The Courtship of Sun and Moon

Sun and Moon by PatrickSchappe-Art

(based on a Yaqui story)

Every morning the Sun knelt
in the courtyard of the Moon.
She would never let him see
quite all of her; cloud curtains
dropped at any sign of his advancement.
How he burned for her!
He compared her to seafoam, pearls,
hammered silver thin as rain.
He ached to marry her.

One day she agreed.  "But you must bring me
a suitable gift which must fit
me precisely."

The next day he brought her a bracelet
made of red coral and dove feathers.
But it was too small!  He gave her a cloak
to wear after her bath:  it was too big.
He could never keep her constant.

They have never married.  Moon saddened,
for he never spoke of the one gift
without measure and yet the measure of all things:
love.

~ Anita Endrezze

The Courtship of Sun and Moon

Sun and Moon by PatrickSchappe-Art

(based on a Yaqui story)

Every morning the Sun knelt
in the courtyard of the Moon.
She would never let him see
quite all of her; cloud curtains
dropped at any sign of his advancement.
How he burned for her!
He compared her to seafoam, pearls,
hammered silver thin as rain.
He ached to marry her.

One day she agreed.  "But you must bring me
a suitable gift which must fit
me precisely."

The next day he brought her a bracelet
made of red coral and dove feathers.
But it was too small!  He gave her a cloak
to wear after her bath:  it was too big.
He could never keep her constant.

They have never married.  Moon saddened,
for he never spoke of the one gift
without measure and yet the measure of all things:
love.

~ Anita Endrezze

Eagle Poem

Photo credit: orchid from morguefile.com

To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River.  Circles in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon, within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.

~ Joy Harjo

Eagle Poem

Photo credit: orchid from morguefile.com

To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River.  Circles in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon, within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.

~ Joy Harjo

An Indian Prayer

O' Great Spirit

Whose voice I hear in the winds

And whose breath gives life to all the world

Hear me! I am small and weak, I need your

strength and wisdom

Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes

ever behold the red and purple sunset

Make my hands respect the things you have

made and my ears sharp to hear your voice

Make me wise so that I may understand the

things you have taught my people

Let me learn the lessons you have hidden

in every leaf and rock

I seek strength, not to be greater than my

brother, but to fight my greatest enemy-myself

Make me always ready to come to you with

clean hands and straight eyes

So when life fades, as the fading sunset

my spirit may come to you

without shame

(This prayer is from the Sioux Indian children of Red Cloud Indian School)

An Indian Prayer

O' Great Spirit

Whose voice I hear in the winds

And whose breath gives life to all the world

Hear me! I am small and weak, I need your

strength and wisdom

Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes

ever behold the red and purple sunset

Make my hands respect the things you have

made and my ears sharp to hear your voice

Make me wise so that I may understand the

things you have taught my people

Let me learn the lessons you have hidden

in every leaf and rock

I seek strength, not to be greater than my

brother, but to fight my greatest enemy-myself

Make me always ready to come to you with

clean hands and straight eyes

So when life fades, as the fading sunset

my spirit may come to you

without shame

(This prayer is from the Sioux Indian children of Red Cloud Indian School)

Morning Prayers

Photo credit: samhakes from morguefile.com

I have missed the guardian spirit

of the Sangre de Cristos

those mountains

against which I destroyed myself

every morning I was sick

with loving and fighting

in those small years.

In that season I looked up

to a blue conception of faith

a notion of the sacred in

the elegant border of cedar trees

becoming mountain and sky.

This is how we were born into the world:

Sky fell in love with earth, wore turquoise,

cantered in on a black horse.

Earth dressed herself fragrantly,

with regard for the aesthetics of holy romance.

Their love decorated the mountains with sunrise,

weaved valleys delicate with the edging of sunset.

This morning I look toward the east

and I am lonely for those mountains

though I've said good-bye to the girl

with her urgent prayers for redemption.

I used to believe in a vision

that would save the people

carry us all to the top of the mountain

during the flood

of human destruction.

I know nothing anymore

as I place my feet into the next world

except this:

the nothingness

is vast and stunning,

brims with details

of steaming, dark coffee

ashes of campfires

the bells on yaks or sheep

sirens careening through a deluge

of humans

or the dead carried through fire,

through the mist of baking sweet

bread and breathing.

This is how we will leave this world:

on horses of sunrise and sunset

from the shadow of the mountains

who witnessed every battle

every small struggle.

~ Joy Harjo

Morning Prayers

Photo credit: samhakes from morguefile.com

I have missed the guardian spirit

of the Sangre de Cristos

those mountains

against which I destroyed myself

every morning I was sick

with loving and fighting

in those small years.

In that season I looked up

to a blue conception of faith

a notion of the sacred in

the elegant border of cedar trees

becoming mountain and sky.

This is how we were born into the world:

Sky fell in love with earth, wore turquoise,

cantered in on a black horse.

Earth dressed herself fragrantly,

with regard for the aesthetics of holy romance.

Their love decorated the mountains with sunrise,

weaved valleys delicate with the edging of sunset.

This morning I look toward the east

and I am lonely for those mountains

though I've said good-bye to the girl

with her urgent prayers for redemption.

I used to believe in a vision

that would save the people

carry us all to the top of the mountain

during the flood

of human destruction.

I know nothing anymore

as I place my feet into the next world

except this:

the nothingness

is vast and stunning,

brims with details

of steaming, dark coffee

ashes of campfires

the bells on yaks or sheep

sirens careening through a deluge

of humans

or the dead carried through fire,

through the mist of baking sweet

bread and breathing.

This is how we will leave this world:

on horses of sunrise and sunset

from the shadow of the mountains

who witnessed every battle

every small struggle.

~ Joy Harjo

This is My Heart

This is my heart. It is a good heart.

Bones and a membrane of mist and fire

are the woven cover.

When we make love in the flower world

my heart is close enough to sing

to yours in a language that has no use

for clumsy human words.

My head, is a good head, but it is a hard head

and it wirrs inside with a swarm of worries.

What is the source of this singing, it asks

and if there is a source why can’t I see it

right here, right now

as real as these hands hammering

the world together

with nails and sinew?

This is my soul. It is a good soul.

It tells me, “come here forgetful one.”

And we sit together with a lilt of small winds

who rattle the scrub oak.

We cook a little something

to eat: a rabbit, some sofkey

then a sip of something sweet

for memory.

This is my song. It is a good song.

It walked forever the border of fire and water

climbed ribs of desire to my lips to sing to you.

Its new wings quiver with

vulnerability.

Come lie next to me, says my heart.

Put your head here.

It is a good thing, says my soul.

~ Joy Harjo

_______________________________________

The heart has reasons that reason does not understand. ~ Jacques Benigne Bossuel

This is My Heart

This is my heart. It is a good heart.

Bones and a membrane of mist and fire

are the woven cover.

When we make love in the flower world

my heart is close enough to sing

to yours in a language that has no use

for clumsy human words.

My head, is a good head, but it is a hard head

and it wirrs inside with a swarm of worries.

What is the source of this singing, it asks

and if there is a source why can’t I see it

right here, right now

as real as these hands hammering

the world together

with nails and sinew?

This is my soul. It is a good soul.

It tells me, “come here forgetful one.”

And we sit together with a lilt of small winds

who rattle the scrub oak.

We cook a little something

to eat: a rabbit, some sofkey

then a sip of something sweet

for memory.

This is my song. It is a good song.

It walked forever the border of fire and water

climbed ribs of desire to my lips to sing to you.

Its new wings quiver with

vulnerability.

Come lie next to me, says my heart.

Put your head here.

It is a good thing, says my soul.

~ Joy Harjo

_______________________________________

The heart has reasons that reason does not understand. ~ Jacques Benigne Bossuel

My Grandfather Is The Fire

Photo credit: lisasolonynko from morguefile.com

My grandfather is the fire

My grandmother is the wind.

The Earth is my mother

The Great Spirit is my father

The World stopped at my birth

and laid itself at my feet

And I shall swallow the Earth whole when I die

and the Earth and I will be one

Hail The Great Spirit, my father

without him no one could exist

because there would be no will to live

Hail The Earth, my mother

without which no food could be grown

and so cause the will to live to starve

Hail the wind, my grandmother

for she brings loving, life-giving rain

nourishing us as she nourishes our crops

Hail the fire, my grandfather

for the light, the warmth, the comfort he brings

without which we be animals, not men

Hail my parent and grandparents

without which

not I

nor you

nor anyone else

could have existed

Life gives life

which gives unto itself

a promise of new life

Hail the Great Spirit, The Earth, the wind, the fire

praise my parents loudly

for they are your parents, too

Oh, Great Spirit, giver of my life

please accept this humble offering of prayer

this offering of praise

this honest reverence of my love for you.

~ Native American poetry

_____________________________________________

I am the supporter of the universe, the father, the mother, and the grandfather. ~ Srimad Bhagavad Gita

My Grandfather Is The Fire

Photo credit: lisasolonynko from morguefile.com

My grandfather is the fire

My grandmother is the wind.

The Earth is my mother

The Great Spirit is my father

The World stopped at my birth

and laid itself at my feet

And I shall swallow the Earth whole when I die

and the Earth and I will be one

Hail The Great Spirit, my father

without him no one could exist

because there would be no will to live

Hail The Earth, my mother

without which no food could be grown

and so cause the will to live to starve

Hail the wind, my grandmother

for she brings loving, life-giving rain

nourishing us as she nourishes our crops

Hail the fire, my grandfather

for the light, the warmth, the comfort he brings

without which we be animals, not men

Hail my parent and grandparents

without which

not I

nor you

nor anyone else

could have existed

Life gives life

which gives unto itself

a promise of new life

Hail the Great Spirit, The Earth, the wind, the fire

praise my parents loudly

for they are your parents, too

Oh, Great Spirit, giver of my life

please accept this humble offering of prayer

this offering of praise

this honest reverence of my love for you.

~ Native American poetry

_____________________________________________

I am the supporter of the universe, the father, the mother, and the grandfather. ~ Srimad Bhagavad Gita

The Delight Song of Tsoai-Talee

Image: imagerymajestic/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I am a feather on the bright sky

I am the blue horse that runs in the plain

I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water

I am the shadow that follows a child

I am the evening light, the lustre of meadows

I am an eagle playing with the wind

I am a cluster of bright beads

I am the farthest star

I am the cold of the dawn

I am the roaring of the rain

I am the glitter on the crust of the snow

I am the long track of the moon in a lake

I am a flame of four colors

I am a deer standing away in the dusk

I am a field of sumac and pomme blanche

I am an angle of geese in the winter sky

I am the hunger of a young wolf

I am the whole dream of these things

You see, I am alive, I am alive

I stand in good relation to the Gods

I stand in good relation to the earth

I stand in good relation to everything that is beautiful...

You see, I am alive, I am alive

~ Navarre Scott Momaday 

____________________________________________

Man is a piece of the universe made alive. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Delight Song of Tsoai-Talee

Image: imagerymajestic/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I am a feather on the bright sky

I am the blue horse that runs in the plain

I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water

I am the shadow that follows a child

I am the evening light, the lustre of meadows

I am an eagle playing with the wind

I am a cluster of bright beads

I am the farthest star

I am the cold of the dawn

I am the roaring of the rain

I am the glitter on the crust of the snow

I am the long track of the moon in a lake

I am a flame of four colors

I am a deer standing away in the dusk

I am a field of sumac and pomme blanche

I am an angle of geese in the winter sky

I am the hunger of a young wolf

I am the whole dream of these things

You see, I am alive, I am alive

I stand in good relation to the Gods

I stand in good relation to the earth

I stand in good relation to everything that is beautiful...

You see, I am alive, I am alive

~ Navarre Scott Momaday 

____________________________________________

Man is a piece of the universe made alive. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ah, Ah

Photo credit: caitcolf from morguefile.com

for Lurline McGregor

Ah, ah cries the crow arching toward the heavy sky over the marina.
Lands on the crown of the palm tree.

 Ah, ah slaps the urgent cove of ocean swimming through the slips.
We carry canoes to the edge of the salt.

 Ah, ah groans the crew with the weight, the winds cutting skin.
We claim our seats. Pelicans perch in the draft for fish.

 Ah, ah beats our lungs and we are racing into the waves.
Though there are worlds below us and above us, we are straight ahead.

 Ah, ah tattoos the engines of your plane against the sky—away from these waters.
Each paddle stroke follows the curve from reach to loss.

 Ah, ah calls the sun from a fishing boat with a pale, yellow sail. We fly by
on our return, over the net of eternity thrown out for stars.

 Ah, ah scrapes the hull of my soul. Ah, ah.

 ~ Joy Harjo

______________________________________________________

Ah, women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Ah, Ah

Photo credit: caitcolf from morguefile.com

for Lurline McGregor

Ah, ah cries the crow arching toward the heavy sky over the marina.
Lands on the crown of the palm tree.

 Ah, ah slaps the urgent cove of ocean swimming through the slips.
We carry canoes to the edge of the salt.

 Ah, ah groans the crew with the weight, the winds cutting skin.
We claim our seats. Pelicans perch in the draft for fish.

 Ah, ah beats our lungs and we are racing into the waves.
Though there are worlds below us and above us, we are straight ahead.

 Ah, ah tattoos the engines of your plane against the sky—away from these waters.
Each paddle stroke follows the curve from reach to loss.

 Ah, ah calls the sun from a fishing boat with a pale, yellow sail. We fly by
on our return, over the net of eternity thrown out for stars.

 Ah, ah scrapes the hull of my soul. Ah, ah.

 ~ Joy Harjo

______________________________________________________

Ah, women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

The Earth

Image: Simon Howden/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Once in his life a man ought to concentrate his mind upon

the remembered earth, I believe. He ought to give himself up

to a particular landscape in his experience, to look at it from

as many angles as he can, to wonder about it, to dwell upon it.

He ought to imagine that he touches it with his hands at

every season and listens to the sounds that are made upon

it. He ought to imagine the creatures there and all the faintest

motions of the wind. He ought to recollect the glare of noon and

all the colors of the dawn and dusk.

For we are held by more than the force of gravity to the earth.

It is the entity from which we are sprung, and that into which

we are dissolved in time. The blood of the whole human race

is invested in it. We are moored there, rooted as surely, as

deeply as are the ancient redwoods and bristlecones.

~Navarre Scott Momaday