About this user
Computer consultant by profession when I am not working as a consultant I am an Impish aspiring poet who has a funny sense of humour, a passion for life and a concern for what mankind is doing to the planet.
I met an ancient warrior whilst walking in the woods His wizened face had many lines he talked of many Gods, I sat and listened to his tales the hours they passed by, I knew that all he shared was truth; I knew he did not lie. He talked of days before my age when mankind was still young, Of dancing just to call the rain or when his tribe sang songs, To the spirits of their ancestors to help his tribe be strong. Their message was a simple one, be true and do no wrong. The lessons that the Gods have hid in every leaf and rock, Will make you wise if you have eyes and wisdom to unlock, The wind will teach your tribe to hear all that the Gods do share. The owl, the beaver, caribou, the bison and the bear, Form part of all, must be preserved, if man is to survive, All life is sacred, care for it and do not let your tribe, Harm any living creature; unless you really understand,Their lives are also precious and are part of lifes great plan. Take only what you need to eat, and do not kill for sport, For spirits are in everything; your life they will support. Only if you have respect for natures sacrifice, Revere their passing, mourn their loss; respect their gift of life. He talked about the days before the white man came in ships, The freedom that the tribes once had, before his tribes eclipse, They roamed the forests and the woods; they climbed the mountains range, In harmony and deep respect they walked the hills and plains. His ancestors would hunt for food but always with respect. Their Thipis made of bison hide, their lodge like minarets, Would reach up bravely to the sky; would shelter from the storm, On winter nights through thickest blow his tribe was always warm. Then white man came with greed in heart and desperate to possess, All that belonged to ancient tribe, each treaty was transgressed. One winter morning sorrow cast their camp in deathly blue, Their blood was shed; without care they died in crimson hue. The spear and arrow was no match for guns and shells of brass, His ancient tribe was mown down like the cut of green lawns grass. A sabre slash or pistol shot killed each and every Brave, All that was left, were bodies dead, not one was spared that day. But how said I, if all are dead can you recite to me, What happened to your tribe that day, explain this mystery. The ancient warrior then looked back and said with softest tear, Remember all I shared with you, and then he disappeared! So now I dance the Ghost Dance and I sing the Spirits song , And I pray that all the white men from the land will soon be gone. And if the Gods will listen to this heart that is sincere, More ancients will return to teach us all how to revere. Each and every living thing, I pray for elder sage, To once again return and share his wisdom in this age.
