Tears of My Heart Sing to Vieques

Tears of My Heart Sing to Vieques

The depth of anguish,
the stabbing pain of despair,
the bitter root of stolen loves and lives...
broken bodies, broken souls,
... all the promise Spirit had to offer you and yours,
the devastation of your homeland both of people and of earth,
the continued walking through the warplains of the oppressor who continues to hunt you and yours---
and those like you down...
while the mass of people of the oppressor blindly live lives unknowning
and mostly uncaring...
unhearing of your heart's cries and screams...
never knowing a man...
a broken but still standing warrior...
wails and cries out...

....is heard.

I hear....
but I am a simple woman...
one who offers friendship and heart...
spirit gifts...
human gifts...

My sister hears...
one who cares deeply for all peoples..
for the words of our ancestors that the time of changes is now upon us...

Our village here hears....
may we sit beside you...
even if only in heart and spirit...
sit and hear your agonized howls into the night and day...

May I howl with you?
May we all?

Your loss is my loss...is our loss.
Your pain my pain...our pain

How much have we lost through the willful evil and enforced cruelty of a dominator system.
How much we lose as it continues.

But it will not always be so.
Spirit tells us the time of change is upon us.

Please allow me to sit with you...tears falling down...
Please allow my tears somehow to feed your heart...
May my song of sorrow fill your ears...
May my tears seep into your dry and parched wounds...

Tears...down into the bones...
Tears....down in to the bones...
Tears... down into the bones...
Tears...down into the bones...

Bones please live.
Bones please arise again.
Bones please live.
Bones of life again.

May the song of my heart grant you a measure
of hope.
of solace.
of balm.
of peace.

Copyright 2000, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw. All rights reserved.

Woodland’s Parrot Rifles Stand Watch

Woodland’s Parrot Rifles Stand Watch

Is ever war fiercer than when fought against your own?
Is ever hatred deeper than when it’s felt deep in the bone?
Are ever fires much hotter than when flamed against your kin?
Are ever passions keener than when fighting for what has been?

Parrot rifles, mow them down,
Let none survive this wrath.
Keep raiders from riding town to town
On the Morgan path.

Are ever fears more freezing than when bound around with guilt?
Are ever denials more prevalent than when in the system built?
Is ever freedom dearer than when it’s bought with a life?
Has ever American seen more horrors or more strife?

Parrot rifles, now witness
The secret stories well told
Of Campbell’s house upon the side
Of tracks of Underground Railroad.

Do ever hatreds cease to be after the last battle fought?
Or, do they linger, festering on, like some gangr’ous plot?
Do the wrongs ever get put right or the sorrows be dwindling?
Or does the suffering await a match just like a pile of kindling?

Parrot rifles, stand your watch
On Woodland’s overhanging plot.
Let not your stories e’er be silenced
Nor those who fought forgot’.

© Copyright, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 2000.
All rights reserved.

My Various Thoughts on "The Kill Team"

The article in Rolling Stone:

The Kill TeamHow U.S. soldiers in Afghanistan murdered innocent civilians and mutilated their corpses – and how their officers failed to stop them. Plus: An exclusive look at the war crime photos censored by the Pentagon
http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/news/the-kill-team-20110327

My various thoughts on this article and heartbreakingly evil tale:

When the aim of boot camp is to break the spirit of the human recruit, to instill an "obey at all costs automatically" reflex, to despise the "enemy" (including "Suzy Q",) -- in short to become an efficient killing machine, it is no surprise to find the human then loses a sense of morals, develops a ruthlessness & a cold-bloodedness, etc. That is what allows the human to kill other humans and to destroy whole environments without qualm.  Deep down almost all soldiers and combatants know the evil they did willingly or were forced to do when, perhaps, their reasons for joining in the first place were nobler or even out of desperation (economic terrorism comes to mind.) And, PTSD hits hard once the traumas of war hit that inner core of the human. Some will never ever recover. None come out without very deep gaping wounds in their minds, hearts, and spirits.

And yet, humans seem to want to kill each other over so many things-- greedy things, covetous things, jealous things, stupid things... "I am better than you because I can maim, torture, and kill you if you don't do what I say, hand over all I want from you, or just get in my way at the wrong time." Psychopaths may lead and start the wars, and are so cowardly not to fight in them themselves, but the ones who go into combat are most often volunteers, willing to kill, maim, torture, and be killed, maimed, tortured, etc. for ... what? A paycheck? Honor? Glory? Lies. All lies.

And my heart breaks for the soldiers, for their victims, for us all. We are all culpable in this. All of us. Hatred and evil are equal opportunity inhabitants of humans.

And so the soldiers come home with PTSD and the learned skills of destroying life. Many turn to abuse - of others or of self. Many go insane to find some escape from the terror of what the saw and what they did. No one at home recognizes the returning soldier really. How could someone not familiar with all out evil really know that deep abyss the soldier is trying to return from? But, that does not excuse that we all sent the soldier out to do exactly what was done. Nor does it excuse our refusing to take the soldier back and care for those many deep wounds. We sent them out to die period.

I am not anti-military. We need a defense, especially since humans are as we are. But, I am anti-militarism. I am pro-peace and pro-non-violence. We humans must learn a new way of being. We must learn to stop making war and violence. We must learn how to forgive and be compassionate, to show mercy while keeping justice. We must or perish together. We can do it. The question is will we?

29 March 2011, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw

For Grandpa, In Memory

For Grandpa, In Memory

Song written on death of my grandfather on Jun 12, 2006

Were you in that wind just passing,
As you flew away to forever?
Were you with the hummingbird
Saying my love will leave you never?

Shadows of our yesterdays
Through my mind are rolling.
Songs of long gone yours
Memory bells are tolling.

Away your spirit’s flying
Up to the heavens above.
Among the stars have peace…
You will always have my love.

(c) 10 June 2006, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

My First Remembered Prayer

My First Remembered Prayer

It was in May, the month before my brother was to be born. I was 14 almost 15 months old and the first child and only girl for my parents. My grandfather had taken mom and me to his sister's farm to help there. Mom was in the farmhouse with my great-aunts cooking and doing various chores. I wandered off to my favorite safe place on a rock beside a babbling creek in between 2 wooded hills. The sun and the breeze danced with the trees to make dappled dancing shadows and light. A black snake sat beside me on the rock, taking in the warmth of the spring sunshine that sometimes managed to shine down on the rock.

Then that living Light that I had loved since I was born was there, dancing all around. The water in the creek, the trees, the rocks, the birds, the snake... everything was alive and singing and dancing before my eyes and heart. I felt like warm, sweet, electrified, tingling, living honey was flowing through me. I knew this Being's Name... Love... The All That Is... God.

My heart heard the question, "what would you most want, Daphne?" I smiled with delight and without hesistation said, "I want a real smile, real tears, real laugh... I want to be Love. I want to be just like You."

And so was my heart's desire all my life. Every time I meet the Living Light, I fall in love with Love again and want to be just like Love... to be Love... to be a beckoning sign for others also to fall in love with the Great Love.

 

(C.) Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 8 February 2010.

My Shark Story

My Shark Story

We were in a more or less beach-front home on the South China Sea in Bintulu, Sarawak, Malaysia at the time. Our son would have been 3, I think.

It was just before sundown, and we all (hubby, our cousin Hurai, son, me, and our Japanese spitz named Junko) went wading in the shallows near the shore, watching constantly for jellyfish and other not so nice things to tangle with. That part of the sea was very treacherous to be in for other reasons, too. It was only shallow for a few 100s of yards before dropping into deep ocean. So, you had to be careful at all times.

Anyway, here I am the white giant of a person, a baby, and a dog when I felt something bump my leg.

Instinctively, I jumped up out of the water cursing enough to make even a marine sargeant blush... just as a tiger shark came up out of the water at me. My knee hit its "chin" and my elbow its nose... my fist slammed right down on its head. As I was descending, my foot got its ribs. I was screaming bloody murder the whole time... on instinct. I have been told mothers protecting their young will become fierce...

Anyway, I heard a pop. The shark gave a squeal-like sound. It fled from me. And, stupid me, started to give chase... until I felt the COLD water of deep ocean start to hit me. Then I came to my senses and said to myself to let the shark go... GET BACK TO SHORE, IDIOT.

As I re-approached the shore, I heard nieighbors and family yelling what I thought was "Shark attack." Well, as I got closer I realized they were yelling, "Shark being attacked." They thought for sure I had gone berserk and was about to field dress the shark with my bare hands for a bar-be-que on the beach.

 

(C.) Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 13 January 2009.

My Fall From Grace

My Fall From Grace

Let me really describe my fall from grace... or how my mobility went downhill....

It was a cold and snowy morning on the hill in Frostburg where we live when I sleepily and innocently took our dog out to do her business. Everyone who had sense was still asleep, snuggled beneath warm blankets while I and the dog surveyed the 2 1/2 foot deep and still falling snow that early morn.

Standing on the back porch which sat high above the downward slope of the hill (which is called a mountain in these parts, but being shy of even 3000', many places would only call it a hill, but I digress) the house fit into, I watched the dog jumping through the drifts to find her spot. Being only in a light caftan, a light cape, and moccasins --not even stopping to put on my glasses -- I sleepily but freezingly scuffled to the pillars holding up the porch roof when a sheet of ice decided to dance with me.

Well, being a polite gal, how could I refuse someone sweeping me off my feet even before I'd brushed my hair or my teeth?! But I did nevertheless grab at a pillar and a banister to try and steady my ever increasingly rapid heartbeats.

But, alas, not being gifted acrobatically, I at the last minute attempted my very first triple lutz right over the side of the railing of the porch. Now, I admit I am a rank amateur at these things... and not the most graceful on my feet either, but would you believe the judges refused to even rate me? The nerve! I mean, it was my first and best effort at these things. Harrumph.

Anyway...

The very first thing I thought when my back hit the snow before tobogganing on down the hill was...

"If the neighbors don't have their camcorders on or are not watching right now, this is the last chance they'll get to see the flying eagle."

About 3/4 of the way downhill a kind "rock person" grabbed my head to help stop my forward motion. I think it was a really big rock person. I don't really remember that part. hmmm.

Somehow after all that I managed to crawl back up the hill, up the stairs to the porch, and back to bed where I stayed for a very long time until hubby finally realized something really bad had happened and that I probably needed medical attention... Being the stubborn wench I can be, I told him, I'll be fine in a decade or so and just went to sleep. Of course, a few months later, the doctor scolded me for not going to the ER immediately... and for moving after the fall.

Well, it was snowing hard that morning and somewhat cold, and I had not had enough sleep yet. So there.

And so my saga continues..... if you can stand any more episodes. LOL

(C.) Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 15 January 2009.

Keigh-Tugh-Gua

Keigh-Tugh-Gua

by Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw

In the time when the memory of the Shawnee, the Fox, the Wyandotte, the Mingo, and other great peoples was still fresh on the land and the echoes of their cries still rang up from their spilt blood on the earth, a presence in the river valleys of the beautiful river now called the Ohio watched and waited. This presence was older than any other in the area of the strange phantom lights and creatures… a presence that always watches and is always hungry. It could be very patient, cunning, and stealthy, or it could strike suddenly when the time was right...

It was a lovely mid-October morning with just the right nippiness in the Pennsylvania air.

“Hey, buddy, you ready for this adventure?” waved John Neville to his just arriving friend. “Looks like you just rolled out of bed without bothering to open your eyes.”

“Just give me a few, a cup of coffee, and I’ll be good to go,” laughed Mark Gallagher as he unloaded supplies and put them in bundles into the almost ready canoe. “We want to be traveling light.”

“Light, yes. Light-headed no,” laughed John.

Mark threw a bundle at him in reply.

The two thirty-ish year old men worked well together. This was not their first river adventure, but it was the first time they would try to canoe all the way from where the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers met to form the Ohio River to where the Ohio met the Mississippi. Their spirits were high.

“James Kelly said we should have good weather for the first few days but to watch out for the ghost lights.”

“Jim boy would say that, the old fart. He is just afraid we’ll have some fun without him,” laughed Mark. “Ready?”

“Let’s start making waves.”

And so they began their journey down the Ohio through the beautiful foothills of the Appalachian Mountains whose woods were brightly decorated with the many colored leaves of a glorious autumn day. Traveling light meant they would mostly eat what could easily be found or captured along the way and camp out under the stars by night. Both men were in excellent physical condition and were well-experienced trackers. They had neither time limits nor obligations to neither slow nor speed them on their way. This was mostly for pleasure. Of course, if they also happened to track new wildlife or even a new species, so much the better for their budgets and reputations. But, this would be primarily for exploration and fun.

The first few days of their journey went quietly in the slightly warm Indian summer weather. The fall foliage and the just ready to harvest nuts and fruits along the river were a source of joy.

“The sky looks odd this morning,” said John as he stretched and began limbering up his body after awakening. “I guess a cold front is coming in. We might be heading into some storms today.”

“Maybe we can at least make it to the mouth of the Kanawha before the storm hits. There is a nice spot near there we can shelter from anything Mother Nature wants to hand out. We could even set up the tent this time.”

And so they canoed quickly after breakfast and soon found themselves rocking through the increasing white caps on the river. The sky took on a dark hue, and the wind began whispering with slowly increasing volume “Keigh-Tugh-Gua.”

“Hey! What was that? Did you see…” shouted Mark from the back of the canoe.

“Yeah. What was that?” growled a startled John.

“It looked like a big shadow or something.”

”A large moth or flying man with wings? No, it couldn’t be,” John growled again. But, he was shaken.

“Hey, there’s the spot up ahead. Whatever it was, it is gone now. Maybe it was just a large hawk trying to get to shelter before the storm breaks.”

“Yeah. A hawk. A large hawk. Yeah.”

And so, the men canoed to the spot just west of the mouth of the Kanawha River and began setting up a tight camp on the southern bank of the Ohio River. They brought the canoe up beside the tent and made sure everything was securely tied or weighted down. Then they made a small firepit, cooked, and ate. While they were cleaning up, the first huge raindrops fell. So, they retired into the tent and talked, told stories, and then drifted on into a deep sleep while the rain, though strong, was still gentle. What they didn’t see was the purple lightning that came up from the land nearby nor the moth-shaped man’s shadow that sat in the maple tree, watching. The wind continuing singing “Keigh-tugh-Gua” over and over. Then the real storm hit. The men slept on with worsening dreams.

“ARRRrrrrrr!!” a scream pierced the night.

“What was that!” screamed John as he sat bolt upright, scrambling for his boots and the flashlight. “Mark?”

There was no answer.

Shining the flashlight to Mark’s sleeping bag, there was no one there.

“ARrrrrRRRrr!”

“Mark! I’m coming!”

John rushed from the tent into a torrent of rain, big flashes of lightning followed by enormously loud booming thunder. The wind was swirling all around. The trees were frantic in their wild dance. Then he saw Mark walking as if in a trance toward the churning waters of the Ohio River. The trees along the bank seemed to be beckoning wildly and eerily for him to come.

“Mark! Stop!”

“Keigh Tugh Gua!” Crash! Boom!

“Mark!”

“KEIGH TUGH GUA!”

“Mark!”

John finally reached Mark and grabbed him from behind, dragging him back from the river’s edge.

”Mark! What are you doing? Mark?” John looked into the vacant face of his friend.

“MARK!”

“What? Where?” Mark sputtered as he came to. “What in the Hell are we doing out here?” he said with more than a little bewilderment and growing fear.

“Get back to the tent. It’s sheltered. Come on!”

”Keigh-Tugh-Gua!”

The men struggled through the rain, the wind, the mud, and the falling tree limbs back to the tent. Water was gushing everywhere. A pond seemed to be forming in front of the tent, but once inside, the tent and all in it were dry.

“Keigh-Tugh-Gua,” the wind continued to state in differing volumes and tones.

“What were you doing down by the river, Mark? You could have been killed. I could have been killed rescuing you. What were you thinking?” John demanded mostly in fear that came out angrier than he meant.

“I don’t know. I didn’t know I was there until you grabbed me.” Mark answered as if in shock and hen began shaking. “All I remember is dreaming of this horrible massacre and hearing the cries of many strong emotions. I saw an Indian chief bound and killed. His eyes were brave but sad. He was saying something as he died. And, this phrase “keigh-tugh-gua” kept repeating itself over and over again.”

“I never knew you sleepwalked, Mark,” said John shuddering.

”I never thought I did either. Something strange… it’s like this storm is alive…like it made me do it.”

CRASH! BOOM! “Keigh-Tugh-Gua.”

The next lightning strike showed a large moth-shaped shadow against the side of the tent, but by the next flash of light, it was gone. Suddenly, chanting like one would hear at a pow-wow started softly. Then the rattles and a drumbeat began. The only words were keigh-tugh-gua, over and over and over. The volume kept growing. The rhythm kept increasing. The wind howled. The lightning flashed.

BOOM! CRASH!

Then silence.

The rain slowed and stopped. The wind stopped. It was chilly and very dark. The exhausted men who thought they could not sleep slept until the warming morning sun touched their tent. There was chaos in the area surrounding the tent as is natural after a storm, but nothing was too damaged thankfully. And, after breakfast and cleaning up the area and themselves, they continued on their way, happy to be alive.

(C) Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 23 October 2006.

The Beautiful River

The Beautiful River
The ancient woman looks across the white capped water
Of the beautiful river, her river, the Ohio…
Strong flow, deep here but more shallow in places,
The beautiful river of Shawnee love,
Pouring Appalachian mysteries down into
Mississippian muddy waters…
Indian blood and earth,
Allegheny and Monogahelia,
Water and life, the Ohio,
Onward and meandering ever lower
Through forested mountains
Almost to the plains,
She flows with the waters,
Singing an ancient song,
Telling of ancient peoples who loved the river
As I love the river now…
In this we join—
On the banks of the beautiful Ohio.
(C) Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw, 8 December 1999.

Self-Observation & Self-Discovery

Focusing on sensations puts us more directly in touch with what's motivating us, while at the same time helping to free us from the story lines which tend to obscure our feelings. In this way, greater awareness to our sensations increases our emotional sensitivity. ~Marshall Glickman

One of the more healing concepts for me was being made aware that I could get to know me and could discover more about me by seeing my body's reactions to whatever I was choosing to focus on at the time (for example, trying to discern why I cared about something said or done,) by allowing myself to feel whatever it was I was feeling, and by watching to see what arose in and from those feelings, which was not always easy to discern. Observation, listening intently, and just sitting as a sacred witness to me was revolutionary in concept alone. All I was requiring myself to do was just to observe myself quietly, receptively without judgment or rush to do something about whatever I was feeling.

Even with my continuing attempts through the years to practice this observational skill to get to know me, there are still many times I baffle myself, and that is fine. It means I need to spend more time getting to know me. Sometimes I care about something that has very tangled, deep roots that curl around poisonous substances within my memories or psyche that are still too traumatic for me to handle well yet. That, too, is fine. I give myself permission to be as complicated as I am with respect and acceptance. I try to be gentle and kind with myself with whatever I observe. Of course, I am still learning this as I am not prone to being gentle with myself and also tend to hurt myself deeply often. I have a long way to go in learning to accept, respect, and love who I am.

But before I can really love, accept, and respect me, I must know me. This is why I learned this practice in the first place. I also discovered that before I can truly love, accept, and respect someone else, I must be able to be offer these same kindnesses to me.

22 March 2011, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw

The Healer’s Dance

The Healer’s Dance

Healing..
A lover’s art, the alchemy
Of assurance,
Respectful knowing,
Confidence…
Only touch,
A smile,
A nod and a wink,
The giggle, the blush
Of ripening wholeness dancing
Throughout the intricacies
As the body awakens,
Alive—
Potential unlocked by trust,
The healer and the healed…
The magic.
(c)13 August 1998, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.