October 18, 1998

Contents:

Feathers Upon The Sky ...by P0ETICMOON@aol.com
The Hunter ...submitted by jrp05@gnofn.org
Wildflowers ...by RHanley1@aol.com
The Story of the Pet Crow ...submitted by SumerWCree@aol.com
Visions of a Warrior ...by Nonnie777@aol.com
What is Beauty? ...by VSpen67816@aol.com

This poem is inspiration from a special friend who has taught me the things that my soul has longed to hear.

...by P0ETICMOON@aol.com

The gentle summer wind blows upon the wide sky~
  A lonely  feather drifts with its warm direction~
    Soaring lazily like a fluffy cloud up high~
	It flows endlessly like blood within~

There are many paths to this life we walk upon~
  Like the feather.. its Quill is the main path to a true soul~
    Its vane of lines that outstretch, are our wrongs~
	And its guidance, the wind, is our meaningful flow~

The four winds travel across the wide sky~
  flowing endlessly, freely~
    A single feather drifts lazily up high~
	drifting upon the guiding winds.. aimlessly.. like me.~

...submitted by jrp05@gnofn.org

This is a story of a one, who once was a man, but now is a one whose name we must not mention. I'll just call him the Hunter.

The Hunter was hungry. All his people were hungry. For in former times, and in some places still, people sometimes go hungry. The hunt may fail, the river may fail, and one and all must suffer.

But he was a Hunter. His belly ached, but even greater was the pain of his shame! Such a great Hunter, now tottered on withered limbs, wasted with hunger, no better than anyone else of his people.

Day after day he hunted, and came back empty handed. But one day out in the forest he smelled something delicious. Someone had killed, and the scent of the stew filled the air ...

He followed the scent, and stumbled into a tiny dark house in the deepest part of the forest. A Strange One, neither old nor young, man nor beast, dark nor fair, large nor small, stood at tending the fire.

"Please, give me some of that food!" begged the Hunter.

"You did not hunt this meat," said the Other.

"I did hunt it, I followed the scent of your cooking," said the Hunter.

"You must not eat this meat," said the Other.

"I must eat, or I will die!" said the Hunter.

"There are worse things than death," said the Other.

"Nothing is worse! Give me some food!" said the Hunter

"You must fight me for it," said the Other.

The Hunter thought fast. His limbs were withered, his hands were slow, from being hungry for so long. How could he fight this well-fed stranger? So instead he said, "I cannot fight a kinsman. And you cannot refuse a man who is your relation."

"Very well," said the Other. "You may have some of my food. It has been so long since I have had a guest for dinner. But be careful, my friend; leave some in the bottom of the bowl. Or else you shall become like me, and I shall be free to die."

Such nonsense the Other was talking! The Hunter barely listened, eating quickly, as the Other sang all his songs and told all his stories. All the Hunter knew was, the stew was delicious! He tipped the bowl, and sipped the last juices. At that moment the Other fell from his chair and shrank before the Hunter's eyes! His fine strong limbs withered to skin and bones, and the Other breathed his last. A few moments more, and the Other was nothing but dust!

This was all very strange, but the Hunter wasn't the sort of man to sit around and think about the meanings of things. He was still very hungry, and a big pot still sat on the fire. The Hunter sat that pot on his lap, and scooped tasty lumps with his great rough hands. Soon that big black pot was empty! But still the Hunter was hungry.

He strode into the forest, and saw a family of fat healthy beavers busy at work on the river. What wonderful luck! There had been no beavers in a long time! He lifted his club and made an end to seven of them. He carried them back to the home of the Other, now his home. He skinned them and ate them and -- to his surprise, he could eat all seven beavers! In the past one or two had been enough. But now he was strong, and Strength must be fed.

Meanwhile, in town, the people were crying. A Wild One, a man yet not a man, had come out of the forest and struck seven of their children over the head with his club, and carried them off into the forest! Now they smelled meat cooking, and dared not think what this may mean.

Seven strong men followed the Wild One's trail, and were sickened by what they saw. They lifted their clubs to kill the Wild One, yet somehow he slipped from among them and disappeared, like a shadow across the floor of that dark little house.

Over and over this happened. The Wild One lives out there still. He has a name, known to the people of that land beside the big Lake of the North. But it is not wise to speak that name after dark. I, too, know his name. For, when I travelled thru that country, beside the cold Lake, I met him and he invited me to his lodge! He told me his story and I told him mine. But I did not eat from his bowl, and so I live as a man among men, bound and free to tell you this tale. I do not speak the name of that one, for I do not know who will read these words, or at what time day or of night you will read this.

Now the people who live by the Lake warn each other, as I warn you who read this tale -- be careful, do not be greedy, or anything "too much", or the Wild One will have you for dinner! And he'll make you a tasty stew ...

-- Adapted from a Chippewa story

...by RHanley1@aol.com

Their laughter sent me running
  To spy behind a tree
    Dotted on the prairie below
	I saw them wild and free

Long hair, black as a raven
  Fine beads against their skin
    And I saw them just like wildflowers
	Dancing in the wind

Bright sunshine filled the valley
  The air was warm and sweet
    And drums were gently beating
	To the rhythm of their feet

I sensed the pride and spirit
  A love for all their kin
    And I saw them just like wildflowers
	Dancing in the wind

Great teepees stood in number
  Around the grassy plain
    Where painted ponies pranced and grazed
	large feathers in their manes

My eyes were filled with wonder
  Their hearts I longed to win
    And I saw them just like wildflowers
	Dancing in the wind

So pleasing were those wildflowers dancing in the wind

Marie Tremblay~Koldys
September 1998
c/o RHanley1@aol.com

...submitted by SumerWCree@aol.com

Once upon a time there came to a large village a plague of crows. So thick were they that the poor women were sorely tried keeping them out they got so numerous and were such a great nuisance that the Chief finally gave orders to his camp criers or heralds to go out among the different camps and announce the orders of their Chief, that war should be made upon the crows to extermination; that their nests were to be destroyed and all eggs broken. The war of extermination was to continue until not a crow remained, except the youngest found was to be brought to him alive.

For a week the war on the crows continued. Thousands of dead crows were brought in daily, and at the end of the week not a bird of that species could be seen in the neighborhood. Those that escaped the deadly arrow of the warriors, flew away, never to return to those parts again.

At the end of the war made upon the crows, there was brought to the Chief's tepee the youngest found. Indeed, so young was the bird that it was only the great medicine of the Chief that kept him alive until he could hop about and find his own food. The Chief spent most of his time in his lodge teaching the young crow to understand and talk the language of the tribe.

After the crow had mastered this, the Chief then taught him the languages of the neighboring tribes. When the crow had mastered these different languages the chief would send him on long journeys to ascertain the location of the camps of the different enemies.

When the crow would find a large Indian camp he would alight and hop about, pretending to be picking up scraps, but really keeping his ears open for anything he might hear. He would hang around all day, and at night when they would all gather in the large council tent (which always stood in the center of the village) to determine upon their next raid, and plan for a horse stealing trip, Mr. Crow was always nearby to hear all their plans discussed.

He would then fly away to his master (the Chief) and tell him all that he had learned. The Chief would then send a band of his warriors to lie in ambush for the raiding party, and, as the enemy would not suspect anything they would go blindly into the pitfall of death thus set for them.

Thus the crow was the scout of this chief, whose reputation as a Wakan (Holy man) soon reached all of the different tribes. The Chief's warriors would intercept, ambush and annihilate every war party headed for his camp. So, finally learning that they could not make war on this chief's people unbeknown to them, they gave up making war on this particular band.

When meat was running low in the camp this chief would send the crow out to look for buffalo. When he discovered a herd he would return and report to his master; then the chief would order out the hunters and they would return laden with meat. Thus the crow kept the camp all the time informed of everything that would be of benefit to them.

One day the crow disappeared, over which there was great grief among the tribe. A week had passed away, when Mr. Crow reappeared. There was great rejoicing upon his return, but the crow was downcast and would not speak, but sat with a drooping head perched at the top of the chief's tepee, and refused all food that was offered to him.

In vain did the chief try to get the crow to tell him the cause of his silence and seeming grief. The crow would not speak until the chief said: "Well, I will take a few of my warriors and go out and try to ascertain what has happened to cause you to act as you do."

Upon hearing this, the crow said: "Don't go. I dreaded to tell you what I know to be a fact, as I have heard it from some great medicine men. I was traveling over the mountains west of here, when I spied three old men sitting at the top of the highest peak. I very cautiously dropped down behind a rock and listened to their talk. I heard your name mentioned by one of them, then your brother's name was mentioned. Then the third, who was the oldest, said: 'In three days from today the lightning will kill those two brothers whom all the nations fear.'"

Upon hearing what the crow stated the tribe became grief stricken. On the morning of the third day the chief ordered a nice tepee placed upon the highest point, far enough away from the village, so that the peals of thunder would not alarm the babies of the camp.

A great feast was given, and after the feasting was over there came in six young maidens leading the war horses of the two brothers. The horses were painted and decorated as if for a charge on the enemy. One maiden walked ahead of the chief's horse bearing in her hands the bow and arrows of the great warrior.

Next came two maidens, one on either side of the prancing war steed, each holding a rein. Behind the chief's horse came the fourth maiden. Like the first, she bore in her hands the bow and arrows of the chief's brother.

Then the fifth and sixth maidens each holding a rein, walked on either side of the prancing horse of the chief's brother. They advanced and circled the large gathering and finally stopped directly in front of the two brothers, who immediately arose and taking their bows and arrows vaulted lightly upon their war steeds, and singing their death song, galloped off amid a great cry of grief from the people who loved them most dearly.

Heading straight for the tepee that had been placed upon the highest point, adjacent to the village, they soon arrived at their destination and, dismounting from their horses, turned, waved their hands to their band, and disappeared within the tepee. Scarcely had they entered the lodge when the rumblings of distant thunder could be heard. Nearer, and nearer, came the sound, until at last the storm overspread the locality in all its fury.

Flash upon flash of lightning burst forth from the heavens. Deafening peals of thunder followed each flash. Finally, one flash brighter than any of the others, one peal more deafening than those preceding it, and the storm had passed.

Sadly the warriors gathered together, mounted their horses and slowly rode to the tepee on the high point. Arriving there they looked inside the lodge and saw the two brothers lying cold and still in death, each holding the lariat of his favorite war horse. The horses also lay dead side by side in front of the tent. (From this came the custom of killing the favorite horse of a dead warrior at the burial of the owner).

As the Indians sadly left the hill to return home, they heard a noise at the top of the tepee, and looking up they saw the crow sitting on one of the splintered tepee poles. He was crying most pitifully, and as they rode off he flew up high in the air and his pitiful "caw" became fainter and fainter till at they heard it no more. And from that day, the story goes, no crow ever goes near the village of that band of Indians.

...by Nonnie777@aol.com

He rides a sleek black stallion 
  that prances as a dancer.
    I have seen him in visions
	for seventeen winters.

He haunts my mind wherever I may go,
  and in my thoughts we
    are together as one.
	I will find him one day
        underneath the Blazing Sun.

I find it hard to believe
  that he is just a Vision.
    I have finally come to realize
	that he is my life's mission.

Many prices have been brought
  to me for love, but I
    could not accept.
	My Vision of a Warrior is
	  from the Great Spirit above!

So, tell your fellow friends,
  the Creator will surely send,
    This Warrior of mine I call,
	"Rider of the Wind!"

Nonnie7777

What is beauty? Is it in the eye of the beholder or is it nature looking through our eyes at itself--marveling? Are some things beautiful and others not? Or is it our desire to grasp and hold which makes us blind towards some and pulled towards others?

Once I met a man of poverty. His shirt was torn and rumpled and unclean; his hair a mess and shoes run over at the heel. They looked at him and laughed. And he laughed too, knowing in his soul their poverty but not judging. I gave him what I had and followed as he led the way to food, to drink. And in the sounds of his refreshment and renewal was my thanks.

As we walked no word was spoken, no tale told. But when he sat beneath the tree a bird lit on his shoulder, then two, and three. I looked with eyes fixed in wonder that he so scorned by people was loved by common sparrows. For on whom do frightened birds alight?

There, amidst the splendor of the grass sat one of beauty, beauty clothed in rags and unkept hair with earth for bed and sun for heat. And no one cared or saw that he was there, that he was love, that he was beauty.

So what is beauty then?

by VSpen67816