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Native American
And Links

Help Free
Leonard Peltier
Demand it

Towards Freedom

The bars in the window
Strain the Moonlight
Letting it splash onto your dream
For one more chance to soar in flight
Towards Freedom...

It is a dream you cannot hide
It shows when you cry
And when you heart fly's
Towards Freedom...

The pain lasts a little longer
This night then the last
The tears flow onto memory's past
Towards Freedom...

You will never forget 23 years ago
Neither shall we forget that fateful day
On that day thousands of cries flew away
Towards Freedom...

Your heart floats out to our people
Your words carried by a hawk
Your spirit can never be locked it rises
Towards Freedom...

Hope and spirit are still alive
Do not believe the wisacu's talk
One day those 44 steps you will walk
Towards Freedom...

Dream a little longer my friend
For this is not the end
Your life and our ways we will defend

Together we shall rise
Towards Freedom...

For Leonard Peltier

Battle in the Sky

Warriors riding in the sky
Line the horizon’s eye
In the form of clouds
Thundering sounds
From horses hooves
Makes the earth move

Flashes of lights
Fill the day so bright
From jagged spears
That instills fear
Into their foe’s
Hearts and souls

After the battle is won
Warriors gallop towards the sun
Leaving behind traces
Of tears on enemy faces
That form raindrops
Which fall from cloud tops


Ways Forgotten

If we were to awake today
To find out that the ways
Of our most wonderful past
Were, only a dream
Then, it would seem,
That our most beautiful dream
To bring back our ways by necessary means
Would be of no consequence
On the bearing of our essence
As native americans

Since our past is not a dream
Then, are we not deemed
To be people who are chosen
To bring back our ways that were frozen
So, our future remains intact
Also, so we do not take steps back
Towards an undisturbable slumber
That would make our days numbered

Our waking dream must carry
Those who are weary
From teaching those who will not listen
Our ways must glisten
From our hearts and beads of sweat
That drip off of our souls so we will not forget
Those who have taught before us

We cannot sit idle and let our ways rust
From teardrops that our ancestors cry
After they have tried so hard to let us fly
Into ancient dreams and ways that will let us survive
Awake to the day with praise
For those whose lives they paid
So that you and I could be alive today

If we must take our ways back with vigor
Not by means of pulling a trigger
But by ways forgotten, by a way of life
That is sharper than a knife
Then, we shall take it like we never have fallen
Let us not be known for a people forgotten
But for a people who knew their ways
That is how we should be portrayed


Little Angels Dance

Little Indian Angels dance
In their Grandmothers place
Small angel eyes look in fear
This is their first powwow year

"Calling all tiny tots", says the M.C.
A few high pitched voices can be heard
"Mommy, Mommy! Does he mean me?"
Old eyes light up without saying a word

In the middle of the circle they gather
And they stretched awhile
You could hear nervous laughter
A usually reserved Grandma smiled

The rhythm of the drum starts to beat
Dust in the midday heat
From tiny dancing moccasin feet
Rises towards heaven on music so sweet

Twirls of fringe colors flash brilliantly
Blurred the circle like butterfly wings
ALl the while, big hearts in small bodies
Wonder if Grandma is "Watching me"


Mother Earth Passing

When the rain stops falling from the skies
From our path of wanton ways
I will not shed a tear from my eyes

When dark clouds block the sun on high
From our black hearts of pollution
I will not shed a tear from my eyes

When birds are no longer able to fly
From our sickly minds of turmoil
I will not shed a tear from my eyes

When mother earth dies
From our hands of destruction
I will not shed a tear from my eyes

When I rest my head every night I sigh
From our disgusting pattern of life
...And I cry
...Now there are no more tears left in my eyes


Breathe Life

When one of our people die
They breathe life into us
With their spirits sigh
That each and every one of us
Will teach our way of life to one another
For there are no others like us
On this universal plane

We, who have lost so much
But, yet, have so much to gain
We, who have a gentle touch
But, also have strong hearts and minds
Live on to carry a way of life
That the Creator hopes everyone finds

So, that when we stumble upon deaths knife
We too, can breathe life into the memory
And hearts of those left behind
Etching a way of life in their minds


Heaven Does Not Have Fences

I close my eyes and let my mind roam
I see familiar faces and I am not alone
Faces that look like mine
Faces that haven’t changed over time

Here everyone wins
Here there is no sin
It overpowers my senses
Heaven does not have fences

We drift over hills of gold
Towards valleys of old
Where children play by the river
Where no one is left to shiver

Sage and prayers rise towards the sky
Where eagles screech and fly
Catching invisible words with powerful lenses
Heaven does not have fences

We drift onto deserts where rocks sparkle
Like diamonds hidden in sand charcoal
There is beauty everywhere
People dance and share

Familiar spirits together we bind
We fly through boundaries with no signs
We love another so greatly our hearts tense
Heaven does not have fences



Junkyards lie scattered about in front of fabricated wood houses some with broken windows covered with cardboard other houses made of brick lie nestled together in rows for uniformity. An architect’s handy work left to remind us of military solidarity. Our past always somewhere. Trash whirls in a circle in the summer air and children play Indian and Cowboys on white paved sidewalks another reminder of the invisible line.

Somewhere in the distance you can hear Blackbirds fighting for a scrap of meat from a rotting carcass of a dog. Their beaks tear, poke, shred until there is nothing left to fight over. Souls lost, float around in the hills searching, looking, and gazing from afar. Looking for what? An end to it all? Hearts torn apart by poverty and depression linger in the neatly lined rows of houses only to find escape in broken windows now covered by cardboard. Escape to find what? An end to it all?

To escape where there is nothing to fight over...



The man behind the counter looks at my brown skin and long hair and asks if I am Indian. I don’t look at him, but through him with my old eyes. Ones that have been handed to me over generations, older than any history book mentions and I answer yes. He says, he is part Indian and I smile and nod my head in agreement. On one hand I am happy that he wants to be like us, but I know he cannot fly like I can and on the other hand I am saddened that he does not understand what it is truly like to be an Indian. If he did, he would fly with me and hear things that only we can. He would feel the power of nature inside of him and feel the rhythm of a million dancers shaping the future, but he cannot. So, I pay for my things and head back to the reservation where I can fly with hundreds of others who are like me and not a single one of them tells me they are part Indian.

I fly through the air following the smell of frybread and it leads me to my Grandmothers house and she tells me to go to church on Sundays because that is what she was taught while she grew up in the boarding school. I smile in agreement and chew on my frybread, but I feel differently about church then she does because it was not beaten into me like it was her, but Sunday comes around and I go with her. The man at the pulpit tells us God created man and we should live like him, but I am thinking God created man because he was bored. I look out the window and see birds flying overhead and I get lost in my thoughts. My Grandmother nudges me and brings me back to reality. Now the preacher is telling us that the church needs money for new pews or something or another. I reach into my pocket and pull out a prayer, that the children who didn’t have breakfast this morning because their parents are passed out find something to eat and I drop it into the collection plate and I listen real hard and hear the sound of tiny hands using can openers to cut their way through commodity cans of fruit and I am satisfied that my prayer was answered. Praise the lord for can openers.

We leave the confines of Church and I take my Grandmother home and I drive through town on my way to the lake and I see an old man in tattered clothes panhandling for change in front of the grocery store. I see people ignore him and I wonder if he knows he is invisible. I wonder if he forgot how to fly, but I know he traded that knowledge for a bottle of Thunderbird Wine and will not get it back for a long time, maybe never and it makes me sad that a single bottle can hold so much power over someone who has more power in his heart than the brightest lightning stroke, but a single bottle holds him back from striking his weakness down, shattering it into a million emeralds and all the wine he has ever consumed will burn inside of him like the lake of fire leaving only a scar on his heart, but he chooses to drown instead.

I drive on and make my way to the lake where I listen to the sound of the lake waves hitting the shore and toss pebbles into them, each of them making ripples that form endlessly across miles of moving dreams and I sink to the bottom of them. I turn away and find the remnants of love etched in a tree, confession of one’s love to another. I find a piece of a broken beer bottle and etch my confession also, I write, “Indian” and circle it with heart and… fly away.



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