|
Wigwam G
Personal Picks
Works
by others, chosen by White Sparrow.
Page
1 Page 2
Page 3
<<<<
This Is Sparrow’s Song >>>>
Stumbling
up the fire strewn paths of hell the woman came.
And now she was so near the top, she’d almost won the
game.
For years she had endured mixed feelings, torment,
fright and rage.
She felt she was an empty shell, a yard bird in it’s
cage.
Through
all of these emotions strength and courage did abound.
And love would see that both her feet we’re firmly on
the ground.
So now that she is at the top and looking at the sky.
She spreads her wings and catches wind,
Sparrow knows that she can fly.
Author:
Cliff - ‘Whirlwind Dancer’
(This
poem was written for ‘Weeping Sparrow’ by her
brother
Cliff
- ‘Whirlwind Dancer’ - who has now crossed over to
the other
side.)
My
sincerest thanks to ‘Weeping Sparrow’ for granting
her permission to use this very personal poem here for
others to
share.
>>>>
Sparrows <<<<
On
a day when I was feeling real low
a family of sparrows helped cheer me.
At the parking lot of a K-Mart store
I watched as they flew around near me.
Most
people think they’re a nuisance.
I admit they weren’t made for show.
But, I think of them as any other bird.
They’re one of God’s creatures you know.
The
little ones were still peeping like babes
flittering close to the ground.
Then, the mother flew over to them
with a piece of bread she had found.
I
sat in my car and watched for awhile
as they shared their little meal.
I worried about them among all the cars
as they hopped around near the wheels.
I
left them to God, He cares for each one.
They’re mentioned by name in his book.
And headed for home with my purchases made
giving them one long, final look.
Copyright
- Tahoegirl - July 1989
(Thank you T. and "Welcome" to my Wigwam
Family.)
<<<< GRANDMA’S HANDS >>>>
Grandma, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench.
She didn’t move, just sat with her head down
staring at her hands.
When I sat down beside her, she didn’t
acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I wondered
if she was okay. Finally,
not really wanting to disturb her, but wanting to check
on her at the same time, I asked her if she was okay.
She raised her head and looked at me and smiled.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you for asking,” she
said in a clear strong voice.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you, grandma, but you were just sitting here
staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were
okay,” I explained to her.
“Have you ever looked at your hands,” she asked?
“I mean really looked at your hands!”
I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them.
I turned them over, palms up and then palms down.
No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands
as I tried to figure out the point she was making.
Grandma smiled and related this story:
“Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have
served you well throughout your years.
These hands, though wrinkled, shriveled and weak
have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out
and grab and embrace life.
They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler
I crashed upon the floor.
They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back.
As a child my mother taught me to fold them in
prayer. They
tied my shoes and pulled on my boots.
They held my husband and wiped my tears when he
went off to the war.”
“They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.
They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold
my newborn son. Decorated
with my wedding band, they showed the world that I was
married and loved by someone special.
They wrote my letters to him and trembled and
shook when I buried my parents and spouse.”
“They have held my children and grandchildren, consoled neighbors, and
shook in fists of anger when I didn’t understand.”
“They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the
rest of my body. They
have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and
raw. And to
this day when not much of anything else of me works real
well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again
continue to fold in prayer. These
hands are the marks of where I’ve been and the
ruggedness of life.”
“But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and
take when he leads me home.
And with my hands He will lift me to His side and
there I will use these hands to touch the face of
Christ.”
I will never look at my hands the same again.
But I remember God reached out and took my
grandma’s hands and led her home.
When my hands are hurt or sore, or when I stroke the face of my children
and husband, I think of grandma.
I know she has been stroked and caressed and held
by the hands of God.
I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel
His hands upon my face.
(Author Unknown - should anyone discover this author’s name, I would
like to give it the recognition it deserves.)
(The
accompanying photo supplied with this reading is that of
my husband’s Cherokee Grandmother who now resides with
the Great Spirit. - Blessings White Sparrow.)
Three Pretty Angels
"Trish, Luanne & Sweet Shari"
If I should die tomorrow,
There would be but one regret—
That I might have caused you sorrow,
And I wouldn’t on a bet.
For it means so much to see your smiles,
And would hurt so much to watch you cry.
Gals like you make life worthwhile,
So fond of you - am I!
Please never change the way you are
All angels here on earth.
You’ll always be my Guiding Star,
No gold could match your worth.
Copyright - Feb. 14, 2006
Author - ‘Montana’
(Special thanks to you Montana, for allowing me to use
your poetry at White Sparrow Wigwam - White Sparrow).
Overheard in an Orchard
Said the
Robin to the Sparrow,
“I should really like to know
Why these anxious human beings
Rush about and worry so.”
Said
the Sparrow to the Robin,
“Friend, I think that it might be
That they have no heavenly Father
Such as cares for you and me.”
Author
- Elizabeth Cheney (Lines
to Live By)
Grateful in New Mexico
This poem is my way of saying thank you
to the two men who were on top of Nine Mile Hill in
Albuquerque
NM
on
8-17-05. They were waiting, as I was waiting. Not in the best of
circumstances. Hearing their soft-spoken song carried on
the wind. They gave me strength, hope for the future, that
the past won't be forgotten.
On
top of a hill, exposed to the world,
to my ears came a sound.
The feeling it aroused very profound.
I strained to hear more clearly, the song sung by two men.
As I waited late at night for my very best friend.
My heart started beating an imaginary drum.
Keeping beat, as the two men sung.
Wondering, just who were these two men of song.
Wishing to THE PEOPLE I did belong.
Time stood still on top of a hill.
Wondering if any of it was real.
Suddenly, unexpectedly I had a vision.
What I might be like living with such tradition.
Had I been born to THE PEOPLE THE TRIBE.
Perhaps life would have more meaning than just to survive.
Had I been held by such an embrace.
Would I be here now waiting at such a place.
I wanted to speak to thank the men.
Not wanting to interrupt as they began to sing again.
The wind brought their words to my ears.
almost, in answer to my unspoken fears.
To belong to THE PEOPLE is to be truly loved.
By THE PEOPLE here and above.
This is my cry to THE PEOPLE if I may.
Wishing I was of you not knowing how to pray.
To belong to THE PEOPLE the old ways and traditions.
If it were possible would be my soul ambition.
For the two men frozen in time.
For you I have penned this very simple rhyme.
Thank you for the 'moment' I felt a part of you.
Feeling a part of anything is something I rarely do.
I should have spoken, I could not intrude.
Not wanting to offend with this, my gratitude.
Copyright, Christina
Thacker
8-17-2005
>>>>>>>>>>>>
The Frozen
Logger
The Klondike Gold Rush
days spawned many a tale of exaggerated heroism and
daring. The Frozen
Logger, believed to have come from that era, could be
based on a true incident. But the kernel of truth, if any,
is lost in the humour and wild hyperbole of the lyrics.
I do hope one of its eleven verses brings you a
smile!
"As I came in one
evening,
Within a small café,
A forty year old waitress
To me these words did say.
I see that you are a
logger,
And not just a common bum.
For nobody but a logger
Stirs coffee with his thumb.
My lover was a logger.
There’s none like him today –
If you poured whiskey on it,
He would eat a bale of hay.
He never shaved his
whiskers
From off his horny hide.
He just drove them in with a hammer,
And bit them off inside.
My lover came to see
me,
It was on a freezing day.
He held me in a fond embrace,
Which broke three vertebrae.
He kissed me when we
parted,
So hard that it broke my jaw.
I could not speak to tell him
He’d forgot his mackinaw.
I saw my logger lover
Go sauntering through the snow,
Going gaily homeward,
At forty-eight below.
The weather, it tried
to freeze him.
It tried its level best.
At one hundred degrees below zero,
He buttoned up his vest.
Well, it froze clear
down to China
And it froze to the stars above.
At one thousand degrees below zero,
It froze my logger love.
They tried in vain to
thaw him,
But would you believe it – Sirs?
They made him into axe-blades
To chop the Douglas Firs!
And so I lost my
lover,
And to this café I come.
And here I’ll wait till someone
Stirs his coffee with his thumb."
Author – Unknown
>>>>>>>>>>>>
Why Women
Cry (Watch
their eyes)….
A little boy asked his
mother, “Why are you crying?” “Because I’m a
woman,” she told him.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
His mom just hugged him and said, “And you never
will.”
Later the little boy
asked his father, “Why does mother seem to cry for no
reason?” “All
women cry for no reason,” was all his dad could say.
The little boy grew up
and became a man, still wondering why women cry.
Finally, he put in a call to God.
When God got on the phone he asked God, “Why do
women cry so easily?”
God said:
“When I made the woman she had to be special.
I made her shoulders strong enough to carry the
weight of the world, yet gentle enough to give comfort.
I gave her an inner strength to endure childbirth
and the rejection that many times comes from her children.
I gave her a hardness that allows her to keep going
when everyone else gives up, and take care of her family
through sickness and fatigue without complaining.
I gave her the sensitivity to love her children
under any and all circumstances, even when her child has
hurt her very badly.
I gave her strength to carry her husband through
his faults and fashioned her from his rib to protect his
heart. I gave
her wisdom to know that a good husband never hurts his
wife, but sometimes tests her strengths and her resolve to
stand beside him unfalteringly.
And finally, I gave her a tear to shed.
This is hers exclusively to use whenever it is
needed.”
“You see my son,”
said God, “the beauty of a woman is not in the clothes
she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she
combs her hair.” “The
beauty of a woman must be seen in her eyes, because that
is the doorway to her heart- the place where love
resides.”
-Unknown Author- (but
extremely wise)!
(There is a very
beautiful passage in the Kabalah that reads, “God counts
the tears of a woman”.
Originally, I was going to explain this passage
here, but in hindsight, I think I already have).
-White Sparrow
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The
Interview With God
I dreamed I had an
interview with God.
“So you would like to interview me?”
God asked.
“If you have the time,” I said.
God smiled, “My time is eternity.”
“What questions do you have in mind for me?”
“What surprises you most about humankind?”
God answered….
“That they get bored with childhood, they rush to grow
up, and the long to be children again.”
“That they lose
their health to make money and then lose their money to
restore their health.”
“That by thinking
anxiously about the future, they forget the present, such
that they live in neither the present nor the future.”
“That they live as
if they will never die, and die as though they had never
lived.”
God’s hand took mine
and we were silent for a while.
And then I asked….
“As a parent, what are some of the life’s lessons you
want your children to learn?”
To learn they cannot
make anyone love them. All they can do is let themselves
be loved.”
“To learn that it is
not good to compare themselves to others.”
“To learn to forgive
by practicing forgiveness.”
“To learn that it
only takes a few seconds to open profound wounds in those
they love, and it can take many years to heal them.”
“To learn that a
rich person is not one who has the most, but is one who
needs the least.”
“To learn that there
are people who love them dearly, but simply have not yet
learned how to express or show their feelings.”
“To learn that two
people can look at the same thing and see it
differently.”
“To learn that it is
not enough that they forgive one another, but they must
also forgive themselves.”
“Thank you for your
time,” I said humbly.
“Is there anything
else you would like you children to know?”
God smiled and said,
“Just know that I am here, always.”
-Author Unknown, but
recognized still-
(To Cecile Dott -
Special thanks for introducing me to these beautiful and
profoundly inspiring words) -White
Sparrow
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The
Flight of the Eagle
I
spread my wings and start my flight,
Here in my native land,
When dawn’s soft beauty kills the night,
Assisted by God’s hand.
The
morning speaks with gentle grace,
With Earth’s own mystic powers.
I soar with joy from place to place
Through this great land of ours!
I
see canyons wide and deep—
Wonderment's so fair.
I see mountains high and steep
Reaching through the air.
I
see valleys open wide
And forest full and lush,
Majestic roaming country side
And jungles green and plush!
I
see deserts, hills and plains,
Rivers, lakes and streams!
I see fields of golden grains
And small towns built from dreams.
I
see the farmer work and pray
When springtime gives new birth.
I see the joys of harvest day—
Sweet gifts from Mother Earth.
I
see these magic gifts from God,
When through the skies I soar,
While watching mankind’s fateful trod—
So now I must implore:
Please
don’t tarnish, harm or burn
This precious land I love,
For I’ll be watching with concern
While flying high above.
Author
– Gary L. Edwards
Copyright protected. Used here with
author’s permission.
(Please
visit Wigwam C to read and learn more about my Featured
Guest, Gary L. Edwards).
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Like Mother, Like Son
Do you know that your soul is of my soul such a part,
That you seem to be fibre and core of my heart?
None other can pain me as you, dear, can do,
None other can please me or praise me as you.
Remember the world will be quick with it's blame
If shadow or strain ever darken your name.
"Like mother, like son" is a saying so true
The world will judge largely the "mother" by you.
Be yours then the task, if task it shall be,
To force the proud world to do homage to me.
Be sure it will say, when its verdict you've won,
"She reaped as she sowed. Lo! this is her son."
Author - Margaret Johnston Grafflin
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Somebody’s Mother
The
woman was old, and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of the winter’s day.
The street was wet with the recent snow,
And the woman’s feet were aged and slow.
She
stood at the crossing and waited long
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.
Down
the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of “school let out,”
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past
the woman so old and gray,
Hastened the children on their way,
Nor offered a helping hand to her,
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses’ feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.
At
last came one of the merry troop,
The gayest laddie of all the group;
He paused beside her and whispered low,
“I’ll help you across if you wish to go.”
Her
aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided her trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then
back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
“She’s somebody’s mother, boys, you know,
For all, she’s aged and poor and slow;
“And
I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,
If ever she’s poor, and old, and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away.”
And
“somebody’s mother” bowed low her head,
In her home that night, and the prayer she said,
Was, “God be kind to the noble boy,
Who is somebody’s son and pride and joy.”
Unknown
Author – (Perhaps somebody’s mother or somebody’s
son!)
Page
1 Page 2
Page 3
|
