Native Land Poem by Marlin Nightingale

'Twas the culture of the native,
In the mountains of the west;
To record by cantillation,
Many stories of the past.
Sweet the songs the Chiefs related,
Sung with fervor and with zest,
How the untamed river flooded,
How the mighty buffalo,
Gave us food and clothes and shelter,
When there fell the winter snow.

Ah, as far as chief remembers,
From the ancient days gone past,
Water flowed from sky to ocean,
And the bison roamed the grass..
Here chief Blackfoot tells the saga,
Of a thousand hunts gone by,
Whilst the firelight flits in drama,
At the coyotes mournful cry.

Now the young-ins' cease their rustle,
And the baby quiets her whine,
All the young braves keen to listen,
Of an antecedent time.
While the elders of the village,
Softly beat the deerskin drum,
Blackfoot mutters in agreement,
And the story forthwith comes;

Since my face was young and crease less
And my feet trod true and fearless,
There roamed upon this land more hunts,
than haunt a hundred warriors dreams.
And the snows that give the water,
From which feast our golden daughters,
Never have a moment stopped from,
Plunging down, in glorious silver streams!

Listen, small ones, to the howling,
Of the winter winds affront,
Let me tell you of the chieftain,
And his braves upon the hunt!
Rest your eyes upon the soil,
Train your ear to things of worth,
For a man is not a hunter,
Til he can discern the earth.

Can you hear the distant tumult?
Yes, the trembling of the ground?
Have your feathers shook to exult,
In the power of the sound?
How the thunder is a'growin',
From a thousand hooves and beasts,
While the beads from 'round your ankles,
Start to jangle ne'er to cease!

Here a dust encircled wasteland,
Where a thousand wasted breaths,
Pushed from lips of horse and brigand,
Who are riding to their deaths.
And the sun who bids it's fury
Cast itself upon the plain,
While the blackened choking flurries,
Made of dust, they still remain.


Now the riders fast emerging,
In the draft of the stampede,
Men with painted faces urging,
Forth their muscled glistening steeds.
Now as one they rise in motion,
Tracking every move til mesh,
Man and horse and bow and arrow,
Glorious synchrony of flesh!

True the feather on the tail shaft,
Sharp the Rock that crowns the tip,
From the fresh-hewn bow retracted,
Speeding quicker than a whip,
Comes the arrow plunging wildly,
In the raging Buffaloe's side,
And the rampage that preceded,
Just as quickly left and died.

'Twas the culture of the native,
In the mountains of the west,
There to hunt the mighty Buffaloe,
And to scout where rivers rest.
For as far as they remember,
All the Chiefs of all the tribes,
Fished the swollen mighty river,
And did stretch the buffalo hide.

But a day had dawned when every,
Beam that shone from summer skies,
Fell sore upon the chieftains hearts,
And hard upon their eyes.
The white men from the east had brought
A universe of steel,
A pouring rock called concrete,
The wagon and the wheel.

The bison were a shadow now,
Of what crowd once had stormed,
Across the blackened prairies,
In invincible form.
The river from its wild rush,
Had halted in a lake.
The pouring rock had dammed its path.
No more the plunge it'd take.

'Twas the culture of the native,
In the mountains of the west,
Oh as far as they remember,
Back into the distant past.
And as far as they shall see it,
In the future of the land,
No more shall plunge that waterfall,
Nor herds of giants stand.

Where eagles soar the mighty blue,
And hang in everlasting rest,
Their flight is only but half true,
For they must land and seek their nest
Such is our time and all we see,
A seeming permanent suspense,
But change is certain and is sure,
Times' permanence is but pretense.