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Posts Tagged ‘Indian’

Indian Summer

CHANGING SEASONS

When summer waltzes into fall,
she does it rather slow,
reluctant to let go.
I’ve often seen her stop and stall,
giving joyous warm days . . .
Indian Summer haze,
as autumn spreads her gorgeous shawl.

9/9/04 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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IN THE VALLEY OF THE BLUE MIST

 

In the Valley Of The Blue Mist,

Indian spirits can be seen . . .

And sounds from their ancient past

Haunt that world of in-between.

 

The white man needs to enter there

To see what he has wrought.

And feel the anguish of their souls

His selfish greed has brought.

 

But only Indians visit there,                                                             

The white man’s not allowed.                                  

It’s he who sent their spirits there,

Under such a heinous cloud,

 

It’s shameful, but it can’t be changed,

So spirits ever weep,    

For the loss of their Tribal Lands –                            

Whites promised they could keep.                          

 

1/10/03        Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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I wrote this about a river in Pascagula, Mississippi. My sister lived in Gautier. MS and lost her home in Katrina. Lung cancer took her life in 2007. This is for Patricia DeWitt-Dixon.

    THE SINGING RIVER

  

In the evening’s velvet darkness

Along a distant shore

You can hear mystical music

Steeped in Indian lore

Usually heard in the evening

When silence has stilled the night

It floats to the ear in cadence

Ethereal, whispering, light

         Indian voices whispering, sighing

         To the white man, mystifying

Its essence is almost dreamlike

As it swells, then fades away

But its source remains a secret

At least that’s what they say

But there’s an old Indian legend

That will touch the coldest heart

Explaining the soulful music

And how it got its start

         Indian voices whispering, sighing

         Victims of the white man’s lying

Back in time of Indian strife

When the white man stole their lands

Their beloved river was taken

So the tribe all joined hands

Then singing a song of sorrow

They walked into the stream

Until the water engulfed them

And the tribe could not be seen

         Indian voices whispering, sighing

         Frightened children softly crying

They cannot sleep in peace there

Their restless spirits roam

Their tears are felt within the mist

Where once they made their home

Their song of lament still lingers

It’s the music that one hears

On the banks of the Singing River

Still flowing with Indian tears.

         Indian voices whispering, sighing

         Singing of their tragic dying

 

  

7/13/91      Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck

 

6’th … PAW (in Pa) 1992

4’th … NFSPF 1993

1’st … Arkansas NPD 1997

 

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