November 9, 2002

This man that I call friend…Grandpa


The winter has not been kind to him,

this man that I call friend,

The years have taken their toll on him,

and soon his life will end.

Till then, we’ll go to memories of days of long ago.


We’ll talk of children, hunt,and pelts
and winter’s heavy snow.

His braids have lost their luster,

his feet are always cold.

His hand are twisted, his eyes are weak.

It’s hell to grow so old.

Progress is all around us,

the tipi is out of date.

Our children make money gambling,

we wonder at their fate.

Some days we fish, we hunt no more,

the forest is a car lot now.

Our corn comes from a can,

and a bottle replaced our cow.

I pray he doesn’t live to see

more changes taking place,

especially I don’t want him to see

the annihilation of the human race.

Copyright ©2000

Native American Poetry
About Raven SiJohn

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