Happy nature prisms

For the indigenous people's day / Buffy Sainte

In school right now I am learning about native American's and the wrongs america has committed against them. The more I learn about it the less I am proud to be an american.

Below is a song written by a wonderful lyricist named Buffy Sainte-Marie. She is possibly unique among the 1960s generation of “protest” singer-songwriters, her activism intensified as the general radicalisation subsided. For an explanation of her movement against the political ebb-tide, we need look no further than her Native American heritage and her passionate identification with the cause of her people.



MY COUNTRY 'TIS OF THY PEOPLE YOU'RE DYING

Now that your big eyes have finally opened
Now that you're wondering how must they feel
Meaning them that you've chased across America's movie screens
Now that you're wondering how can it be real
That the ones you've called colorful, noble and proud
In your school propaganda
They starve in their splendor
You've asked for my comment I simply will render

My country 'tis of thy people you're dying

Now that the longhouses breed superstition
You force us to send our toddlers away
To your schools where they're taught to despise their traditions
You forbid them their languages, then further say
That American history really began
When Columbus set sail out of Europe, then stress
That the nation of leeches that conquered this land
Are the biggest and bravest and boldest and best
And yet where in your history books is the tale
Of the genocide basic to this country's birth
Of the preachers who lied, how the Bill of Rights failed
How a nation of patriots returned to their earth
And where will it tell of the Liberty Bell
As it rang with a thud Over Kinzua mud
And of brave Uncle Sam in Alaska this year

My country 'tis of thy people you're dying

Hear how the bargain was made for the West
With her shivering children in zero degrees
Blankets for your land, so the treaties attest
Oh well, blankets for land is a bargain indeed
And the blankets were those Uncle Sam had collected
From smallpox-diseased dying soldiers that day
And the tribes were wiped out and the history books censored
A hundred years of your statesmen have felt it's better this way
And yet a few of the conquered have somehow survived
Their blood runs the redder though genes have paled
From the Gran Canyon's caverns to craven sad hills
The wounded, the losers, the robbed sing their tale
From Los Angeles County to upstate New York
The white nation fattens while others grow lean
Oh the tricked and evicted they know what I mean

My country 'tis of thy people you're dying

The past it just crumbled, the future just threatens
Our life blood shut up in your chemical tanks
And now here you come, bill of sale in your hands
And surprise in your eyes that we're lacking in thanks
For the blessings of civilization you've brought us
The lessons you've taught us, the ruin you've wrought us
Oh see what our trust in America's brought us

My country 'tis of thy people you're dying

Now that the pride of the sires receives charity
Now that we're harmless and safe behind laws
Now that my life's to be known as your "heritage"
Now that even the graves have been robbed
Now that our own chosen way is a novelty
Hands on our hearts we salute you your victory
Choke on your blue white and scarlet hypocrisy
Pitying the blindness that you've never seen
That the eagles of war whose wings lent you glory
They were never no more than carrion crows
Pushed the wrens from their nest, stole their eggs, changed their story
The mockingbird sings it, it's all that he knows
"Ah what can I do?" say a powerless few
With a lump in your throat and a tear in your eye
Can't you see that their poverty's profiting you

My country 'tis of thy people you're dying

Fall is my favorite season...

I am from poem. by me

I am from snow sprinkled rooftops
and waking up to the creek of the laundry room door,
I am from tinsel wrapped pine cones
and one, lovingly wrapped, gift per person.
I am from homemade cheese cake with bee's wax candles,
and tender chuckles fallowed by never ending bear hugs.

I am from colored pencils and oil pastels
from rugged faces to cheeky smiles.
I am from portraits of mothers, so long ago
from finger paints and colorless pictures waiting to be filled in,
I am from always being good enough and never being alone
inside the walls of this hand built home.

I am from fresh fruit and raw vegetables,
dirty hands and the smell of sawdust.
I am from smudges across the dining room table,
paper cuts and hot glue burns.
I am from messy newspaper clippings, to hamster mazes
from measuring how much I've grown on the frame of the door.
I am from bunches of cousins, the good and the bad,
from a family of friends, where I know I am loved.

Violet the Vampire. drawn by me!!

Weird but beautiful music video #2

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Weird but beautiful music video #1