Voice of the Eagle
Native Prose and Poetry 2
Freedom
What is freedom
Could it possibly be that by exploring
places never before known to self
Ignites a passion to seek out and unlock
desires unfolded
A yearning to satisfy a hunger within
or travel the road maps of the mind
Could it be that the imagination
visualizes something representing
our meaning of independence
and also invisibly restraints us captive
by Cynthia Escobedo....2002
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DANCING WOMAN....
She escapes and loses herself
among the wise like that of our Ancestors
She is no stranger to the people
who dance here
and to our people who once danced
during the moon of red cherries ago
Everyone steps aside to let
Dancing Woman enter
into the sacred circle
She enters
and can smell sage and sweet grass
all around her
As she looks up
she can see an eagle flying high above
while praying silently
to the Great Spirit
The Drums begin
and the beat of the drums
makes her heart pound excitedly
and carries her along
with the soft wind of her soul
As she beautifully sways
her heart fulfills
with neverending sacred songs
of long ago
Dancing Woman is who she is
by Cynthia Escobedo
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ENVISION
If you have courage
then gaze lovingly into my eyes
Which sparkle and shine
each morning with the sun
arising out from the east
What you may find
is a woman longing to love
If you can dare to love
then listen
to what the singers are singing
and drummers are beating
on this sacred ground of my heart
What you may find is a woman
ready to bare her soul
for the one who has chosen her
If you have a vision of eternity
and can see through our gentle embrace
and the tender touch of my hand
Then what you have found
is a woman connecting
her soul with the one
by Cynthia Escobedo
From: <POEMDREAMER@webtv.net>
To: <Nimchira@kscable.com>
You have my permission to post my poetry,
Its a great honor and makes my day
complete. Thank you so much and may
your day be Beautiful!
Cynthia Escobedo
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Words by ShyHawk
Sunday, May 19, 2002 2:28 PM
The Kite's Gift To Me
A young one
with many a gifted talent,
Created a thing of exquisite beauty
to soar high above the planet.
Shape,size,and artistry -
The kite is perfect in every way.
According to the laws of physics,
In the sky it should stay.
There in a small clearing
surrounded by pines,
The young one's hopes
along with the kite are thrown up high.
Yet - no matter how hard he would try,
The kite fluttered back down
from the awaiting sky.
The pines were sad
for the young one that day,
And as they whispered
their boughs began to sway.
Across the small clearing
the soft breeze did flow,
Lifting the kite high
where the young one
had failed to make it go.
The lesson learned this day
is an easy one to see.
No matter how perfect
one's path may seem,
Without Creator's help
it will only remain a dream.
wriiten by ShyHawk(FM)
Spring 2002
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A Morning Caw !
My friend of sleek blackness
calls from the pines across the way
Hoping to awaken me
at the start of this new day.
A silent indigo arrow
streaks across the gray
At my feet he lands
with the dawning of the day.
A chorus of friends can be heard
excitedly encouraging him on.
He cocks his head, and hops before me
as slowly night is gone.
Shadows of gray are now softly lit
by Sun's gentle glow
I and Raven both know ----
from Him this new life will flow.
The Raven's pearl ebony eye looks once again deeply into mine
I am reminded of the gift of life he brought to all relations
Now pressing me on to greet this day
with reverent adulation!
The sky slowly turns from black to gray
and now, to soft pink and blue
Thanks once again to my little friend
I am here to share it with you.
We all have burdens and troubles
the Raven is no different - Each day I pray to see
For West Nile may make me mourn -
taking him from me.
But Greed! -- is the true distress
that ravages this land
A Cancer !!!!!!
Feeding on everything and destroying all it can.
This morning is a new birth
a fresh start for all
I thank Creator for another chance,
especially, to hear my favorite Caw !
written by ShyHawk(FM)
late summer 2002
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Billy's Meadow
This morning I travel to visit an old
friend in a very special place. It is a
small mountain meadow. Several large
walnut trees are scattered across the
small opening in the forest. I arrive early.
My breath floats slowly from my face, upon
a soft breeze. The vapor appears white
against a black backdrop. This small
clearing is only about forty feet wide by
twenty feet deep. The border appears as a
dark gray wall reaching to the sky ever
enclosing my sanctuary of soft grasses.
My eyes lift up past this natural barrier
onto a sky of brilliant stars painted upon
an easel of black. The silence is smothering
now. My heart cries out for someone to
answer. I see my friend 's face before me
ever smiling. His peace brings a calm to my
longing for answers.
Now the beauty all about speaks to me of
the night. The cold now begins to numb
my finger tips. The end of my nose begins
to tingle. The crispness of the night screams
in the silence. My eyes strain to see
through the black, but to no avail. Only my
heart can see this place now. Memories
flood into my mind as I gaze to the
heavens. Easier times are remembered
now. A soft smile creeps across my
troubled face.
Prayers are sent on a sweet smoke that
gently floats to Creator - from my heart to
his. Waste' -- it is good. The sweet smell
carries my mind from this world for
a moment. Here pain is replaced by peace
once more. I wonder why I must walk
two worlds so different when my heart
belongs to these places. Sacred places that
we fight to protect each day.
Civilization ever encroaching ,seemingly
unstoppable! The same civilization
that took a paradise and is steadily
destroying it. Now only islands of peace
and beauty exist in a sea of greed.
I am sheltered within a small bluff with
vision limited to a vista opening up
before me. I face the West with the
eastern sunrise paling behind me. The
black now turns to soft grays. The
solid walled perimeter can now be seen
as individual trees on average about
thirty feet in height. It is a young stand.
In the past these hills were completely
logged for firewood and charcoal
production. Few trees were left standing
nearly seventy years ago. A few very old
trees remain -- spared as marker trees
by those who saw only a monetary value
in my one legged brothers so few years
ago.
This area now consists of crab apple
thickets, wild roses, raspberry thickets,
honeysuckle, oak, hickory, apple, and
walnut stands. There skeletons now eerily
begging to come to life from nights black
grip. A soft glow creeps across the sky.
The small mounds of green grass tufts are
now visible on the floor of the small
opening. The green is mixed with the
brown of fallen leaves and both are covered
in a white crystalline covering of an
early frost. The walnut tree near me
is devoid of leaves. Several nuts still
cling to the few brown limbs. The
branches seem as thin feeble arms
covered with the rough bark skin of old
age. The thin limbs end in the
hands of a Grandmother - gaunt,
rough, and wrinkled. Yet - ever reaching
out to life. Softly wishing to cradle it one
more time in this new dawn!
In the grayness a voice is heard
stirring in the thicket. A shrill call.
Another slowly answers. As light from the
dawn begins to infiltrate the forest a
chorus of voices are now heard -- with it
the sounds of fluttering all about by
so many small friends. The silence now
is filled with a voice almost deafening.
Then as quickly as it began -- it is over.
Now a rustling is heard in the leafy carpet
to the left of me. Here the forest is
fenced from the grassy meadow by
a wall of honeysuckle. I strain to see my
guest as it walks softly on the other side
of the once fragrant barrier. It cautiously
stops and starts. It too strains for a clue
of something near. Finally, through a small
opening a little brown form comes
clear. It sits perfectly still with nose
twitching -- searching for any scent. Its
ears rotate around its small head as
radar -- straining to hear. Satisfied of its
safety, the little cotton tail hops deeper
into the thicket and from my sight.
The sky turns a soft blue as Grandmother
Moon sets and Father Sun begins his trip
across the sky. Now a louder voice is
heard.Then many such calls. A small
flock of black dots pass overhead. Crows
coming off a roost of soft white pines
growing on the ridge behind me. They
head from the roost out to the fields
to greet this morning. My heart is up
lifted wishing to make the journey
with them.
To my right soft rustlings are heard in
the dry leaves of the forest. The area is
choked with young trees. In their midst
stands several old apple trees. The sounds
seem to be concentrated around them.
The filtered light of early morning now
enables me to detect the shapes of gray
ghosts slipping in and out of view in
the heavy cover. In spite of their size
they are almost silent. The grace of their
sleek shapes capture me. I am captivated
-- watching this small family feeding
on apples. A mother whitetail and two
yearlings scour the forest floor for these
treats. One does a delicate dance on her
hind legs to reach fruits still hanging
from the lower limbs. A mist begins to
rise from the melting frost. It hangs
close to the ground. These forest ghosts
fade from my sight back into the veil
once more.
A soft muffled dripping sound is now
heard hitting twigs and leaves. The
once beautiful white crystals now change
to a clear soft liquid. These delicate tears
drop to the sweet earth. The damp smell
begins to rise in intensity -- almost in
proportion to the suns warmth. I try
to remain motionless, so as not to disturb
this serene place. It is difficult. I am cold
to the bone. My muscles now cramp and
shivering is hard to control. The sound
of an acorn dropping -- bouncing off
each limb and then a soft thud upon
the earth -- takes me away from
my personal discomfort. I again become
lost in the beauty and spiritualness of
this place.
Soft peeps can be heard coming from
before me. They are hidden behind tall
tufts of wild grasses. The grasses consist
of long dull green stems with broad
yellowish-green leaves at their bases.
The stems narrow to tops of deep
purplish-red seeds. These fragile tops form
the shapes of narrow feathers bending
towards the earth from the weight of
the dew now clinging to them. Their
heads bob and dance to the rhythm of
the soft breeze. The music is heard
from the leaves rattling the tune of life
along with the wind. All is in harmony
here - I feel my feet begin to gentle
move to this rhythm of life. The song is
carried in my heart. The smile my friend
once carried is now transferred to my heart
here in his special place.
A small head peaks in and out from the
tufts. It is a speckling of shades of soft
browns and white. She steps into the
clearing and gives a series of soft yelps.
Slowly answers come from farther in the
brush. One by one her brood of
young pheasants gathers near to her.
They carefully take turns keeping watch
as others turn the dead leaves
seeking seeds and insects. They slowly
move along the brush line watching,
feeding, and moving all in a regimented
pattern. Each in contact with the other
through soft peeps and yelps. All working
together for the survival of their family.
Stretched between the limbs of a small
tree is a beautiful spider web. Now
enlightened by the heightening sun.
Its delicate pattern adorned by drops
of glistening water that was earlier
crystals of white. The pattern is so delicate
-- yet the fiber is very strong. Here the
ultimate symbol represented in beauty
and death. Death so life may continue.
It is the same for all. We give our all so
that the oyate (people) will survive. A
simple lesson that so few hear in
this time of civilization -- a simple
lesson that will survive when this
civilization can longer support itself by
the rape of the mother. A civilization
that lives to satisfy only a singular need
-- their own. A civilization that does not
even care if the greed they harbor leaves
a world toxic to their own children.
I am happy the old stories live on and
elders are still here to share the
way of the true people. The way of
harmony with all things about us and
mother earth. The spider web shows
each act effects all things in this
world. The waves sent out by past
generations of greed upon this
land are now coming to our own shores.
Yet so many fail to see or hear.
For myself, my spirit belongs to
these peaceful places where balance
still clings onto a precarious hold.
Here I am only another life amongst
so many -- all equal to Creator -
all loved by Creator -
all needed for this circle to survive. Aho!
I wish to stay in these places where
I am happiest. As you, I am forced
into the world of the dominant
culture to survive. I pray it is more
then this. I pray the stories will be heard
by new ears and lessons will be learned.
I pray that true gifts will again be
valued by a lost people walking our
ancestors lands. Two much blood
already stains the slopes and streams
here. I see what the land once was --
forested and in harmony. Soft
beauty and gifts abound. One way
or another the Mother will heal. I pray
it will be with our help!
For now I can only struggle to teach
a society with blind eyes and deaf
hearts to see this sunrise as I do.
To cherish these priceless gifts only
the heart can understand. My spirit
is but a small piece of all the spirits --
as yours. That longing we have is to
return home -- whereas in this place all
spirits are one again! This is peace.
My time line is short and I may never
see things return as the forest has
to this once ravaged hillside --
but it will return! Aho
I am so happy to say I am not civilized!
I try to be a true human being!
I try to respect all things!
For my ancestors who live in
me and guide me are in all
things about me -- we are one!
One day I too will travel home
and be one with all things.
waceciciye Aho
Peace
written by Shyhawk(FM)
early fall 2002
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The Forgotten Peoples
*Oyate = people
*Tiospaye = family
*Wakalyapi = coffee
*INA = Mother Earth
*Tunkasila = Grandfather
Mid November is upon us once more. The
weather is cold and breezy. The sky is overcast.
Showers of rain and snow intermittently cleanse
the land. It is a somber time for oneself.
The fast pace of summer is over now. As in
nature, all is slowing to prepare for the land's
sleep of winter.
I find myself along the so called frontier
of the mid seventeen hundreds. A time of
reflection on this place in history and in
my *tiospaye. I have come to a place loved
by my uncles and now by myself. It is a
mountain spring fed stream called the
NorthKill. As then, it is now a beautiful place.
A place of solitude and quiet voices.
A place I feel welcomed into.
In the distance the Mountain watches
over me. Her dress today is of varied golden
yellows that meet the now deep black sky
in a vibrant contrast. The black is deep and
rich containing a deep hue of blue. It is the
same colors seen in the veins of *INA. I am
reminded of how little respect is shown
to her even in this modern time as they
scar her beautiful skin and tear out her
veins with no regards to future life <sigh>
The place I visit with is located on the flatlands
at the base of the Blue Mountain. Here there
is a small cut through which the crystal clear
stream gently flows. The wall of the cut is
composed of greystone. The stone is stepped out
in layers jagged and unevenly arranged.
It is in the appearance of fish scales. The
soft gray is highlighted by the deep wet brown
earth holding them in place. On the ridge,
the horizon is lined with Maples now turned
a magnificent yellow. Each tree shimmers
with soft beauty in the breeze. Their trunks
are a deep brown caused by the fresh wetness
of the rain and snow showers.
A shimmering brown almost deep purple in
color breaks the soft flow of the yellows.
These are the messengers of spring. The Pin Oaks
with leaves clinging tightly until the warm
caress of spring entices them to be turned free.
The area is highlighted by small clumps of
rounded shrubs. Their flamboyant crimson
reds radiate from under the canopy of soft
yellows and deep browns. These are the fire
bushes. Today they are truly a plant of living
fire! The small red leaves shake and dance as
flames on the soft wind. Each leaf is contrasted
against the black sky reaching down to meet
these twisting and bobbing flames of no
heat -- except for the warmth created in my
heart by this scene of majestic beauty.
Creators paintings!
Then several of these small red embers float
free and drop into the meandering stream.
I almost expect to hear the hiss of steam r
eleased as the hot red kisses the cool clear
surface. Small islands of golden leaves
float past. The surface is covered in an ever
changing pattern of mosaic beauty from the
trees' last gifts of fall. The soft music of the
stream lulls my heart into a gentler time.
I am reminded of the times my uncles and
I would come here to fish. We would meet
several other families here in this place. I felt
safe here. The stone cut was to my back and
a forest of pine lined the other bank. The moon
light would reflect off the streams surface.
Her soft voice would sing to us. My uncles
would build a fire and start a pot of
*wakalyapi. Here many stories would
be exchanged and old friendships renewed.
More then the heat from the flames warmed
my bones in this place.
Sweet smells filled my mind!
Downstream from our camp was an area
of cascades that butted up against a
stone cliff. Here the gray stone seemed to
sparkle from the mist rising from the small
rapids. The voice of the stream became loud
and more urgent as she rushed over the
exposed rocks. This was my favorite place to
fish for trout. In the cascades small pools
were formed and many snags. Here the
big fish would lay in wait for their
prey to pass close.
The air was full of soft pine fragrance and
the spray of fresh water misted my face.
We would all meet back at the camp for
lunch. If we were blessed, fried fish and fresh
warm pan fried bread would be eaten to our
fill this day. The smell of thick rich coffee
would be followed back to camp and
*tiyospaye.
Up stream from our camp is a small metal
plaque. On the plaque is written -- this is the
site of Fort NorthKill. It is the 250th
anniversary of this county. Sadly,few people
see the plaque and fewer even know of what it
represents.
This is the site of one of the English forts
constructed to protect the colonists along the
Blue Mountain frontier in the seventeen
hundred and fifties from the "savages".
The same people who opened their land to
these europeon guests and made treaties in
good faith so all could share this land. The
Lenape people honored the treaties. Their
rewards were disease and stolen lands.
By seventeen hundred and thirty-two most
Lenape were gone from this county -
those who survived ; FORCED!!!! north and west.
In this year of remembrance on this place
it seems all are remembered but my *Oyate.
Most remembered history starts in the seventeen
hundreds after the Grandfathers of this land
were pushed out. I am told of the Dutch and the
German, the Irish and the Greek, The African
and Hispanic Peoples.
Little is told of the Lenape.
Why should I expect any different? This state
was formed from their lands and their gifts.
Today the Original People are not even
recognized by the state which owes much to
these people. Their true story is still not told!
I am constantly reminded of the massacre of
Bloody Spring during lectures on this land.
The Indians were so savage I am told. A
European man and woman were murdered --
both scalped. A small baby lived but was
partially scalped. The audience is appalled
and murmurs can be heard across the dimly
lit room. The speaker does not tell of all the
Original People killed, of all the stolen lands,
or the disease that ravaged the land prior to
this incident. These are forgotten.
The speaker tells of his great knowledge of
the Original People even though he is Euro
and never visited the Lenape relatives alive
today. Even worse, the *Oyate are spoken of as
gone from the land. Spoken of in the past tense.
I look at myself and wonder -- can no one see
me or other *Oyate who dot this land.
Why do they not wish to see us?
I bring my own knowledge to the fore front.
The speaker is having a re enactment from this
period called the French and Indian War.
He tells me he has researched the period
thoroughly. Yet he calls our homes by an
Apache name and does not even realize this is
wrong! We are Unami(Lenape) not Apache.
Our herbs and tobacco are spoken of with no
knowledge and even disrespect.
He speaks of the Europeaon and Indian
re enactors that will be present. Then he looks
at me and states there will be no true Original
People in the re enactment. The Euro's who play
the parts of the Original People are very
dedicated. He states they seldom step out of
character. I am insulted! I think how nice it
would be for the *Oyate who still suffer from
injustices today to be able to step out of
character!!!!
These people have no clue.
As the strong smell of damp leaves focuses my
attention back to this moment I feel a sadness
on the land of the Old Ones. The healing has
not taken place on this land were many
wrongs have transpired. Lies are spread
instead of the true history. This state wishes to
wash us from OUR land. Sadly the *Oyate can
not be recognized in a land once theirs. A land
they were created for by *Tunkasila' s hand.
Yet strangers to this land are welcomed and
their language is treated as a second
language here.
What causes my people to be forgotten so?
Soft snow gently washes my face and tries to
cleanse this land of its lies.
My heart sees great beauty and remembers the
Old Ones with pride and dignity. Yet as the
land is covered over in this cleansing
wetness my heart is covered over by a sadness
that reaches deep within. I want the land and
the *Oyate to be respected. I wish the Old Ones
not to be disturbed in their resting places.
I wish our history to be remembered and our gifts appreciated. I wish those who are guests upon
this land to once again see the *Oyate as
human beings.
For now I am content to remember this place
and *tiospaye who called this land special.
The Old Ones remain tied to this land, their
ancestors are still here, many of the beautiful
places remain, and our spirit covers this land.
One only has to listen to the soft voice of the
pines along this stream to hear the truth of
this place. I pray for better times for the all
*Oyate as my tears fall to the sweet earth and
mix with the tears of *INA this day.
WILL MY EYES SEE RESPECT RETURN TO THIS
HOMELAND? UNAMI LAND -
Land of the forgotten peoples.
written by Shyhawk(FM)
fall 2002
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The Environmental Stand
So great are the environmental transgressions,
Impacted by policies of corporate suppressions,
Political consequences of greed,
Impoverishing the sacred seed.
Chemicals contaminating the ground,
While poisons dilute the water down.
America, where is your love for the land?
Your environment needs you to take a stand!
In a valley somewhere an Indian sends his song,
Which may save the beauty, that’s almost gone.
Oh so heavy are the hearts of despair,
For a land disfigured without repair.
Holy words sent upon the four winds,
Sacred incantations hopeful to stop the sins.
America, where is y our love for the land?
Your environment needs you to take a stand!
Where is the archaeological preservation,
That seems lost in the bureaucracy frustration?
Where is the ancestral connection,
For the sacred past that needs protection?
Where will the wildlife and human children play,
When studious minds will not provide a say?
America, where is your love for the land?
Your environment needs you to take a stand!
Logging rules over looked and set aside,
Mining regulations heinously disguised.
Politicians playing the corporate game,
Developing plots of corrupted shame.
Voices proclaiming governmental fascism,
And the environment crumbles to capitalism.
America, where is your love for the land?
Your environment needs you to take a stand!
Salute the last of the flower’s and trees,
While capitalists trash the land and seas.
Try to smell the last breath of fresh air,
While pollution asphyxiate’s without due care.
So remember all the lies that have been told,
While you learn to digest oil and gold,
Because America you gave up your right,
When you sold the most precious land in sight!
America, where is your love for the land?
Your environment needs your hand!
America where are your voices?
For the environment it’s time to take a stand!
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
Written by: Larry Kibby
Elko Indian Colony
Elko, Nevada
All Copy Right's Reserved
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Ancestral Salvation
Whispering winds quietly brush the native land,
A lone Indian perched on a hill, pipe in hand,
Oh how his heart and soul aches with grief,
While he searches for his country's sacred relief.
Offering tobacco in thanksgiving to his nation,
Fulfilling his ancestral salvation.
Slowly he rises above all,
Standing ever so tall,
Pipe directed to the light of wisdom,
As he acknowledges the holy kingdom,
Offering tobacco in thanksgiving to his nation,
Fulfilling his ancestral salvation.
He gives right to the four locations,
Sending reverence with vocation,
And the powers of the four are invoked,
As he send his holy words upon the smoke,
Offering tobacco in thanksgiving to his nation,
Fulfilling his ancestral salvation.
His heart gives way to a song from the mind,
Given to him through his ancestral time.
Flowing emotion travels through the air,
Feelings of value sent with tender care,
Offering tobacco in thanksgiving to his nation
Fulfilling his ancestral salvation.
So now he fulfills his inherent right,
Unhurriedly his pipe he lights,
Directing smoke to the seven,
Sacred words carried to the heaven,
For now, he has done thy will,
With all the beings in the universe,
He has offered tobacco
in thanksgiving for his nation,
Fulfilling his ancestral salvation,
So his people will live through a revelation,
And tomorrow he will begin anew,
For in the Indian World....
Every day is a day of Thanksgiving.
Written:
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
By: Larry Kibby
Elko Indian Colony
Elko, Nevada
All Copy Right's Reserved
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