Songs My Father Sang
Raindrops tapping at my window
tap out songs taught by my father.
Myths from the pulpit,
legends on my Grandfather's knee,
stories told by my Grandmother,
and religions out of the mists
of genetic memory.
Stories of mist covered valleys
desperately trying to be
what can never be.
Primeval memories of ancient dust
raising clouds
around once running streams
where campfires warmed
cold hands, hearts and feet,
and halos of mist
light the breaking day
in oak groves dreaming
of ancient stands of redwoods.
Of Manitou, Sachems, Sagamores, and Chiefs
offering calumets and peace pipes
to invaders of wickiups armed
with the long arms of despair
and tongues unfamiliar
with destiny or truth.
Of miles of waving grass
bent flat by marauding settlers
on horseback, foot, and by wagons
taking for granted what wasn't theirs
to rape and pillage and render
inhospitable and uninhabitable.
Spoiling waterways, rivers, streams, ponds and lakes
for generations of pampered governments
to take from one another,
marching endlessly to ocean, sea, bay and inlet
whose destiny will be the same.
Prayer sticks and Spirit Poles
lay discarded and broken
scattered across a landscape
whose bright and shining moment
lives in the unfulfilled dreams
of generations yet to be.
As smokestacks turn blue skies into black eddies
stagnating fresh air with industrial waste,
and drop acid rain where wildflowers
and ancients forests once flourished.
And the tears of mankind wash plains
marred by erosion.
Where once proud people gave thanks
with every step they took,
knowing that what is stolen from the earth
can never be returned.
Keith Davies
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