* I DEDICATE THIS STORY POEM TO MY NATIVE AMERICAN SISTER,
"JUDITH JOHNSON KYPTA". I NOW TELL A STORY WHEN LIFE WAS
AT PEACE AND YOUNG LOVE FILLED THE VALLEYS.
SUMMER BESIDE, THE SINGING STREAM
As today, as it was nearly every day at the Singing Stream
The early morning meadow breezes were fresh along the water
Sweet is the music, made as the water rambles over the rocks
Birds sang their songs and the music was was happy and joyful
Truly this morning was filled with the sweetest of fragrances
Seated on a blanket in the tall Lemon Grass was Morning Star
This young maiden was the daughter of Chief Black Buffalo Horn
Her mother was Running Fawn, truly a beauty of nature as well
Her white buckskin dress was adorned with shells and feathers,
Fresh water Pearls and precious stones from our Mother Earth.
A breeze as refreshing as a mountain stream blew atop the grass
She could hear the wind softly singing threw the Lemon Grass
She began to comb her long raven black hair that was blowing freely
So black, that when she moved her head it glimmered a hue of purple
Her comb was crafted from the jawbone of the mighty mountain Elk
It was craved, jeweled and polished by her mother, Running Fawn
Morning Star could hear the women at work doing a variety of jobs
The Singing Stream held the laughter of the children happily at play
The sounds of the clothes being slapped across the rocks were one
Mixed with the songs of the birds created its very own symphony
Over head a lazy Hawk was heard as he glided over the strong breeze
Morning Dove raised her beautiful face to view the Hawk motionless
She then opened her arms wide, throwing her long black hair backwards
And soared along side the wings of the Hawk in and out of the clouds
It was moments like this that she felt alive and one with Mother Nature
The women were busy working, keeping a watchful eye on the children
A few of the women were making their way back to start another chore
This went on through the day, gathering berries and or wood for burning
The clouds were in slow motion, creating pockets of sun upon the ground
Morning Star then started to braid her long hair and adorning it with,
Sprigs of Lemon Grass, colorful beads and strips of freshly tanned rawhide
She picked a few sweet smelling blossoms to rub along side her neck
Such a vision, framed by the sunlight and the branches of the old Oak tree
She just happened to glanced over to her left, as she finished the last braid
And noticed three tall figures in the distance and one was coming her way
Her heart, face and hands were on fire, she pretended not to notice him.
There stood Strong Elk, tall, dark and handsome with long raven color hair,
That caught a breeze a blew wildly across his bare muscular and tight chest
The light seemed to frame him just so, for he was striking a pose or two
Cordially looking at this stud, only a few feet away from her and nearly naked.
Strong Elk was now seventeen and considered very much a man; she fifteen
Strong Elk decided to play it coy and started to strut over to Morning Star
All the time her eyes were fixated on the beauty this man truly has become
He had moccasins on his feet and Lamb chin leggings tied above the knees
Her eyes slowly worked their way up to his rock hard thighs, she took a breath
As he stretched his arms out, looking like the mighty Oak they were under
His loin cloth was a dark tan matching his skin color and hung just to his knees
A breeze blew again moving his hair and loin cloth, revealing his entire body.
Both felt desire in their hearts, he wanted to hold her tightly
Strong Elk saw the beauty that Manitou created just for him
Morning Dove saw the man that would father her children
Two more cycles of the Blue Corn Moon and they would be one.
Everyone in the village knew they were promised to one another
Yet they had to watch their actions amongst the Elders of the tribe
Chief Black Buffalo Horn and Running Fawn felt the love growing
Strong Elk would be Chief one day and that was strong medicine
But until that day comes, when each are blessed in front of everyone
Walks by the Singing Stream will have to carry their tunes of love
And their dreams and hopes for the People to carry on through time.
Until then the children are heard playing in the water most days beside,
The Singing Stream.
by Richard Lee Cook
Copyright 2010
AN SILVERFEATHER CREATION
