Drumbeats on the Wind
A Choctaw Family Tree
Carry me away
to the distant past.
Fly me on the wind.
Land of my fathers,
too proud to die,
hunted for the red
in their skin.
to the distant past.
Fly me on the wind.
Land of my fathers,
too proud to die,
hunted for the red
in their skin.
Beat, Beat Beat
slow is the rhythm.
BEAT, BEAT, BEAT
it grows.
Hay ya hay hay ya
Hay ya hay hay ya,
chants in the depths
of my soul.
Hills and the valleys
merging to one
reaching for heights
in the sky,
land of the prairies
baked in the sun
land of my people
my tribe.
Hay Hay ya hay
Hay hay ya hay
Hay ya ya
hay ya!
Published by Susan Elliott
Susan Elliott's poetry has appeared in both print and online formats. Susan has recently published her first two Kindle books: Wandering Through a Barely Functional Mind and Ink Blots on Paper. View profile
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4 Comments
Post a CommentDid a song with Native American rhythms, but it never saw the light of day. Always upsets me the way they were treated. Like the passion of this poem.
Susan, what an amazing poem! I love this! I can hear the drums and the singing in the background as I read it.
Thank you Shaheen. I wrote this after going to a Pow-Wow. It was amazing, and really made me think about my great-grandfather. He never spoke of his heritage until he was dying. But, then he spoke of a great white horse, and the happy hunting ground. I wish I had been able to speak with him about his very interesting beliefs before he died.
This was so powerful, you brought a whole scene to life with your words