Op-ed written by George E. Thomas
Looking at the Great United States we see a time of great social unrest. The Drums of Peace are becoming the War Dance Drums. The dancers are around fires of mistrust, hate and fear. The passive, yet supportive followers, those setting, wrapped in their blanket of society observe with fear of the impending.
The possibility of a great resistance, a change of the drumming heart permeates the mind. Pipes of peace wrapped in reverent respect are held in love across the folded legs. Yet the sacred herb remains in its pouch of respect, no coal of fire will it see these coming times. The whinny of the war horse is floating on the wind.
Leaders are counseling aware of the needs of their people as on the distant horizon the red sun slides beneath the top of the waving tall grass. The wind wafting slow peaceful undulations through the grass and Indian paintbrushes, beautiful reflections of sparkling fireflies wing through the cooling night air. Lowing and stamping of the hooves the buffalo no longer to be heard by the ears, yet the heart of the people standing in fires glare beat at a rhythm of the stampeding herd.
Comes in the mind a reflection to the past, of old people and babies buried under the grass. Of times of great strife and bone crushing cold. Hungering children cry as their mothers heart fold deeply into weariness, lost to hands that cannot hold. Waiting and wanting is all that remains not a pot to get water in, no berries will it hold. Meat and wild onions have long left the pot as the search to quill hunger is war in the pot.
The fires around which all eyes are froze shadows of fear grip heart in deaths hold. The feeling of fear do hopelessness bring. Some are in sorrow, some are deranged. Angry are the youthful, strong in the arm, yelling and shouting as wolves on the plain. Stomping and spinning turtles ring with a sound of great wanting and needing to meet an enemy, head to head, with hair and face painted so proud.
The old people are watching this waking despair shaking their heads and waiting as time has required. Each holds the stick of wisdom on their lap knowledge of life yesterday’s map. Seems that wisdom shall in mind there remain as shouts of hate and today’s disdain. Wisdom isn’t wanted in this life beyond wisdom is foresaken to needs more fraught. Old people are left to smell of past long lost so that odor of tomorrow is coming up fast. Waiting is the only way to get to their maker in humble ways.
Down into the valley behind all can see the brightness of glory of modern today. Interstate highways snake sparkling lights bringing glaring the future to hillside retreat. Birds in the air are metal and glass, wheels of rubber on trails of hard pack. Fast is the life down below. Yet the fires of disenchantments ragingly glow. Smoke of burning pollution comes on the wind to melt the spirit of respect within. Racing and raging the crowds can be seen looting and shooting now are about.
The dance to the drums leaves little doubt. Changes are coming soon to everyone’s redoubt.
Drums . . . Dance . . . Fear . . . Doubt. . .