Bear’s Poetry

In Loving Memory of Hawk LittleJohn

North wind murmurs Through frosted trees, Softly whistling. Sunlight glimmers As if dancing On snowy fields. Coyote howls, Magpies chatter And deer startle. Somewhere distant, Far, far away A flute cries out. For our brother, One journey ends, Another starts. Those left behind Cry at his loss, And will miss him.

His spirit lives, In wisdom shared With all of us. His memory Will be honored With many songs. Hear our voices, Our flutes and drums. They honor you. Veteran, Warrior, Father, Husband, Brother, and Friend. We remember. All these to us, And so much more. Go quick and safe, On your journey To Grandfather.

In loving memory of Hawk Littlejohn, who shed his robe on 14 December 2000.
©Bear Limvere 15 December 2000. All Rights Reserved

A Dancer Falls…

A moment passes Like a flutter of wings, A flicker of motion Just outside of sight; A life has ended. A warrior dances In the evening mist. Honor his memory; He dances no more With us on this earth. A song, an echo In winds soft murmuring Over mountain meadows, Remind us ever How he lived his life.

How fragile we are, So easily we pass From here and now to there– To eternity. We miss you brother. Hear our songs and drum Dance with us in our dreams. Come dance with your children, And your family, And you shall live on. Travel quick and safe To meet our Creator. Always walk in beauty, Until we meet again, And dance together.

In loving memory of Steve Dermer, who left us on 12 October 1998
On Sunday, 11 October 1998, Grandfather called to our friend. Steve was camping with his son and their Cub Scout Pack, and suffered an athsma attack. It was severe enough to trigger a heart attack. He passed from this world the following day. He left behind a wife, and two wonderful children.He also left a larger family than he imagined. We miss him. Every song we sing, we wish we could see him dance one more time. Every time we dance, it is with the memory of Steve. I wrote this shortly after he passed. I read it at his memorial. I miss you, my friend…my brother.

©Bear Limvere 14 October 1998. All Rights Reserved.

Warrior’s Lament

The time has ebbed. The warriors sleep. The hunters gone. The people laugh, The people cry. They do not feel What they have lost. Instinct remains, In only a few. The skills are there, But timing slow.
A mother’s song Floats on the air. The spirit cries A long lament, For its people. A people lost, And not yet found. They have passed on, And yet remain, Shadows walking, Away from light.	How to wake them, Bring them alive? How can they be Returned to their Maker above? The Father calls, But no one hears. The deer have gone, Bufalo too. The Mother Earth Remains silent.

©Bear Limvere 1997. All Rights Reserved.

The Circle is Broken

The grass is dry From sun and wind. The Thunder Beings No longer come. The Buffalo have Gone far away. Drums are silent. No one teaches Children to dance. They are not taught A way to sing, Or laugh or play. The warriors too Are gone away. The people starve, Not just for food. The flow’ring stick Has disappeared. White northern geese Grace not the skies. The Daybreak Star Is pale and dim. The deer and elk Flourish no more.

No sparrows sing For men to hear. Winds talk softly; No one listens. Circle’s broken; A nation lost. Grandfathers speak; But none shall hear. Grandmothers too… Who will listen? Circle’s broken; The people gone. But who will smoke The sacred smoke? And who shall spread The cleansing sage? Circle’s broken Spirits mislaid. The hoop that held A nation strong, Has been shatter’d; Thrown to the winds Circle’s broken; And gone astray

©Bear Limvere 1997. All Rights Reserved.

The Circle Lives

Padded leather Strikes taut rawhide Voices sing out. The words and tune Are fresh and new, Are old and strong. Ancestors sing With descendants, And the wheel moves. Dance bells ring out In time with drums, And the wheel moves.

Honor beats sound And whistles blow. Our mother smiles. Grandfather hears His childrens’ songs Taught long ago. The wheel of life Is moved along By dancing feet. Our circles live… Touch each other… Create anew.

©Bear Limvere 1997. All Rights Reserved.

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