Sheila Williams ~ Singing Cloud

FOR OUR CHILDREN!

So many messages, told so many ways, throughout time
kept so carefully for so very long, written on wall’s, hearts, and trees.

Sun rise songs, are really prayers lifting into the air
every creature knows them well, hands them down to continue on.

Time after time, the rise and fall of human kind;
same old lesson, same old song.

Blithely, and blindly, we stumble on
darkness surrounds, shadows cold and dark.

Our own making, these heartless mistakes
we will not accept any, shame or blame.

Troubles rumble, bubble, and boil
we humans whine, mumble, and curse.

Point fingers at, those not the same
remembering to call ugly names, at those not our kind.

IWVPA Club Recognition of Outstanding Non-War Related Writing: March 1, 2009
Awarded: March 1, 2009
Rules, laws, preaching’s, and soldiers
control is the game, yet we all are the losers.

Who has the most, at the end of the day;
who holds the gold, makes the rules of the play.

Not wisdom, or honor, not truth or real justice
no caring who hurts, or who feeds the children.

We call it “god”, if it’s covered in riches
no voice of the Elders, or guidance is heard.

Follow the leader, like good little sheep
drop where you are, when they say to sleep.

Forgetting the past, and lessons we should have learned
blanking our minds, to the weeping we hear.

Hanging our hopes, on ways we never learned
drinking away the anger that burns, drowning out the real truth.

The only light in it all, is in Creators hands
the only way out, is to go back to the start.

So, sit on the knowledge, your grandmothers taught
day dream away the chances you lost, bury your heads if you can.

The “good” urban life, with all of its glamour and glitz
is not for our kind, it is just murder of our way of life.

Go back to your Tipi’s, cabins, and caves
return to the ancestors, and the wisdom they gave.

Go to the mountains, canyons, and rivers
return to the Mother, renew your connections.

Listen to the wind, and the message it holds
lift up your prayers, in your own native tongue.

Burn the sweet grass, Cedar, and sage
take back the lives, your ancients gave.

Let these others march on their own way;
you belong to this land, its history is yours.

They dig in the dirt, looking for answers
but this dirt is ours, with all of its richness.

The history they seek, and pretend to “protect”
holds nothing for them, theirs is elsewhere.

Do you not see – they cannot lead on paths that are ours?
Beneath their feet their dreams crumble, the lessons here are for our children.