Personal Picks
Works by others, chosen by White Sparrow. 

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The Sunset
The sunset that I watched tonight,
Gave to me such sheer delight.
I watched the sun slip out of sight,
With dazzling rays of gold so bright.
It never fails to make my day,
Happier in its peaceful way.

-Author, Willda Carbert (Copyright - July 22, 2004)

In memory of Tushanka Witco (1849-1877), who was called by the Whites: “Crazy Horse”…

They did not get your heart, buried ‘neath stark moon,
By desolated stoic followers in some nameless place.
The Wolf and the Eagle remember their brother,
Spring born so long ago,
To bright sunlit promise of blue sky;
Green grass and dark-haired laughing,
Denied at last and destroyed by White ambition,
Whose blue tide swept across the land unstoppable!

Brief elation.
Victory at Little Bighorn,
Numbing horror at Sand Creek
And Wounded Knee.
If your home is where the heart is,
Does your spirit still linger in that October Country
Before the long winter of your people,
Mourning yet what might have been?

Undaunted, unconquered, they took your body
And denied your name,
Corrupting here.
Yet, your heart and soul,
Horse-Who-Couldn’t-Be-Tamed, remain,
And the land is your tombstone.
They took it all, everything,
But they did not get your heart.

(When I wrote this poem, the spirit of Grey Wolf emerged from within and I could not speak for three days. He knew Crazy Horse, and Sitting Bull, and many others, and mourns them still.)

Author - Lone Grey Wolf

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It Couldn't be Done 

Somebody said it couldn’t be done,
But he with a chuckle replied
That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one
Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried!

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face, if he worried he hid it.
He started to sing and he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed:  “Oh, you’ll never do that;
At least no one has ever done it”;
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing and he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you!

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it,
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

Author - Edgar Guest, the people's poet.

TOUCH OF THE MASTER’S HAND
(By Myra Brooks Welch)

T’was battered and scarred, and the auctioneer thought it scarcely worth his while to waste much time on the old violin, but held it up with a smile.  “What am I bidden good folks,” he cried, “Who’ll start the bidding for me?”  “A dollar, a dollar; then “Two!  Only, two?  Two dollars! Who’ll make it three?  Three dollars once, three dollars twice; going for three” but no, from the room, far back, a gray-haired man came forward and picked up the bow.  Then wiping the loose strings he played a melody pure and sweet as a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer, with a voice that was quiet and low, said; “What am I bid for the old violin?”  And he held it up with the bow.  “A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?  Two thousand!  And who’ll make it three?”  “Three thousand once, twice, and going and gone,” said he.  The people cheered, but some of them cried, “we do not quite understand what changed its worth.”  Swift came the reply, “the touch of the master’s hand”.

And many a man with life out of tune, and battered and scarred with sin, is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd, much like the old violin.  A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine, a game and he travels on.  He is “going” once, and “going” twice and the foolish never can quite understand the worth of a soul and the change that is wrought by the touch of the Master’s hand.

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Do Not Stand And Weep 

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there I do not sleep
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sunlight on ripen grain
I am the gentle autumn rain
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight
I am the soft stars that shine at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I did not die

Author - Mary Frye

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THE WRECK ON HIGHWAY 109
by Ruth Gillis

A drunk man in an Oldsmobile
they said had run the light
that caused the six-car pileup
on 109 that night.
When broken bodies lay about
and blood was everywhere,
the sirens screamed out elegies,
for death was in the air.

A mother, trapped inside her car,
was heard above the noise;
her plaintive plea near split the air:
“Oh, God, please spare my boys!”
She fought to loose her pinioned hands;
she struggled to get free,
but mangled metal held her fast
in grim captivity.

Her frightened eyes then focused on
where the back seat once had been,
but all she saw was broken glass
and two children’s seats crushed in.
Her twins were nowhere to be seen;
she did not hear them cry,
and then she prayed, they’d been thrown free,
“Oh, God, don’t let the die!”

Then firemen came and cut her loose,
but when they searched the back,
they found therein no little boys,
but the seat belts were intact.
They thought the woman had gone mad
and was traveling alone,
but when they turned to question her,
they discovered she was gone.

Policemen saw her running wild
and screaming above the noise
in beseeching supplication,
“Please help me find my boys!
They’re four years old and wear blue shirts,
their jeans are blue to match.”
One cop spoke up, “They’re in my car,
and they don’t have a scratch.”

They said their daddy put them there
and gave them each a cone,
then told them both to wait for Mom,
to come and take them home.
I’ve searched the area high and low,
but I can’t find their dad.
He must have fled the scene, I guess,
and that is very bad.”

The mother hugged the twins and said,
While wiping at a tear,
“He could not flee the scene, you see,
for he’s been dead a year.”
The cop just looked confused and asked,
“Now, how can that be true?”
The boys said, “Mommy, Daddy came
and left a kiss for you.

He told us not to worry
and that you would be all right,
and then he put us in this car with
The pretty, flashing light.
We wanted him to stay with us,
because we miss him so,
but Mommy, he just hugged, us tight
and said he had to go.

He said, someday we’d understand
and told us not to fuss,
and he said to tell you, Mommy,
he’s watching over us.”
The mother knew without a doubt
that what they spoke was true,
for she recalled their dad’s last words,
“I will watch over you.”

The firemen’s notes could not explain
the twisted, mangled car,
and how the three of them escaped
without a single scar.
But on the cop’s report was scribed,
in print so very fine,
an angel walked the beat tonight
on Highway 109. 

Author,
Ruth Gillis

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The above poem is being used with the Author’s permission, June 26, 2004.  “The Wreck On Highway 109” received a First Place Award in the April 1999 issue of Poet’s Review.  

“The Wreck On Highway 109” – Is copyright protected by Ruth Gillis  - see Ruth’s House of Poetry for further details about this author and her poetry.

Dear White Sparrow readers!
It is with strong conviction that I encourage you to always use an author’s name when at all possible and in the ‘exact’ wording as originally written and intended.  The credit of an author and their work has earned this ‘legal’ privilege!  It is paramount, that one does not take it upon oneself to alter their work or their name in anyway.   When possible, one should make every effort to seek the author’s permission to use their work for any purpose. 

It has been my great honour to correspond directly with Ruth Gillis, and to give her the credit she deserves.  She has most graciously claimed credit for her original poem above.  I am pleased that she has also honoured White Sparrow and her readers by asking to be linked to White Sparrow Wigwam. 

Find the link to Ruth Gillis by visiting Wigwam H!
Blessings, White Sparrow       

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