There is a Cherokee proverb…a blessing
to which I now give voice:
When you were born, you cried
and the world rejoiced.
Live your life so that when you die
the world will cry
and you'll rejoice.
In the images of falling statues, witness the arrival of a new era.
In history books we learn, unlike other tribes resisting their removal,
the Cherokee waged a nonviolent struggle.
Natives were ill-prepared to deal with the colonial settlers,
and there was no League of Nations!
A then a radical solution for the contagious crisis:
No-fly zone over the holy land, call it Operation Rescue Humanity's Conscience.
That ought to block the delivery of their evisceration narratives to the wrong minds, like bombs missing their targets and dropped in ocean.
Try some day to buy
A valuable for your guy
To arrest his joyless doubts
And explode his joyful shouts;
To on your account feel “High”
And his mind rid of “Why?”
The damned depressed capital ‘WHY’
Depressed men ask in beds they lie
A forbidden fruit valuable it can be
Of some forbidden valuable tree…
Your final ‘Yes’ to his wished Cherokee
Of a price the sting of bee!
Mingo Falls, Cherokee NC
Come walk with me and rest your soul.
Go to where the waters flow,
and hear the music of natures’ best,
see how much we’re truly blessed.
Into the forest we’ll walk today
and see God’s splendor on display,
cascading down the mountain side;
Mingo Falls in all her pride.
We’ll sit awhile among the trees
and feel the cool, cool mountain breeze,
reflect upon the native’s ground,
enjoy these treasures we have found.
The water‘s pure, the air is clean
and everything is fresh and green,
for life is good despite our pain
when we take note of healing rain.
Come walk with me, forget despair,
enjoy these blessings that we share.
Upon this mountain, you and I
can spread our wings, learn to fly.
many days we walked
an unforgiving sun
beating down upon us
and at night
even the cold moon
seemed to curse us...
Seeing what no eye should see
our tears mingled with dust
and angry winds spoke
of the death of our people
our children, our old
succumbing to grief...
Our hearts cried out
Great Spirit, give strength
give courage to your people
let not this trail of tears
be the end of our great nation
let this not, be our defeat...
The Great Spirit heard
the anguish of his people and said
I will send them as a sign
an indestructible flower
which has both strength and beauty
a symbol of my love for them...
As dawn awoke
we turned our faces east
longing to see our ancestral home
to savour the richness of our heritage
as it was before the fathers of greed
stole it...
But what we saw was amazing
the trail we'd watered with tears
was alive and growing...
A white flower as pure as fresh snow
within its center gleaming gold
a lovely flower
surrounded by seven green leaves
and armed with sharp thorns
the Cherokee rose...
I, born of the Cherokee man,
As their mothers and fathers were,
No blending to erase because of race,
I, a full-blooded Cherokee man.
Raised by a white man,
Without Cherokee blood.
Grew old in my blood,
Memories not told.
Known by the Tribe as a white guy,
With Cherokee blood,
Known by the white guy,
As a full Cherokee Man.
Moving forward I wed,
A full Cherokee woman,
Our children, raised by the Tribe,
My ancestry is alive.
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Sponsor Emile Pinet
Cherokee Travelers' Blessing
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I will extract the thorns from your feet.
For yet a little while, we will walk life's sunlit paths together.
I will love you like my own brother, my own blood.
When you are disconsolate, I will wipe the tears from your eyes.
And when you are too sad to live, I will put your aching heart to rest.
Originally published by Better Than Starbucks
Cherokee Tears
ceremonial drums' rhythmic heartbeat
impassioned tribal chants
echo in Smoky Mountain mist before dawn
tortured spirit of an ignoble president
Andrew Jackson seems imprisoned here
haunted by wailing ghosts of tribe members
too old to meet Jackson's mandate
rise up, carry all you own
except your memories, your hopes
abandon graves of your ancestors
trek the "Trail of Tears" to a barren land
restless are the rising souls
natives who passed the pipe, welcomed whites
campers still report sightings
spirits walking and wailing from dusk till daybreak
specters bearing blood-spattered treaties
mingle in the Smoky Mountain mist
created by Cherokee tears
*Written November 20, 2018
For Line Gauthier's "Tribute to Native Cultures"
Illahee. Awenasa, Mahkah.
The lesson Momma taught me
(which momma never taught me)
was -
No, is.
To not be angry.
To endure your pain.
To let be as things be.
To not multiply your pain
by fletching and loosing blame.
Bend the bow into a bow,
offer connection.
Seeing.
Welcoming.
The lesson Momma taught me
(which momma never taught me)
was -
Notice.
Endure the theft of self by other.
Endure ignorant and ignoring.
Endure the losings of the way.
Support it all.
Support it all.
Offer flowers where you can.
Feed the trees.
Carry the herd.
Invite the flock.
Wait with the stones.
One day one will listen.
One day one will see.
Will that one be one being?
One culture?
One day?
One may one day One.
Endure.
Support.
Offer, Feed, Carry, Invite...
Wait.
The lesson Momma taught me.
Wordlessly.
Unceasingly.
Inerrantly.
(Which Momma never taught me, ‘cuz Momma doesn’t do.)
Know this.
To earn, to see, to receive these the lessons.
Is on us.
Our active offering to the Great Receptive.
Listen. Love. Learn.
One may one day One.
One day no one will have won.
One may one day One.
Listen. Love. Learn.
Oh Great Sky Chief I'm standing here
On sacred ground remembering a day
When are people were so proud?
Oh Great Sky Chief it's me White Cloud
I have come before you on this sacred ground
Praying for the day our people are allowed
To live in the old ways
Oh Great sky Chief
Hear me loud for I stand here, still proud
I dream of a place where the white man
May never invade our space
When we can live one with the earth
Not leaving any trace of this very sacred place
Oh Great Sky Chief won't you shine upon your race
Don't let your people continue to live in disgrace
Help me to bring them to this very sacred place
Where we can live among ourselves face to face
We are the great Cherokee nation here our cry
We do not want to live a lie
This has killed the spirit of our nation
Oh, Great Sky Chief I must ask why
We are tired of hearing no
When the white men are the ones
That forced us to leave our lands
Know this Great Sky Chief
We pray this to you, in all of the old ways
In hopes you know of such a place
It's me White Cloud hear me now hear me proud
Everything symbolizes,
and has a deep meaning.
Like dreamcatchers catching,
our newborn babies dreams.
It hangs above the cradle, where we lay.
Down our baby sleeps
In the wind it slowly sways.
Out the near window,
the land filled with buffalo.
We are relieved to see,
The strength this animal brings.
Be careful for the coyote,
behind the trees we saw.
Unexpected change, soon to take place
Don't fall.
The noise you just heard,
From a beautiful hummingbird.
Fills joy into your heart.
Much needed for us all.
Introduce yourself to the lizard,
who sits on the ledge.
For he brings life lessons.
To wonder, in your head.
The rat inside,
says to change our lives.
And to live stress free
Reminded by the turkey.
“Grandfather, grandfather! At school today,
a classmate hit me with a book.
The teacher made him stay inside
for recess. She said he was a good boy
who did a bad thing. What did she mean?”
“Grandson, I will tell you a story.
All men have inside of them two wolves.
One wolf is all that is good in the world:
the bravery of our fathers,
the strength of our mothers,
kindness toward friends,
compassion for our elders.
The other wolf is all that is bad in the world:
the hatred of one man for another
murder and theft among the clan
envy, sorrow, regret---
all that is evil among man.”
“And Grandfather, which wolf wins?
The one that you feed, grandson.
The one that you feed.”
Cycling through time;
this wrack of flesh fleets on.
Spinning indifferently on a compressed
ball of mud.
Pulsing and thumping against
the deafening destiny of becoming
a part of what it was spat unto.
Sipping the blood of my father,
seeking understanding.
The wine of revelation is an
acquired taste and so I tend
to use it for marinating my
battered will.
I pray alongside songs of my peers,
and hope I can stand the flames
I am sure to meet;
This world is full of fire,
and I am it’s smoke
accumulating under blankets
held by my ancestors.
I am their story.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved
Cherokee chamber,
where a pow wow stampeedes preconceptions of inheritence,
from Her beaded neck charms of chance & chains of change
glisten from opulent offerings of roots, corn & lavender ablaze
on an alter of unworked stone mantled with skins strong beasts knew,
She is a " Stomp Dance " Queen with an owl as a friend and a spider as assassin,
with rattlesnake ribbons around Her wrists and prayers in Her braids thick with traditions,
the walls of Her teepee painted with the pigments of buffalo blood & sunflower pollen,
portraying a history hewn from customs known to Spirits and men alike,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen speaks for Her People and sings from the stars,
I found this Tribe, not in Appalacia nor on a prarrie stage but in the smoke of ceremony,
the Cherokee Princess has rattlesnake teeth tied to Her thigh & turtle shells upon Her hips,
She played the rabbit on the scene, then the wolf, if you know what I mean,
celebrated by the warriors as a tomahawk maker,
praised by the medicine men for Her Visions,
and feared by the Elders because of wrath that may follow Her steps,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen is a Princess, She is a Cherokee with a song Her own -
J.A.B.
At the rising sun they came,
driving us from our homeland.
Miles and miles our people limped.
The weakened ones fell.
For the "Miles" contest
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