ECHOES FROM THE EAGLE SPIRIT SOCIETY

The reverberating sounds of the Drums and the sweet melodies
The wavering movements of the tree suggest that they enjoy the rhythm that they hear
Tipis and feathers creating an artistic view of cultural connotation
Men and women blown away in preparation
I can see generations connecting to the ways of their forefathers
I can see the land and its spirituality through the teaching of neyihaw
Mother earth smiles to the spirituality and reciprocity hovering round the indigenous mind
I can see disembodied walls coming together to create a wonderful atmosphere for social interaction
I can see children and youth strolling back to cultural identity
I can hear the healing process echoing through the circles
I see the world views flowing within my mind through the cultural teachings of ceremonies
When I stand in the mirror ‘am drenched in the reflection of the similarities that exist between the two cultures
Culture indeed is an art that sits patiently in our heart waiting to be expressed by ceremonies
Culture is a parrot or Porte parole that speaks volumes of our identity
Culture is the sustaining power of our four dimensions that keep our body and soul together
The similarities keep crawling back like a recurring decimal each time ‘am lost in cultural oblivion
Culture was brutalised and kicked out in the hands of residential schools
Children becoming strangers to whom they are
Oh my God it killed their culture it killed their spirit
It dismantled the social fabric of family and community
Like lost but found item my creativity has found me in this wilderness of cultural revitalisation
Which I wish to empty with my busy hands dancing to the songs of my creativity
These are the echoes from the eagle spirit society

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DANCING WATERS

They drop like leaves
They cut themselves like Branches
They transfer their heart to their back
They paint themselves in red
The guns and boots are resurrected
They tattoo the ground with their footprints
They create a black cloud in the Atmosphere
Tears Flow like the Saskatchewan River
They feed themselves to the mouths of the earth
They beat the drums of discord
They chant the songs of hatred
They dance to the tunes of their misguided conscience
They sting themselves like buzzing bees
Stitches and needles waiting to sew the clothes of mourning under the morning sun
Black and white costumes filling the earth with their unending tears
They dry their tears under the consoling arms of sympathisers
They wear an expression of remorse
They set their conscience free from the shackles of war

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Poems by Ginikachi Obah
Image: Pixabay.com remixed