Poetry n Prose 3

Voices of the Wind

Voices of the wind, We hear you, let us not forget your flight to freedom.
Voices of the past, We Hear you, in stories of old.
Voices of our elders, We hear you, may we walk in your honor.
Voices of history not told, We hear you.
May we respect you with our teachings.

Voices of the circle,  We hear you, may you call us home.
Voices of the fire, may you light our path
And guide us to the ring of hope.

Voices of the Wind, the four directions we seek,
North, South, East, West, and the sister's seven.
Voices of the wind, may we hear all that you have given our people,
 and cherish all that has been bestowed upon us.

Voices of the wind
We Hear You.

                                                  ~ Oieya

The Journey

On the wings of the Hawk I am soaring
To a place far beyond all my pain.
With my voice like the ocean I’m roaring;
I rejoice in my freedom again

On the wings of the Hawk I am leaving
I don’t know when I will return.
I must pray for the souls who are grieving,
For the ashes of those who have burned

I am leaving tonight for the Heavens;
Now the Hawk and my spirit are one.

Do not grieve, my love, for my parting,

For my Journey has only begun…

This poem, now a song, was written after my first visit to Wounded Knee. Copyright 2004

                                     ~ Kimberli Maloy

MANY GRANDMOTHERS VISIT ME

Many Grandmothers rush from the barn this night,

their aprons tied over faded calico dresses.

Necks craned, they run together, eager for flight,

thick-heeled shoes kicking dust in the moon’s pale light.

Hair brushed back from wire-rimmed glasses,

many Grandmothers rush from the barn this night.

Into my den they flock, where I research and write

a book, cradling names and dates between its pages.

Necks craned, they begin a dance, eager for flight—

but stay, examine family trees, displaying delight

for remembrances, smiles melting grimness from their faces.

Many Grandmothers rush from the barn this night.

They whirl in a grand ballet until dawn’s thinning light—

with bravado, sound the names of old camp places.

Necks craned, they come together, eager for flight,
begin a spiral towards the stars. Gone from my sight, 

I hear their trumpeting calls for quite a distance. 

Many Grandmothers rushed from the barn this night.

Necks craned, they ran together, soared in flight.

                          ~ Alice Azure