Kamama (Butterfly) Unmasked

[Another contribution by JW, from his Native American Collection.]

Whoever named you Kamama (Butterfly) Maiden obviously never took the time to know you. It is true, like Butterfly, your beauty defines the dawn. When light caresses your raven hair it sparkles like morning dew on the wispy threads of Spider’s web, freshly woven overnight. And when the first rays of Sun kiss your face the gleam in your eyes, sheen of your skin, and radiance of life can easily compare to Butterfly’s dazzling shimmer, fragile fairy-like wings, and dance of colors. But that is where the similarities cease.

Beautiful you are, but fragile you are not. You were born through natural childbirth while your mother squatted on the kitchen floor of a ramshackle shack that lacked the basic necessities of a narcissistic profit driven culture. I thought it fitting when your mother mentioned switching from traditional songs of birth to Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild” throughout the pushing phase. No women-kin arrived to assist till after the delivery when you lay bloody on your mother’s stomach, still joined by the uncut cord.
You are feminine but firm. A lifetime of hauling water home a half-mile twice daily helped with that. You also chopped, hauled, and stacked wood; caught and cleaned fish, and tended a garden during the fickle growing season.

Your character matches your body – feminine but firm – not flittery and fluttery and fragile like Butterfly. But not imposing, just focused and filled with purpose. You are like Hawk; smaller than Eagle but equally regal, with farseeing vision and predatory skills honed to perfection. As a child you survived poverty. As a woman you conquered it, and help others on the same path. Seeing you sail through each day is like watching Hawk soar on thermals, uplifted, and graceful. And when your prey is spotted – your targeted purpose of the day – you speed forth swift and true.

You are not Kamama (Butterfly) Maiden, you are Lady Hawk… a Peregrine Princess.

lady hawk 5

Ballad of J-Bear

[Another contribution by JW, and it shows another similarity we share: we’re both metis’, mixed breeds, part Native American. And we bring it out in some of our creative work, like he does here and I did with the Black Wolf writings (that are still a work in progress).]


Plenty Horses tried to stampede over J-Bear with Mad Dog 20/20 instigating fluid reasons for drunken nonsense.

All present not stupefied or catatonic had to marvel at the audacity to bust a move on the soberest among us, and the only one who has been more than a weekend warrior and survived.

Bird Man tells the tale of J-Bear’s first encounter with Spirit Guide within the magic flames of the elusive fire dance from the bowels of Alaskan tundra… and again on the Midwest plains in the eye of Twister.

Born beyond the captivity of the rez’, yet still a prisoner of poverty in the land of the greed giants.

We have witnessed his ability to soar; his talents are worthy of the one-percent realm, but he is of the Earth and has no stomach to dishonor his Mother for filthy lucre.

J-Bear found humor in the equine invasion of privacy – as did we all who watched the scene unfold through glassy eyes, clouded vision, and lost or forgotten dreams.

We saw a bruin bask in utter confidence, toying with prey at will – with a hearty laugh and joyful smile – we became further intoxicated on the after-glow; that is, all but Plenty Horses.

Salivation over stallion status proved too much to carry when confronted with pony presence at pow-wow.

Viewed with jest by J-Bear and us all was burr under saddle, prickly pear, and thorn bush to Plenty Horses: who bid hasty retreat from long-house, good sense, and sanity.

Celebration complete, sobriety ensues, First People renewed, and lookie-loos slither back to city-scapes, penthouses, townhomes, beach-front property and a life of lies as “real” Americans.

Unknown to all, the sliver of shame planted deep in the heart of Plenty Horses festers and putrefies.

Day-to-day binge nourished with Mad Dog, moonshine, and home-grown reservation rot-gut.

Sleepless nights, passed-out mornings, restless slumber in the land of forgotten memories and faceless ancestors doomed to wander the spirit world in constant agony over life-long humiliation and senseless slaughter; with no burial rites, in mass graves or no graves, and nothing to prove that life once inhabited their flesh.

Disembodied, dis-spirited, despairing soul-filled torment – and Plenty Horses claimed the old tales as his own.

Lost in the lore and loco weed; lost to us… and to himself.

Plenty Horses packed pistol and hatchet.

He wore war paint and breech-cloth and hid in hedges awaiting the cloak of darkness.

The un-brave warrior wannabe; he is one of many in descending generations of reservation bound natives never taught the warrior way.

Those who saw say J-Bear sensed danger just prior to Plenty Horse’s attack.

Instead of seeking safety or defending himself, he chose to shield two children in the path of Plenty Horses.

No bullet found child flesh that day; no hatchet tore youthful skin.

J-Bear was their body armor; he held them close and tight till tribal law reined-in the loco cayuse… but gave up his ghost that night.

No grave to mark his passing; a simple plaque by choice – for his deeds prove immortal and a lasting testament to his mortal days.

Ashes scattered – carried on the breath of Sky Father to rest on the breast of Mother Earth.

His spirit soars like Hawk in the land of no more sorrow, in the woods of plenty game, and the sparkling waters of enlightenment and ecstasy, while Plenty Horses is a shell of a man; no longer part of a proud clan, clothed in prison garb, eternally tainted, blood-stained, with ominous odor of choice – doomed to hear the perpetual cries of children and the lament of nations over the waste of a clan warrior through the actions of a coward.

His day of expiration is forthcoming.

There will be no community drum.

It will be a solemn… but tearless day.