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       my chief ...

thoughts go back to that again -
    the day you found me on the plain
      so bleeding from a musket wound
  and dying, slow, with fear and pain

    my own kind left me there to die
      to not waste cares for such as I
  an orphan white boy, still a child
with troubled heart, I won't deny

      yet, you did lend me mercy then
  with no concern of who I'd been
and raised me like your very own
    to learn the ways of Tlingit men

  my course has not been easy life
more basic, yes, but hardship rife
    and still, my gut and heart are full
      midst joys of family, food and wife

and now I watch this poignant fire
    of sparking cinders, drifting higher
      while tribe and I conduct you home
  all dancing ‘round this funeral pyre

    each flaming ember turns the thief
      and steals you off, my father, chief
  o sad, to but command the flames
and scorch away my crushing grief

      and yet, as each one climbs on high
  those precious mem’ries, you and I
are borne the heavens, ever-bright
    and placed as stars …

       upon the sky.






~ 2nd Place ~  in the "Tribute To Native Culture" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.

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