Native American Culture

09/02/2025

09/01/2025

From Our Wings to Yours

Child,
you are the light we carry,
the song that beats within our chest.

Our wings rise to shield you,
to guide you through storm and shadow.
Every feather is a prayer,
every breath a promise:
you will never fly alone.

We pass to you the memory of rivers,
the wisdom of winds,
the strength of roots deep in the earth.

Fly, little one—
but know, always,
our love is the sky around you,
our hearts the circle
that holds you forever.

09/01/2025

"Still Here"

We are still here—
the feathers carry our prayers,
the drum carries our heartbeat,
the land carries our name.

We are still strong—
woven in colors of fire and earth,
braided in the strands of time,
standing where our ancestors stood.

No storm erased us,
no silence broke us.
We walk with pride,
our spirits unyielding,
our voices rising—
Native,
foreve

08/31/2025

"The Church Without Walls"
They asked me once, "Where is your church?"
I smiled and pointed to the horizon.
“To the east, where the sun rises and paints the sky with fire—there, I begin my prayers.
To the north, where the winds carry the wisdom of the ancestors—I listen and learn.
To the west, where the sun dies gently each day—I give thanks for the lessons.
To the south, where life grows and renews—I find healing and hope.”
My church does not have doors, but it welcomes all.
Its roof is the sky, sometimes fierce with storms, sometimes calm with stars.
Its walls are made of pine and river, stone and silence.
And its teachings are written in birdsong, in paw prints, in the way the water moves over stone.
Nature is not something I worship.
It is something I belong to.
I carry no book, for the Earth writes stories in every leaf and every breath.
I follow no preacher, but I follow the wolf, the crow, the cedar tree.
They have never lied to me.
So no, I don’t need a building to find my spirit.
I just need to stand barefoot in the soil and remember:
The Earth is my church.
And nature is my religion.

08/31/2025

Raven on the Spirit Canoe

Upon the carved canoe it waits,
A raven cloaked in midnight’s grace.
Eyes like embers, sharp and deep,
Guarding memories the forest keeps.

The river sleeps in winter’s breath,
Silent songs of life and death.
Painted wood, a sacred sign,
Stories etched in ancient time.

O raven, watcher of the skies,
Messenger where the spirit flies.
Do you call the souls back home,
Or guide the lost where they must roam?

The forest leans to hear your song,
A voice that carries all night long.
Through mist and snow, through dream and flame,
You whisper the ancestors’ name.

08/31/2025

Mother Bear’s Whisper
Come close, my little one,
rest your soft nose against mine.
Feel the warmth of my breath—
it is the song of the ancestors,
carried through me, now into you.
You are my cub,
born of earth, river, and sky,
wrapped in the circle of our people,
held in the strength of our clan.
Every heartbeat of mine
is a drum to guide your steps,
every pawprint I leave
is a path for you to follow.
Remember, child—
walk with kindness in your paws,
for the forest listens.
Carry respect in your heart,
for all beings are kin.
The salmon, the cedar, the eagle—
they are your teachers too.
I will protect you
with the fury of storm winds,
yet I will teach you
to be gentle as falling snow.
One day you will walk alone,
but never forget—
my love is the lodge around you,
my spirit the fire that will never fade.
So grow strong, little cub,
grow wise, grow true.
And always know,
as long as the rivers flow
and the mountains breathe,
you are forever
my heart.

08/29/2025

She Who Walks with Wings

She walks beneath the ancient sun,
not casting a shadow,
but carrying light
woven from the songs of her grandmothers.

Her cloak—no cloth,
but wings of the Monarch,
soft like prayer,
strong like memory.

Around her, the butterflies rise,
as if the ancestors remembered
the way back home—
through her breath, through her step.

She does not fly.
She becomes the flight.
And in the silence,
the land remembers her name.