King Kuka

By King Kuka

Summer passed like A SHADOW,
Autumn jaundiced the land
Travel fever in my veins.
It always happens in the moon of flying ants.
Ever since I saw my first fawn.
I want to bathe in a mountain lake.
A spring.
“Evening Sun, wait for me.”
Journey began. . . . . . . . journey ended.
Ended as the night sky ends,
Opening morning eyes.
There it rested, partially clothed by dirt,
Partially naked and bleached.
Buffalos’ skull.
I stared with wolf’s eyes.
I approached. . . . . . . . Thinking.
I thought of . . . . . . . . Vanishing. . .
Buffalo Herds, My people, The old people,
People of the land.
I peeked into its eye,
I saw dark skinned people dancing.
I heard rawhide drums.
I smelled broiled buffalo.
I wiggled inside.
Then. . . . . . . .
Mountain Chief & Owl Child
recognized me. . . . . . . . greeted me.
They fed me meat.
They took my clothes.
I enjoyed the spring.
They gave me buckskins.
My fever rode with the hawk.
The drums again, the singing,
I danced.

Mountain Spirits
By King Kuka

We are rocks
Prairie rocks
Scattered far and wide, wandering, searching
We are rocks
All sizes, shapes
Many faces, people
Always were, always will be . . .
Hunting in the mountains, sleeping on the prairies
Loving beneath the stars
We hear the grass grow around us
Smell the perfume of sage, see into our own eyes
We are the river rocks
Washed clean and pure
Holy in a Sweat Lodge
The only time ever and forever . . .
We are the Buffalo Rocks
Carriers of the spirit, messenger to Natosi
Always was
Always will be . . .