| SPRIT WINGS As I spread my wings to reach for the sky, To soar above the mountains so high. The winds of nature are my home, How I long to see the buffalo roam. Long past are the days, When the indian listened to what I had to say. Through the trees the spirits they would hear, For the old way I now shed many a tear. They ruined the stream to make a dam, This they said was for modern man. Where so many fish layed in the gravel bed, now there's nothing there they are all dead. For that wich man calls progress, He dosen't care what he destroys to cross. As I see the indian with tears in his eyes, He no longer hears when I ask him why. The gifts of the spirits they no longer share, They don't even act like they seem to care. This is my voice, that of the ancient old, Why has man for progress become so cold? THE LOST GIFT As I walk through the forest, Beside the stream I stop to rest. I see the bear cubs at play, I feel at peace this day. I see the eagle and hear it's cry, I can see for miles in a clear blus sky. I hear the spirits talking to me, As the winds caress the trees. I hear my ancestors voices, As they tell me of lifes choices. My eyes are clear, As I see a deer so near My heart is pure this day, The grandfathers are here to stay. My heart sings the songs of the past, And I know this peace will last. Then I awake in my room, And I know I will have to go to work soon I wish to go back to the feelings of peace I had, But I know it was only a dream for which I am sad. We turned our back on the grandfathers so many years ago, And now they hang thier heads in sorrow. Never more do they tell us of the great things to be, Or is it that we no longer wish to see? We no longer hear what they have to say, As we just live day to day. all poetry here is copyrighted by author E Dave Tinkham and may not be reproduced or used with out authors written consent email me at ole_grisley@yahoo.com |
|