"wakan" poems - Hello Poetry

High atop the mountain a boy crouched alone in the vision pit – waiting. Raising his red stone pipe to the four directions he sent clouds of willow bark smoke skyward toward his ancestors. Naked beneath his star blanket he wept a man’s cry – crying for a vision to come that his people might live! Chanting with eyes fast shut he waited and prayed. First came the cries of the wind, then the whisper of trees. Birds swooped and circled about him. He shook his rattle crying, “Tunkashila, grandfather spirit, help me.” A voice spoke in the call of a bird, *“Your sacrifice will make you Wikasa Wakan, medicine man. We are the winged ones and we are your brothers.”* In a swirling cloud his great, grandfather came and spoke, blood dripping from the hole where a white soldier’s bullet had found his chest, “You will take my name, Tahka Ushte, Lame Deer.” The new man on the mountain rejoiced. Quietly entering the vision pit, kind Old Chest placed a hand on Lame Deer’s shoulder, “Four days have passed, it is time.” and led Tahka Ushte down to the valley. June, 2006

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Aug 13, 2013

Aug 13, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC

robert-c-howard

Lame Deer's Vision

High atop the mountain a boy crouched alone in the vision pit – waiting. Raising his red stone pipe to the four directions he sent clouds of willow bark smoke skyward toward his ancestors. Naked beneath his star blanket he wept a man’s cry – crying for a vision to come that his people might live! Chanting with eyes fast shut he waited and prayed. First came the cries of the wind, then the whisper of trees. Birds swooped and circled about him. He shook his rattle crying, “Tunkashila, grandfather spirit, help me.” A voice spoke in the call of a bird, *“Your sacrifice will make you Wikasa Wakan, medicine man. We are the winged ones and we are your brothers.”* In a swirling cloud his great, grandfather came and spoke, blood dripping from the hole where a white soldier’s bullet had found his chest, “You will take my name, Tahka Ushte, Lame Deer.” The new man on the mountain rejoiced. Quietly entering the vision pit, kind Old Chest placed a hand on Lame Deer’s shoulder, “Four days have passed, it is time.” and led Tahka Ushte down to the valley. June, 2006

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Mammon, their false god of avarice, says, their 'final solution', extinction, to steal everyone's everything, can't be stopped, notseeism will rule. "...We(e),..." bay, nay, you will be separated from the State, as the Constitution dictates, the people will rise again, your treason will end, Oyate. Somatic revolution, each one's foci of attention solutioning with all life, betwixt Earth and Sky, evincing to be alival, not survival, lifting sights, inspiring visions, meditations, actions, sweats to Sundance. While we look to the 7 th generation, with our climate crisis strike, starting 9-20-19 and 'the Green New Deal', we also mournfully remember 'Wounded Knee', 12-29-1890, where 300 Native Americans were exterminated. Most of them were women, kids, a root of our king-kong sized terrible-two's current war on kids, mostly Latinos. I would fly just for a day, as a mayfly, the Beauty Way, if I were more me, rather than as long as an eagle flies, selling out, destroying, killing. Viva la evolucion. Wakan Tanka.

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Sep 9, 2019

Sep 9, 2019 at 6:11 AM UTC

reality

Mitakuye Oyasin

Mammon, their false god of avarice, says, their 'final solution', extinction, to steal everyone's everything, can't be stopped, notseeism will rule. "...We(e),..." bay, nay, you will be separated from the State, as the Constitution dictates, the people will rise again, your treason will end, Oyate. Somatic revolution, each one's foci of attention solutioning with all life, betwixt Earth and Sky, evincing to be alival, not survival, lifting sights, inspiring visions, meditations, actions, sweats to Sundance. While we look to the 7 th generation, with our climate crisis strike, starting 9-20-19 and 'the Green New Deal', we also mournfully remember 'Wounded Knee', 12-29-1890, where 300 Native Americans were exterminated. Most of them were women, kids, a root of our king-kong sized terrible-two's current war on kids, mostly Latinos. I would fly just for a day, as a mayfly, the Beauty Way, if I were more me, rather than as long as an eagle flies, selling out, destroying, killing. Viva la evolucion. Wakan Tanka.

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My heart stays in Wyoming, as Montana calls my name My spurs and bits ‘a jingling’ my soul goes north again Cody up through Beartooth Pass, Cooke City just below The Great Divide off to my left, the glaciers ringed with snow I stop to mourn the western tribes, as dark clouds form above The war call of Tasunka-Witko, crying out with love My spirit loose to roam the land, the great Oglala’s words I hear Two kindred souls in one last dance —as Wakan Tanka draws us near (Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)

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Jul 5, 2019

Jul 5, 2019 at 10:06 PM UTC

kurt-philip-behm

One Last Dance

My heart stays in Wyoming, as Montana calls my name My spurs and bits ‘a jingling’ my soul goes north again Cody up through Beartooth Pass, Cooke City just below The Great Divide off to my left, the glaciers ringed with snow I stop to mourn the western tribes, as dark clouds form above The war call of Tasunka-Witko, crying out with love My spirit loose to roam the land, the great Oglala’s words I hear Two kindred souls in one last dance —as Wakan Tanka draws us near (Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)

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My heart stays in Wyoming, as Montana calls my name My spurs and bits ‘a jingling’ my soul goes north again Cody up through Beartooth Pass, Cooke City just below The Great Divide off to my left, the glaciers ringed with snow I stop to mourn the western tribes, as dark clouds form above The war cry of Tasunka-Witko, crying out with love My spirit loose to roam the land, the great Oglala’s words I hear Two kindred souls in one last dance, —as Wakan Tanka draws us near (Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)

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Feb 4, 2017

Feb 4, 2017 at 9:42 AM UTC

kurt-philip-behm

One Last Dance

My heart stays in Wyoming, as Montana calls my name My spurs and bits ‘a jingling’ my soul goes north again Cody up through Beartooth Pass, Cooke City just below The Great Divide off to my left, the glaciers ringed with snow I stop to mourn the western tribes, as dark clouds form above The war cry of Tasunka-Witko, crying out with love My spirit loose to roam the land, the great Oglala’s words I hear Two kindred souls in one last dance, —as Wakan Tanka draws us near (Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)

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‘Wana Hin Gle’ the Lakota call me, ‘Wana Hin Gle’ my given name ‘He Who Happens Now,’ the drum beat has found me, reaching into this moment beyond glory and fame As ‘Wana Hin Gle,’ my spirit has wandered, as ‘Wana Hin Gle,’ my ancestors call The questions dissolve, as The Great Mystery beckons, the campfire eternal, the chanting enthralls “‘Wana Hin Gle,”’ my Mother calls proudly, “Your horse is now waiting, your shield fixed with bone “Off into the prairie you must ride in the twilight, the People will dance until their son returns home “’Wana Hin Gle,’ you must now happen quickly, the buffalo ravaged, starvation cries loud “Your eyes to look upon the great Wakan Tanka, whose absence has shamed us, who once were so proud “As the great Tasunka Witko who traveled before you, you must call for your horse to come out of the lake “Great Mother River and Great Mountain Father, to your will they entrust what The People forsake “Your spirit must suffer, the babies still cry, the cold through the tent ***** all future in blight “The hawk comes to guide you, as you pass through the darkness, the drums of your fathers beat into the night “You will ride to the top of the ‘Pass Of The Bears,’ ask the Grizzly, our brother, where the demon still hides “Where it lives, you must **** it, for this time and always, before it steals our last dream, keeping spirits alive “The White Horse will take you from the lake to the mountain, and the stallion will sprout wings with its hooves fiery hot “You will trample this demon and burn him before you, the smoke will then signal of what he is not “‘Wana Hin Gle,’” my son; the time is for going, your journey awaits, past-futures on hold “The Medicine Woman is locked deep inside you, your People die waiting—the young and the old” (Pine Ridge South Dakota: February, 2011) From My Novel: “Searching For Crazy Horse”

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Feb 17, 2018

Feb 17, 2018 at 9:12 PM UTC

kurt-philip-behm

A Lakota Mothers Prayer

‘Wana Hin Gle’ the Lakota call me, ‘Wana Hin Gle’ my given name ‘He Who Happens Now,’ the drum beat has found me, reaching into this moment beyond glory and fame As ‘Wana Hin Gle,’ my spirit has wandered, as ‘Wana Hin Gle,’ my ancestors call The questions dissolve, as The Great Mystery beckons, the campfire eternal, the chanting enthralls “‘Wana Hin Gle,”’ my Mother calls proudly, “Your horse is now waiting, your shield fixed with bone “Off into the prairie you must ride in the twilight, the People will dance until their son returns home “’Wana Hin Gle,’ you must now happen quickly, the buffalo ravaged, starvation cries loud “Your eyes to look upon the great Wakan Tanka, whose absence has shamed us, who once were so proud “As the great Tasunka Witko who traveled before you, you must call for your horse to come out of the lake “Great Mother River and Great Mountain Father, to your will they entrust what The People forsake “Your spirit must suffer, the babies still cry, the cold through the tent ***** all future in blight “The hawk comes to guide you, as you pass through the darkness, the drums of your fathers beat into the night “You will ride to the top of the ‘Pass Of The Bears,’ ask the Grizzly, our brother, where the demon still hides “Where it lives, you must **** it, for this time and always, before it steals our last dream, keeping spirits alive “The White Horse will take you from the lake to the mountain, and the stallion will sprout wings with its hooves fiery hot “You will trample this demon and burn him before you, the smoke will then signal of what he is not “‘Wana Hin Gle,’” my son; the time is for going, your journey awaits, past-futures on hold “The Medicine Woman is locked deep inside you, your People die waiting—the young and the old” (Pine Ridge South Dakota: February, 2011) From My Novel: “Searching For Crazy Horse”

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