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The Drum beat carries on. ( Poem )
You were the first one they brought home dressed in blue,
never realizing you’d be the one to build a canoe.
You’d embrace your heritage as an elder in our tribe,
forever holding steady to your indian pride.
You started your journey at the pow wow’s at Lasalette,
the sounds of the drums you’d never forget.
You fashioned bows out of whittled sticks,
shot arrows at pigeons just for the kicks.
You carved arrowheads into pieces of stone,
perfecting your craft as you’ve grown.
You hung roadkill up in our tree’s,
our house resembled the likes of redneck hillbillies.
The neighbors would ring our bell during dinner,
announcing they had something for the talented skinner.
Out in the yard you’d carve at their flesh,
pulling and tugging, skin comes off easier when it’s fresh.
You’d make knife sheaths and satchels out of various critters,
to be quite honest it gave most of us the jitters.
Your fascination grew hard, fast and free,
you shocked us all when you erected a life size TP.
I was mortified of what my friends would say,
I begged mom and dad to make it go away.
They just rolled their eyes and flashed me a grin,
Well just great, we’re stuck with him!!!!!
For years I thought you were simply nuts,
erecting Tp’s, lean too’s and canvas huts.
Ordering weird things from a place called tandy,
salting and stretching the skin of poor little Bambi.
For the Love of God, why is he this way,
" He’s just an artist " my parents would say.
Now, I knew he could draw and sketch,
but skinning dead things for art, that was far fetched.
How could his obsession be considered art,
I learned it much later, so here’s the best part.
His spirit is of a warrior who once graced this land,
re-crafting old tools, he once held in his hand.
Bringing to life a time long since past,
rekindling old memories that were meant to last.
Of stories to be told of the brave and the bold,
ones you can’t find in history books of the old.
But the ones that true warriors will never forget,
reminding us all of the sacrifices they met.
Of woman who were stolen and land that was taken,
for their spirits were battered, broken, not forsaken.
For swift fox has honored their spirit for 50 years,
recreating their stories and shedding their tears.
Swift fox’s heart, beats a rythm all it’s own,
for the beauty of it, I am grateful to have known.