Ghaaji (October)

Early dawn, shine down on him.
Voices of the dawn people    whisper your words to him
Feather him down with your existence
Instill your beliefs upon desire
For we are all children of the Holy Ones.

To be with you
Today, yesterday, and tomorrow.
Although my voice is in despair.
                My way with words.
Hidden in the depths of my culture.
My identity.        Scrambled.
Mixed in between souls.
Yours or mine.    Our drum tangos.
Colors draining from the contours of my being.
Crevices filling with years of the earth's brews.
Dancing to the tune of genocide.

My people.
Your people.  Red. White. Too blue to chase reality.
Falling, like the feathers of society.
        Constructing the beads of life.
        Engineering unity.
                  Praying for development.  Mapping a trail to my heart.
              O' shi heart! buried beneath your love.
Enforcing my plan to regain the jewelries of life.
                    White Gold. Blue diamonds.
                    Red pearls. Black Rubies.
                             Adorned from all the sacred directions.
                   
Canyon walls engraving the changes encountered.
Shifting of the moon.
          My dreams hovering closed thoughts.
They say, "forget the indian".
Pull out your rulers;
              Slap my tongue when I tell you you're whiter than
                    White Shell Woman or the white corn pollen
sprinkled on my spirit.

The crazy horse of a spirit.
Drinking.
Drowning.  Drowning in my tradition.
Gasping for your breath of Indian Love.


Forget the beating.    Genocide. Acculturation.
What more can my census number identify me with.
Hundreds of years of fighting was enough.
We are labeled.
Branded. Wounded.
Let my ancestors rest in peace.
Their existence, their somber dreams of agony
                   Sleep in beauty.

The breeze
        smoking its way through the lineage of my blood.
Cleansing.
Purifying.
         All the while, the leaves of fall
         dancing in the whirlwinds of my caliber.
                   waving a pleasant goodbye,
                   whispering cedar songs
                   to accompany me on my trails.

Trails, trials to which I may follow.
                             Guidance required.
For I may be driven into the past.
My war cries igniting, replicating
  an image of being indigenous, being me.

To which may I be blessed.
Heard.
Recognized.

Before,
Behind,
Above,
Below,
All around me.
  Grant me the opportunity to verbalize my actions
  Influence my inner beauty.
  Offer blessings.
  Dance beside me.

In harmony, harmony, harmony, harmony.