Inspired by; Constance La France’s Native American Portrait
Nikan is a man who once stood proud and true all across this land
in symbiotic relation with nature endowed by the great creators hand
passed onto him by his ancestors to never take more than his fair share
and always be kind to this land for it’s the Mother to all whom she shall bare
When times are lean we all will grow thin together for together we are one
with one voice to sing in harmony for bountiful harvest to our Father the Sun
and give him thanks and praise for warming and making fertile our Mother
who blessed new life into the birthing seasons for every Sister and Brother
Great spirit hear my song of hope that I sing for my people who will cry
we are mighty on the earth give us protection or your children they will die
and our people’s blood will flow upon our Mother like deep rivers of raging red
O’ Father I can see no solution will you spare us from the white mans dread
I could never make claim to imagine this great man’s woeful sorry or despair
Nikan's song is a lonely tune played for the spirit of his people upon the air.
Nikan traslation from the Potawatomi "MY Friend"
Baamaapii Nikan.......until we meet again my friend
Her breathing moves a strand of golden hair
that lays upon her pillow, next to mine,
yet in this evening birdsongs on the air
awaken me to listen and recline.
This errant bird, whose song dispatches sleep,
is laughing at a long forgotten jest
or maybe woos a distant mate who, deep
inside her feathered nest, finds better rest.
I watch the window, night begins to fade
and so do I. As slumber beckons me
I hear a distant answer softly made:
A dawn duet resplendent in our tree.
A single song brings answers in the air
as my beloved sleeps without a care.
When last they kissed, and passion's lease
bloomed brief and sweet, Sir Shakespeare's quill
would set in motion a deathly chill.
For Juliet, he could not appease
to win her smile and would not release
a tranquil tale...but did reveal
this tragic poem, where lovers fell
and would break our hearts with spellbound grief.
Behold, your eyes will weep for her,
and empty arms will flail, for him
Young lovers swept away, in love
Misguided youth that we hold dear
and through the years we pray for them,
as songs are sung by mourning doves
Their love, was a fever, sorely sought
Of passion's quest, she would requite
to bridge the wage of family strife
But, delusion, rides deceitful plots
To think him dead, she had no doubt
Despaired, beyond her wildest thought
Disquiet of the heart cried out
And death, would dim the stars that night
Their song still lives, as stories will
Upon two graves, we linger here
Such love divine, is ours to keep
A sonnet binds them, ever still...
A love that cannot be compared
While swollen hearts, with anguish, weep
Traversing passed a moonlit glade,
I spied a nook where dreams are made.
A twilight windsong filled my breast
and cleared a notch where I could rest.
My windsong trilled internal hymns,
as moonlight peered through oaken limbs.
A wise old owl cooed in my ear -
"Compose a song for her, my dear."
A soothing psalm that once it’s heard
will soon be sung by hummingbirds.
Melodic notes that swirl and rise -
akin to lilts in lullabies.
Now in this niche where dreams ensue -
A songbird sings my song for you.
Culture is beautiful when expressed in the right light
It is the drum we walk to, dance to
Everyday down city corner streets
It is the obstacles we walk through, run through
Everyday common as the passing faces we see
It is the temptation we indulge in, survive in
Everyday it rises
like the sun
and sets over horizons
It is the songs we hum to, succumb to
Everyday on the mornin' radio
constantly setting the mood
givin' that vision to our way of life
Beautiful culture yields to beautiful life
Tears In The Wind
Left hand deftly fingering strings on frets,
While my right hand is picking or strumming.
Composing a sad song about regrets
And searching a melody by humming.
I easily find a chord progression,
Played in a melancholy minor key,
Then add some dynamics for expression--
Reaching a fugue-like state releases me
Fleeting perfection is my endeavor.
Like tears in the wind, now lost forever.
Listen when you awake at crack of dawn
hear the chorus of all the birds singing
watch them as they scurry and dig the lawn
until a nasty cat sends them fleeing
How very dull and bland without any birds
silence would greet us with it's bleakness
less colour everywhere, half mast halyards
how lucky to have birds to add brightness
So many feathered friends around
delighting us with their wonderful songs
the sound of harmony our souls surround
for the sweet mellifluous songs prolongs
Tunes everywhere blending in harmony
sweetly combining sounding like honey
Come, sit here beside me – it’s where you belong.
Hand me my guitar – I’ll sing you a song
About roads I have traveled and bridges I've crossed
On destiny’s journey from where I was lost.
I can tell you of victories in faraway lands
Fighting for reasons no one understands.
I've written of dangers that no man should face –
I have written of things that time can’t erase
Wanderlust drove me, for so many years,
Through miles of wasteland and rivers of tears.
I've been there and done that in so many things -
I've written the songs that Destiny sings.
My last song will be about that shining star
That led me to Paradise – here, where you are.
Written by John Posey
A soul so complete was born of division,
yet chin defied wind, she was no paper doll,
the girl was honed through minefield precision,
and the woman’s growth could not be forestalled.
The wisdom in those hands, a tender strength
that lifts away thick masks which inter hearts,
love is an action and goes to great lengths,
it meets violence then mercy imparts.
Oh, how she quests and how she questions
herself most of all in a sonnet called life,
her verse refuses shallow reflection,
No! Those lines disturb depths as words jackknife.
As giving as stars on a moonless night,
My sister ever heeds her yoke of light.
;-) Still pouting? Love from Dee
PS--when I grow up I want to be just like you.
Tears of a little girl
that's so young, that's in her childhood,
make a golden well, make a golden well,
but she doesn't realize
her tears sing a song so beautiful.
They sing a song of treasure,
they sing a song so wonderful,
they sing to worship God,
but she doesn't realize
she has a gift to sing.
She mustn't sing for anything
she must sing for the King,
but she doesn't realize,
she can sing so goldenly, (so as a golden well)