Indigenous Rhythm Circle

Whispers of the Old Fire

Once, beneath the silver moon, I knew
The heartbeat of the earth, strong and true.
Drums that echoed through the ancient pine,
Songs that braided every soul with mine.

The campfires burned with golden breath,
Their light defying time and death.
Laughter soared like sparks to the sky,
And ancestors watched with eternal eyes.

Now silence drapes the hollow air,
No voices rise from anywhere.
The drums are gone, the songs asleep
Only memories are mine to keep.

Yet in the dark, I feel them near,
Their warmth, their love, still lingering here.
A lonely bear beneath the stars,
Still guarding what was - still healing scars.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar

🖊️Poem: Piahn

Beneath the Moon Together

We followed moonlight
without a map.

Two quiet riders,
one gentle path.

The white horses
knew the way.

Their steady hearts
matched our own.

Grandmother Moon
walked beside us.

She silvered rivers,
softened silence.

The trees whispered
our old names.

The wind carried
cedar prayers.

No one hurried.
Nothing was lost.

Your shadow rested
beside mine.

Our spirits moved
like calm water.

The Earth remembered
every hoofbeat.

The night remembered
every promise.

When dawn arrived,
we never turned.

Some journeys end.

Ours became
the moonlight itself.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn

Raven and the Red Butterfly

The raven waited
without a sound.

His feathers carried
the oldest night.

His eyes remembered
forgotten fires.

A red butterfly
kissed his beak.

Small as dawn,
bright as prayer.

The raven listened
without speaking.

The butterfly carried
one silent blessing.

Not every message
needs a voice.

Some arrive
on gentle wings.

Some become
a sacred breath.

Grandfather Raven
closed his eyes.

He welcomed beauty
without holding it.

The butterfly lingered,
then followed light.

One kept the sky.
One carried dawn.

Between black feathers
and crimson wings,

the Great Spirit
left a promise

Even the darkest soul
may cradle light.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn

Catching the Dragonfly

I reached with silence,
not with hands.

The dragonfly hovered,
between breath and prayer.

Its wings carried
morning light home.

Grandmother taught,
never chase wonder.

Stand gently.
Let it choose.

The flowers listened.
The water remembered.

Even the wind
walked softly then.

For one heartbeat,
it rested near.

Not in my fingers,
but in my spirit.

I learned that day,
every sacred gift
arrives freely,
then leaves freely.

Still I smile,
when blue wings
cross the evening.

Some blessings
are never held.

They simply touch
the soul forever.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn

The Deer After Midnight

When the fire slept,
he still remained.

Soft as falling snow,
old as silence.

His antlers carried
the moon's memory.

His breath became
the winter mist.

I laid my sorrow
against his neck.

He answered only
with stillness.

No human language
could follow there.

Only the heartbeat
of cedar roots.

Only the whisper
of sleeping rivers.

The old ones taught,

Walk beside Deer.

Never before him.

Never behind.

For gentle spirits
know hidden trails.

The stars leaned low,
listening with us.

The blossoms opened
without a sound.

The night itself
became a prayer.

When dawn arrived,

he walked away,

leaving no footprints,

only courage

growing quietly

inside my heart.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn

We carried water,
before dawn awakened.

Clay remembered
every careful hand.

The river offered
its quiet blessing.

Our mothers whispered
between footsteps.

Our grandmothers smiled
without many words.

The vessels were empty,
our hearts were not.

Each journey home
became a prayer.

The fire welcomed
our returning shadows.

We poured the water,
and gratitude followed.

No song was spoken.

Still, the Earth
heard everything.

Because love
needs no voice.

Only hands
that remember.

Only hearts
that carry.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn

The Houses Rose

The houses rose,
where lodges once
welcomed the dawn.

Stone remembered
what people forgot.

Glass gathered
the morning light,
but never carried
the scent of cedar.

The smoke no longer
lifted our prayers.

It climbed instead
from silent chimneys,
forgetting the songs
that once fed
the open sky.

She stood alone,
wrapped in colors
older than memory.

Her robe still carried
the hands of Grandmothers.

Each woven thread
held a story
no wall could keep.

She searched
for the old circle,

the place
where children laughed,

where drums awakened
the sunrise,

where elders spoke
to the fire,

and every heartbeat
answered the Earth.

Now only echoes
walked beside her.

The streets were full,

yet loneliness
filled every doorway.

She lowered
her quiet eyes,

not because
hope had vanished,

but because
the land still waited

for someone
to remember.

The stones were new.

The Spirit
was ancient.

And beneath
every foundation,

the old songs
were still breathing,

waiting gently

for one voice

to call them

home again.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn

Grandmother Turtle

Grandmother Turtle
carried the first dawn.

Before the rivers,
before the pines,
before our songs,
she remembered Earth.

Upon her patient back
the soft soil rested.
The grasses listened.
The cedar awakened.
The people arrived
with grateful footsteps.

She hurried nowhere.
She feared nothing.
Every season
followed her breath.

The old ones whispered,
"Walk like Turtle.
Carry peace gently.
Leave kindness behind."

When sorrow gathered,
she entered silence.
The waters answered.
The stars leaned lower.
Even the moon
waited with her.

I place my prayers
upon her shell.
They rise slowly,
like cedar smoke,
finding the Great Spirit
without a single word.

Tonight I remember
the oldest promise:

The Earth is living.
The waters are listening.
And Grandmother Turtle
still carries us all.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn

Three Voices Beneath Moonlight

We gathered beneath
the blooming meadow.

Evening breathed softly
through ancient pines.

No one hurried
toward tomorrow.

The forest already
remembered our footsteps.

My eldest sister
spoke like cedar,

strong and patient,
rooted in seasons.

The second smiled
like quiet water,

where every reflection
held gentle truth.

I carried questions
inside my heart,

small as sparrows,
bright as dawn.

They answered gently
without many words.

Silence itself
became our teacher.

Grandmother Moon
lifted her light,

washing every face
with silver blessings.

Old songs awakened
beneath the Earth,

where our ancestors
still keep rhythm.

We listened together
until breathing matched.

The wind carried
one single heartbeat.

Three sisters remained,
yet one spirit walked.

The flowers remembered.
The moon remembered.

And we remembered
who we had always been.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn

Upon the White Horse

The white horse walked
without asking.

It already knew
the old trail.

Moonlight rested
upon its mane,

like quiet hands
from long ago.

I held no map.

Only the reins
of remembrance.

The forest breathed
its ancient songs,

and every cedar
stood listening.

Somewhere beyond
the silver mist,

the old drum waited,

beating softly
beneath the Earth.

Not calling loudly

only enough

for a faithful heart

to remember.

My grandmother said,

"Ride gently.

The horse hears

what people forget."

So I followed

the whispering wind,

the patient river,

the silent stars.

None of them

asked my name.

They already knew

who I was.

The night grew deeper,

yet my spirit

grew lighter.

Every hoofbeat

became a prayer.

Every breath

became gratitude.

When dawn returned,

I was not lost.

I had become

part of the trail,

part of the moon,

part of the song

the ancestors

still sing

through the white horse

walking home.

🎨 Art by Serin Alar
🖊️Poem: Piahn