***VALOROUS***
(copyright -
Feb. 4, 2008
)
Valorous
is he who survives Nam,
Constantly battling despair of man.
The mind repeating, cycles of pain,
Remembering trepidation again.
A
hostage forever to some degree,
Searching for safety he cannot see.
Beguiled by life, any signs of hope,
Left with new demons, trying to cope.
Imprisoned
is he, in the brain itself,
Tortured by memories the past cannot shelf.
So, where does he turn to sanction relief,
Inside his heart - this is my belief.
Ship
one’s pain to a higher power,
What can it hurt in the darkest hour.
Follow the fog 'til it leads to the light,
Then, pray like a soldier for rescue each night.
(I
personally dedicate this poem to Gary Jacobson, and
everyone and anyone who must bear the scars of war.)
Author & Blessings - White Sparrow
<<< GRANDMA’S
FAITH >>>
(copyright
-
January 31, 2008
)
She came to me on a wing and a prayer,
I had no idea she was even there.
Her patience is long, as you will see,
Yet, decide for yourself, how this can be.
She’ll make you laugh, she’ll make you cry,
She delivers life, she can answer why!
Her hands create, pictures you’ll treasure,
She gives her all, from a heart of pleasure.
Her faith is strong, there is no doubt,
Savor your time, when you seek her out.
Beautifully done, with rainbows for words,
But it’s all in vain, if no one has heard.
Grandma’s Faith can be found on the web.
A wonderful place, with a common thread.
You’ll leave her place with a happy heart,
Now look below, for the door to start.
Author - White Sparrow
(It is my true pleasure to welcome Grandma
Faith’s Website and introduce her to you.
Please find her link, by visiting WIGWAM - H.
Grandma Faith, I am honoured to have you as part
of my Wigwam Family - Sincerely, White Sparrow.)
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
'TWAS
THE NIGHT
BEFORE CHRISTMAS
(A Native American Version)
Copyright
- December 20, 2004
Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the tipi
Not a creature was stirring
The whole family was sleepy;
The rabbit-skins were all hung
By the smoke-flap with care,
In hope brave, red, Santa
Would track his way there;
The children were nestled
All snug in bed rolls,
While visions of presents
Spilled from their souls;
And Mama under blanket,
And I out of chat,
Had just settled down
For a long winter’s nap,
When down on the shore line
Came a crack and a clatter,
I asked my friend beaver
To scout out the matter.
Away to the noises
I flew like a flash,
And there I discovered
As I hid by an ash.
The Grandmother Moon
On the new fallen snow
Lit up Mother Earth,
Like you’ll never know,
When what to my wondering
Eyes should appear,
But a buck-skinned big gent,
And his eight white-tailed deer.
The big burley rider
Was lively and quick,
I knew in a moment
It must be ‘Red’ Nick.
More rapid than Eagles
His courses they came,
And he whistled and shouted
And called them by name;
Now Zuni! Ojibwa!
Cherokee! Arapaho!
On Hopi! Chickasaw!
On Sioux! Navajo!
To the top of the knoll!
To the top of the hill!
Now dash away! dash away!
With Crazy Horse skill!
As dry leaves that before
The great thunderbird fly,
When they meet with an obstacle,
Mount to the sky.
So, to the top of the hill
The coursers they flew,
With a great skin of toys,
And ‘Ole-Red-Nick’ too.
And then in a twinkling,
I heard an owl hoot.
Then, prancing and pawing
And a big man in boot.
As I crawled in the tipi,
And was turning around,
In bounced ‘Big Red’,
With barely a sound.
He was dressed all in fur,
For his head to his foot,
Buckskin and laces
And snow when he shook;
A bundle of toys
He had flung on his back,
He resembled an otter
As he played with his pack.
His eyes how they twinkled!
His dimples how merry!
His high-cheeks were like roses,
His nose like a cherry!
His arrow-like mouth
Was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin
Was as white as the snow;
A strange little peace pipe
He held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled
His head like a chief;
He had a kind face
And a round little belly,
That danced when he laughed
Like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump,
A right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him,
In spite of myself;
A wink of his eye
And a braid back of his head,
Soon gave me to know
I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word,
But went straight to his work,
Filling up skins;
Then, turned with a jerk,
And laying a feather
Aside of his nose,
And giving a grin,
Up the smoke-flap he rose;
With a howl from a wolf,
To his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew
Like the down of a thistle.
Then, the last thing I heard,
As I watched him take flight,
Was "Christmas Spirit to all
And to all, a goodnight."
Author - White Sparrow
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
‘LORD
SPARROW’
While
in his garden, obsession grew
Five books later - how time has flew
In forty-seven, passion ran
Sixty-years birding - quite a span
After
the war, in forty-eight
He found the time, to concentrate
His soul soared, his purpose tethered -
A life long friend, small and feathered
Around
the world, he’s paid his dues
Exploring nature, through and through
From underground, to up above
Always doing, just what he loves
He
gives his time, and well worth spent
Concerned about, environment
He’s moved to always, watch and see
Standing still, or on bended knee
Twenty-six
tribes, of precious wings
Medicine Man, to two-legged things
None of this, he does for glory
Interest is, his only story
If
there’s a way, to have this done
I think his Queen, should dub this one
Lasting as, a Christmas Carol
Naming this man, Her ‘Lord Sparrow’
(A
personal dedication to world expert on sparrows - Mr.
J. Denis Summers-Smith!)
Author - White Sparrow
Copyright - February 1, 2007
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
GENTLE
WARRIOR
Gentle
Warrior, lay me down.
Prepare a place upon the ground.
Wrap me in your blanket tight,
Hold all I am ‘til morning light.
Gentle
Warrior, wake with me,
Let’s walk together happily.
Find our path is sunlight lit.
May others smile, as we share it.
Breathe
so deep your chest fills up,
With strength so strong, if clouds erupt
No Thunderbird can bring us down,
If storms blow close to love, we’ve found.
Gentle
Warrior, hear me now,
I whisper this, my solemn vow.
Lend your heart so you may hear,
All that you are, I see so clear.
There’ll
be no other on Mother Earth,
That draws me closer to love’s hearth.
I am yours and you are mine,
Grandfathers bless our special time.
Gentle
Warrior, you captured me,
So powerful, it set me free.
With welcome touch, between our hands,
Sunset to rise, lay me down again.
(In
dedication to my husband - Tom Goldenbear)
Author - White Sparrow
>>>>The
‘Invisible’ Indian<<<<
My ancestors are my lifelines,
But I’ve never touched their face.
Yet, I’ll never let them be buried,
Forgotten in a world of haste.
At night they circle around me.
They drum softly in my dream.
Play me a flute, or just whisper
“You’ll go farther than you’ve been.”
I’m the ‘invisible’ Indian,
Never let it go unsaid
“That just because my skin is white,
That inside my heart’s not red!”
My spirit has walked the trail of
tears,
Across Canada
and the U.S.A.
Turtle
Island
is home to me,
Still, I own no land today.
The Great Spirit has chosen
strangely,
This tipi of life I live in,
And it’s buffalo faith that rocks me
When I’m alone in a world of sin.
My ancestors are my family,
What I’ve missed, they’ve spared me from,
Heartache remains our history,
With salvation yet to come!
(Thank you, ancestors, for all
you’ve taught me)….
-White Sparrow-
>>>BIG
BLOOD – LITTLE BLOOD<<<
A new disease has hit our land,
From coast to coast it will expand.
A mathematical cancer about to spread,
Touches the heart, but kills the head.
Who is Indian?
The question today!
How much will we spend on our own DNA?
Our ancestors never sat down in a circle,
Paying to know – which turtle is turtle?
Percentage of blood is not what
should count!
It’s how you use it that shows the amount.
The answer isn’t in a tube, but the heart.
If we drain out our spirit, it all falls apart.
Big blood, little blood, what do
you care?
Too light, too dark, how cruel and unfair.
Indian is a way, a spirit, and a life….
An elder, a child, a god given right!
Honour our culture, our stories,
and our songs.
Celebrate, remember, or they will be gone.
Hold on to our history, but change and grow.
Otherwise, you’re dead, and you didn’t know.
Memorize our commandments,
Then put them to use.
Grandfathers, please help us,
To heal this abuse!
Copyright – July 31st,
2005
White Sparrow
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
WASTED IN THE
WEST
(Copyright – March 9th, 2005)
It was in a cold winter of 2005
When four R.C.M.P. were ripped from their lives.
When I took their initials and moved them around,
I’ll share with you here, what I have found.
There was Anthony Gordon and Leo
Johnston.
There was Brock Myrol and Peter Schiemann.
Ambushed by Roszko, gone without warning,
Passing from earth, leaving families with mourning.
Now I will show you what came to
be….
I’ll spell out these words for the whole world to see.
All Lived
Brave
Purpose,
God
Said
Join
Me,
Hold tight to their memories, while I grant them glory!
Author
– White Sparrow
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Dreamer's Rock
My knees are drawn up to my chest.
My arms secure them tight.
There's solitude in nature's dusk,
While day turns into night.
Long grasses bend in rustling song.
Warm breezes blow close by.
Painted sunset, spills my heart,
Above me, Father Sky!
My lungs and nose inhale the air.
My soul is glory bound.
Great Spirit, look at all you've done,
I pray you hear this sound.
Of loons, upon the evening lake,
Calling low across the water.
Canoe of two, paddle and stroke,
In rhythm of sons and daughter.
Camp will soon be setting up
For stories and for fire!
Elders, children, everyone
They'll gather in desire.
To hear again of days once spent,
Back many winters ago.
When man and wolf and buffalo
Survived the harshest snow.
Tonight, I think I'll stay right here,
Basking in beauty and thought.
Perch myself, like the eagle,
While sitting on Dreamer's Rock.
Author - White Sparrow
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