Breakout
The map states the boundaries.
The fence makes them firm.
It's there to protect--Whom?
We who live within the fence,
Or those who live without?
Roads run through
and we can drive away at any time.
But when we do we're scrutinized,
criticized, patronized demeaned.
The outside does not belong to us,
it belongs to others;
those who live outside the fence!
Reservation it is called inside
the fence, Reserved for us.
But it seems that we are the ones
who are reserved for it,
to stay inside the fence.
Prisoners of the fence,
and social fences,
and our own ambivalence,
and crippling dependence;
our souls long for deliverance,
freedom,
space,
acceptance,
breakout!
Can breakout be for those of us
within the fence?
And what is breakout, anyway?
geographical,
psychological,
cultural,
personal,
spiritual?
Can we breakout by leaving on the highway
or can it happen inside the fence?
High Hawk
in memory of Ted Risingsun,
October 21, 1926-April 5, 1995
Fly high today and forevermore.
Look down upon this soiled ball
you walked and talked upon.
Fly again over the hills in Korea
where you lost your buddies,
but it was not your time to leave.
Fly over Washtaeno, our Capital
where you spoke so well of your people's needs.
Fly over each one who speaks
the language that you loved.
Tell us again those words
that tasted good upon your Cheyenne tongue.
Fly through the halls where you
wheeled yourself and still spoke
of your dreams which never died.
Fly higher, great orator,
than you ever climbed before;
we want to listen once again!
Fly, fly, my friend,
no longer languish in that bed,
no longer speak with tired tongue
that once could set the hills on fire!
High Hawk, Aenohe Oxhaa'eho'oesestse,
today you have been freed to
fly, sofly; fly, fly, fly, fly!
High Hawk
The Sandrocks Sigh
The sandrocks must have sighed a name again;
an aged form is shuffling toward the hills,
hunched over from his heavy, sacred pack.
Tomorrow I will face the rising sun
for blessing as I climb to bring him back.
I know what I will see among the rocks
for I have tracked these elders in the past.
I'll find him tired, resting on a ledge
and staring centuries of wisdom,
not aware that I am standing by his side.
I'll ask him to rejoin us at the fire
and share again the stories in his bag.
But he'll refuse and say that he's been called
to sit there by the piles of weathered bones.
And then he'll slowly lower his pack and say
that I may take it back to the campfire
and set it in the place which had been his.
I'll shake his ancient hand and lift his pack
and he'll reach out to touch it one last time.
He'll lean his head upon the sandstone wall
and watch me as I start back down the trail.
Ve'ho'e
Ve'ho'e, a word that stirs the feelings
Eohkemeohoo'hevao'omatse'omeva
of us who are Cheyenne as much
as any word in any language can.
Ve'ho'e, trickster guy. From centuries long past
this guy from tribal genesis continues
still today as our social nemesis.
Long before we met the ones who
now have ve'ho'e name,
the ve'ho'e of our stories
had greedy, sneaky fame.
Ehehpetse, he was in stories
wanting more than he deserved.
Then when the paleface came on the scene
he was also ehehpetse,
so for him the name's reserved.
When we use this ve'ho'e word,
we can speak in different ways.
We can put a person down
to wreck that person's days.
We warn the one who breaks the mold
he'll become like ve'ho'e man.
neve'ho'eveneve'ho'eva'oeve'ho'evoestomo'he
eve'ho'evetanoare is far from a compliment.
Yet we also reflect comparison
with our things lower than what is owned
or built by this ve'ho'e man,
when we say some other words of
things we like to have, like ve'ho'evo'ha
beautiful horse, or ve'ho'e-m hayo'o modern house,
We call the non-Indian preacher,
manma'heone-ve'ho'e, holy-whiteman
but also call ones of our own who
preach or believe that way
the same name.
ma'heone-ve'ho'e, an intended put-down
Ve'ho'e.
just saying this one word can mean
so much among ourselves whenever it is heard.
We still like to repeat the funny stories of old
about the ve'ho'e character;
we laugh when these stories are told.
We laugh especially, as our ancestors did long ago
when people of our kind win out at a story's end
over the guy with ve'ho'e mind.
And we say today with glee
of the ve'ho'e of our tales
"It's just like him
That's the way he acts,
Ehehpetse, his personality never fails"
But a switch has been made;
a most humorous one, that we've even forgotten about.
We no longer mean the ve'ho'e of old
before the paleface came,
but the new ve'ho'e we know today
who seems to act the same.
Meadowlarks
Honoxeaseo'o
They are heard early in the morning in the spring.
But some of them sing any time during the day;
"Vetanove-o'he'e," eohkehevoone."Tongue River,"
they say.
Naa "Mestaevoo'xenehe naa mato heva
Mestaevoo'xene'hehe," eohkehevoone
And "Boogeyman Bignose or Boogeyman Bignose Woman,"
they say to mock you.
One lady heard a meadowlark sing to her,
"Nevaahe tsevestoemotse?"
"Who is your husband?"
And some of them say cuss words
if you have the right kind of ears to hear them.
I wonder what they say to Cheyenne in Oklahoma?
And what do they say to the Crows?
Can white folks hear them say anything?
Hoovehe
Some Cherokee Poetry
by Raven Hail
Sge!
Hisga'ya Galun'lati
Great Father of Earth-People here;
Mighty Owner of Lands and all Waters
Who sends forth the Harvest each year;
Creator of all the Wild Creatures.
The Willow, the Wren and the Bear
The Master of Thunder and Lightning
Of the Wind and the Rain and the Air
Hear me!
Iya!
Hear my prayer!
Notes: Sge! - Hear me!
Hisga'ya Galun'lati - Heaven Man
Iya! - So be it!
Our Native People
waited on the shore
to greet The Strangers
with a friendly HOW!
'Twas land and gold
the Spaniards hankered for.
This awful truth
came out the first Pow-wow.
Oh, UGH! the Indians muttered,
meaning this:
you get outta here, Chris
we don't want to be discovered, nohow.
The dark Goddess gathers
all Her fallen Blossoms
unto the warm earth
to await new birth.
Midnight,
the witching hour!
A demon of the dark
swoops down on silent wings to claim
his prey.
Five Haiku
The eye of the Storm
looks over the trembling Earth
and takes what She will.
The restless Tide sways
to and fro in her dance with
Old Grandfather Moon.
Warm brown molds enfold
the cold barren sleep with dreams
of green buds waking.
Winter fireflies find
a stairway to the stars and
twinkle in the sky.
Wild willow shadows
lacing frisky leaf boats to
the swirling current.
All alone on an empty land
I soar up high as I scan
the rolling plains and grass
for a meal, or another pass.
I go where no one lives
for the freedom that it gives.
No one can bridle my Spirit.
Only the land has that merit.
Many winds I have felt.
Often with snow on the melt.
I am swift and sure on wing;
Death, for my prey, a certain thing.
Upon a snag beside the Knee
I sit, and though I'm free
I hear those voices
who had no choices.
Daily I sing to Creator above
the cries of those I love.
The Lakota know I carry
their prayers high and airy.
My ancestors were there.
They saw and they dared
as a great people met Creator
on fields full of dishonor.
My heart breaks as I see
the sadness of Wounded Knee,
and I take to flight
to carry on with all my might.
This land I love.
My people are the servants of
the proud, but sad, Lakota
as their cries I carry above.
Hoka Hey! Our Spirits cry,
for it is a good day to die!
The fading light of the Sun
may see my Spirit's course run.
A Warrior's Heart in my Breast!
A Shaman's Spirit that's blest!
A fighter, a lover of life--
all this, for to die.
My Spirit is Lakota
and they are mine.
Give me my freedom
or allow me to die.
Warrior '97
Waves wash against the beach,
hay softens the cold stone,
full moon rises over the endless blue,
Moon Complete!
Me complete!
by Andrew Y
At the lake,
Alone in the canoe,
With nature at my back
I stand alone.
Reflective waters,
Mirroring the world
Solid yet soft
I glide along.
Endless green at my back
Endless blue under me
I drift away.
Perfectness in all directions
I glide along trusting and trusted
Nature in control
I am safe
Green growing behind me
Rocks holding their ground
I float away
Andrew Y
Nightfall,
Cool, dark
Dark deep calmness
Sweeping over the earth;
Sleep!
The Wind
The wind, it blows down the hills
It blows laughter into darkness
Now I sit here quietly
Listening to the darkness of the wind
Cars
Cars speeding past
Minding their own business
For only their business is worth minding
Rain washing down
Cleansing the earth
All evil gone
Poem On A Rainy Day
Rain coming down
Pebbles from the sky
I see no end
Andrew Y
by Tiffany Midge
Sweetheart
when we make love
press brown skins
& lovely bones
together
& are two half-
breed hearts
grooving
to the same fullblood
dance
we create not only
a whole indian song
your cherokee chants
to my cheyenne tune
but sweetheart
in the dark
we become the
entire tribe
Grace isn't always a woman.
Grace is the smooth texture of rainstorms.
Grace is the mad blood of thunder.
Grace is the pulsing vein of air and wind.
Grace is the carving of midnight shadows.
Grace is the thin bones of winter trees.
Grace is the musical rattle of memory.
Grace is the alive current between us.
Grace isn't always a woman.
Grace is the snowy down of geese's wings.
Grace is the stir of velvet and cream lace.
Grace is the curtain of green pine and cedar.
Grace is the copper enamel of sundown.
Grace is the brilliant ribbon of desire.
Grace isn't always a woman.
Grace is the first day of every season.
Grace is the endless reservoir of dream.
Grace is the anatomy of silence.
Grace is the language of mute.
spirits speaking through us.
Grace isn't always a woman.
Grace is the choreography of star lover's waltzing.
Grace is th e echo of deep cliffs.
Grace is the dying embers of forests on fire.
stealing the breath of stillborn rock.
Grace is the mutiny of reckless visions.
Grace is the motion of calm.
Grace is the ritual of prayer, the faces of nameless.
saints and the throats of wounded animals.
Grace isn't always a woman.
Grace is the quiet habit of stone.
Grace is the loud voices of anxious water.
flowing backward to the origin of all things.
Grace is the beginning of time.
Grace is the ending of time.
Grace is the timelessness.
Grace isn't always a woman.
Grace is the opening we enter with bare feet.
the door we close behind.
Grace is the delicate impulse we share with those.
like ourselves whose loins and hearts.
dance when they touch us.
Grace is the flourescent crimson of dawn.
Grace is the granite liquid of black sky.
Grace isn't always a woman.
Grace is the invisible thread of common objects.
Grace is the redemption of transient souls.
Grace is the release of imprisioned spirit.
the resurrection of faith.
that stores beautiful gestures in boxes of freedom.
Grace isn't always a woman.
Grace is the name we sometimes call ourselves.
Grace is the name we sometimes call others.
Sometimes Grace isn't always a woman,
other times she is!!
Every other word she spoke
was horse this, horse that
with an other-worldly grin
conjuring long salty afternoons
pony riding beneath the falling sun
She could have been a silhouette
traveling along the crimson
body of Arizona rock
or circling the spiny backbones
of desert cliffs
she'd only visited in picture books
If she told me her horse had wings
and took her on nightly flights
through the shimmering stars
straight to the moon
I would have believed her
If she told me her horse was a
blazing ribbon of flame galloping
across the Pacific Ocean like a
Jesus pony trotting on water
running forever to save us
I would have believed her
I could see she found her magic in horses
I could see each time the word
horse escaped from her throat
an eruption of stretched sinew
and bones of an animal too holy
to appear in daylight reached
out to capture a fringe of this world's curtain
She attempted to keep their
tossing heads in the corral of her heart
their unrestrained tricks secured
beneath the fence of her ribcage
only they continued to fly out
like the laughing wild spirit they were
Horse spirit and horse magic
ignited by the dreaming of a Lummi girl
who sang their names in the shadow of sundown
Who offered them the sweets of her
voice in ragged meadows
who called them her own in the pale blue
mornings across the land she calls home
One by one they leapt into the classroom air
and she pulled hard on their reins
led them back in
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