

And forced them on a trek
That the Devil must have planned -

One thousand miles of misery -
Of pain and suffering -

Because greed of man
Could not even wait till spring -

We should bow our heads in shame
Even unto this day

About "The Trail Of Tears"
And those who died along the way.

It was October, eighteen thirty-eight
When seven thousand troops in blue

Began the story of the "Trail"
Which, so sadly, is so true -

Jackson ordered General Scott
To rout the Indian from their home -

The "Center Of The World" they loved -
The only one they'd known -

The Braves working in the fields
Arrested, placed in a stockade -

Women and children dragged from home
In the bluecoats shameful raid -

Some were prodded with bayonets
When, they were deemed to move too slow

To where the Sky was their blanket
And the cold Earth, their pillow -

In one home a Babe had died
Sometime in the night before -

And women mourning, planning burial
Were cruelly herded out the door -

In another, a frail Mother -
Papoose on back and two in tow

Was told she must leave her home
Was told that she must go -

She uttered a quiet prayer -
Told the old family dog good-bye -

Then, her broken heart gave out
And she sank slowly down to die -

Chief Junaluska witnessed this -
Tears streaming down his face -

Said if he could have known this
It would have never taken place -

For, at the battle of Horse Shoe
With five hundred Warriors, his best -

Helped Andrew Jackson win that battle
And lay thirty-three Braves to rest -

And the Chief drove his tomahawk
Through a Creek Warrior's head

Who was about to kill Jackson -
But whose life was saved, instead -

Chief John Ross knew this story
And once sent Junaluska to plead -

Thinking Jackson would listen to
This Chief who did that deed -

But, Jackson was cold, indifferent
To the one he owed his life to

Said, "The Cherokee's fate is sealed -
There's nothing, I can do."

Washington, D.C. had decreed
They must be moved Westward -

And all their pleas and protests
To this day still go unheard.

On November, the seventeenth
Old Man Winter reared his head -

And freezing cold, sleet and snow
Littered that trail with the dead

On one night, at least twenty-two
Were released from their torment

To join that Great Spirit in the Sky
Where all good souls are sent -

Many humane, heroic stories
Were written 'long the way -

A monument, for one of them -
Still stands until this day -

It seems one noble woman
It was Chief Ross' wife -

Gave her blanket to a sick child
And in so doing, gave her life -

She is buried in an unmarked grave -
Dug shallow near the "Trail" -

Just one more tragic ending
In this tragic, shameful tale -

Mother Nature showed no mercy
Till they reached the end of the line

When that fateful journey ended
On March twenty-sixth, eighteen thirty-nine.

Each mile of this infamous "Trail"
Marks the graves of four who died -

Four thousand poor souls in all
Marks the shame we try to hide -

You still can hear them crying
Along "The Trail Of Tears"

If you listen with your heart
And not with just your ears.

  

---

4 AM

Come run with me Through the shadows Cast by Grandmother Of the Round Silver Face. Through the berry vines Singing our chants To the full moon In the Silvery night. Chanting our joy To each other In sheer ecstasy. Taking joy from the Chilly night As the hairs on our backs Prickle from the cold And the steam from our breath Lights the air beyond our muzzles. Changing Woman, Shape-shifters. Running with the four-legged Brothers of One Heart. Into the night Into the mists. Singing because we must In sheer joy Of the secret we keep. Humans? Yes. Criaturas? Yes, again. Loosed from bonds Of creepy Civiliation. For a night. For an hour. For an eternity. Running with our relations On soft-padded paws On leaf-padded pathways. No one knows we're here but the silvery wolves We call Brothers.