THE MI'KMAQ WARRIOR

 The Mi'kmaq Warriors have their place in society


A warrior is the protector of his Family,Clan,and his Nation.
A warrior has the responsibility of bringing back the old ways so that it will remain from the sound of the land, birds, seeds,  the water falls ,so that  all creation , both Cultural  and  Spiritual ......and also the great hunters and fisherman and gathers for winter.... will not be forgotten.

A warrior is not motivated by greed, political ambition ,or fame.

A warrior will not put h mself above others in need.

And above ALL a warrior is the living Spirit in the two worlds of our Grandfather's teachings.



Pikto'l Sa'ke'j Muise.

(Sa'jewi-Wjijaqamijl wipe's paqt-sm (Ancient Spirit Of the White Wolf )

ODE TO THE TRAILS

    

                                                                                           

   Ode to the trails

    

     Long before the great world wars, 

    Old Mose Muise and many more, came upon this rock.

    They struggled through the two, and left a mighty flock.

     Our parties grew in seasons after our arrival,

     Over the seas, rivers, and Snowcap Mountains, with levels of natural fruits, nourishing our survival,

     Redman, once and still, only claiming medicine from those mother roots,

     Now lay to rest alongside!  

     Other countries searching for whales, cod or fame came and left again and again and again.    

     Upon the rocks, called mounds, no one could ever claim, left a mark in life, now nothing remains the same.

    On the land so pure and free, the forest of white and black bears. 

    The hopping of the artic hare, 

    The cycle of the caribou, then sometimes rear,

    We ate salmon, beaver, eels and seal with our natural tea you see, oh! Our health so fine,

   This, to multiply our kind. The Ancient One ,canoed here for a long, long time!

  

    Fore Freedom we had before,

     Here In Newfoundland.

    Landlocked down from all else,

    He gave us this all free,

    Now after wandering these centuries, we cannot survive, by the sea, or our pulp and paper drives,

    Our marble, and oil won’t fail this time; it is the end, not just for me!

     But for the young and old we sent back out to sea.       

    In all life we only own,

    What elders leave behind?

    When poverty struck beneath this dome,    

    It changed our course in time!

   Those darkest days are long but gone,

   Now modern ways we call upon,

   No stones are left beneath the earth, that could ever tell all the tales,

   Still; all that death and all that healing, we, Ode to the Trails

  For freedom we had before,

  Here in NEWFOUNDLAND. 

   Composed (Remembrance Day) Nov.11, 2005

    Victor James Muise Jr. III,  Pikto'l Sa'ke'j Muise.

ETERNAL LIFE

ETERNAL LIFE

From the void of universal infinity the Creator randomly plucks Me,

a reluctant participant in this experience called Human. 

Once a stalwart Archaic Rock, previously an unstable Gas Molecule;

again recomposed, I am hesitant to face the turbulence called Human.

Human is having an alchemistic past, an unpredictable future, all evanescent.

Passing from this chaos reaffirms universal infinity, which is the void.

Every iota part of this Human screams for a return to perpetual reality;

bring on that familiar haven call void.

The void is constant, Its reality simple: only Me;

I am one with the universe. Nay, I am the Universe.

Infinity is neither the past nor the future, infinity is now.

Time is infinite reality; reality is the Universe.

From the void of universal infinity the Creator randomly plucks Me,

a reluctant participant in this experience called Human. 

Once a youthful Snowy Owl, previously a timid Archaea;

recomposed, I am hesitant to again face the turbulence called Human.

Composed by Lin Muise: For:Pikto'l Sa'ke'j Muise, 2009-08-20 

NOTES:

 Archaic: is very, very old [over one billion years]

 Alchemistic: is mixing together of chemicals to create something new.

Evanescent: is the gradual fading together of events so that you cannot tell which came first or last; it all seems the same.

Archaea: is one of the first life forms; they were one or two cell lichen found in a carbon atmosphere not oxygen. They lived 2.5 billion years ago in shallow areas of oceans. We humans are directly related to this first Planet Earth life. 

ELDER'S LAMENT

                                                                 

“Elder’s Lament”


The forerunners followed paths in Newfoundland, from the ancient, in a unique method.

They footed, lived in wigwams, summer, winter, spring and fall,

No secrets, it was the Indian’s call, and they all had to compensate,

But the trails of red ocher are no longer; it’s the oil, a new agenda calling upon.

...

We built a huge chain in 1949, with links that are middy well manufactured,

The sucessors toiled the soil, old seeds that were fading, are now remaining.

Our herds, forest and fish are returning, back where they are in the right place,

Now we’re starting to settle Joe’s budget and finally catch on.



The strongest youth now leads, with one voice, too awake us at dawn,

At the changing of the times and now they’ll all live day by day and stay,

In honor I’ll close to an ELDER”S lament, stand tall,

Just sing to them, after death, one National chant, “That ALL”



Composed, Jan, I-2006, Pikto'l Sa'ke'j Muise.

(Ancient Spirit Of the White Wolf )

LANGUAGE

Kwe....Greeting's.
The Mi'kmaw language was one of the first indigenous languages spoken on Newfoundland island and the first language of the ancestors of many west and south coast Newfoundlanders.

The original publication and first of its kind, the 'DICTIONARY OF THE LANGUAGE OF THE MICMAC INDIANS' by Dr. Silas Tertius Rand in 1888 was followed in 1902 by 'RAND'S MICMAC DICTIONARY, A COMPANION VOLUME TO RAND'S ENGLISH-MICMAC VOCABULARY', a posthumous publication by a fellow missionary, Jeremiah S. Clark, based on Rand's research notes.

These two Mi'kmaw dictionaries, totaling 476 pages, now form the basis of the earliest written linguistic heritage of Mi'kmawi'smk, the language of the Mi'kmaw people. Both volumes have been reprinted in a convenient format and made available by Blue Griffin Books of Middleton, NS, since November, 2012, with an extensive historic, biographical and linguistic introduction by Russell A. Bragg, B.A., B.Ed., M.A. (Linguistics), a National Marshall McLuhan Fellow.

For more information contact Blue Griffin Books at (902) 363-2665, Monday to Saturday

or

EMAIL: bluegriffinbooks@eastlink.ca

or

by CANADA POST from: Blue Griffin Books

PO Box 1617

Middleton, NS

B0S 1P0

AN OPEN PRAYER

An open prayer for all paths:

O our Creator,  and Great Grandfather of all.
We dwell in the Spirit-Land known as the universe.
We ask that you look toward us, your children.
Who live here on Mother Earth, hear our words.

Because of our Creator we learn to believe with the Highest Respect, the law you have set forth.

We ask that that you bring to us this day, good spirits from all seven Directions,
So that when we put our minds together for any gathering we will be of one heart before we leave.

Bless us with understanding , spiritual strength and compassion and may we always walk in beauty in the path for which  you have already made for us,

People of the Light.(Mi'kmaq)

 Pikto'l Sa'ke'j Muise,VJM/(Ancient Spirit of the White Wolf)

CIRCLE OF TRAILS END

 “ Circle of Trails End”

   It’s a vision of mine, on a island, in this small centre, on a journey in the medicine wheel,

   Forty years took it’s toll, upon this soul, he’s a heart of gold, but a man that’s very bold,

   To capture an echo and still not sure if life, not time is real,

   But now, I’m writing rhymes, all the time, looking for words to suit, no words of mine, I could not define, and then I wrote to, HIS, appeal.

   Many things humans must do, while passing a short travel on this solid earth,

   His remains and sometime too, they placed him beneath the name, one by one, side by side, generation’s pass by,

   I’d like to heed, what mankind has forgot, only of they are  good memories, not those that make me sad and cry,

   While wandering about this turf, since birth, 

   At last you’ll read and I’ll speak no more of our women/man, upon this land, who die. 

“To the North”

   Travelling to, Great Northern Peninsula to meet some kind of mind,

   I stood across from St.Johns Island, where our buddy, Mattie Mitchell stayed sometime,

   Then a grave site, I came upon, with alters among the decade, looked like a torn up lawn, and small mountains to lend a shade,

   But, that’s not all, there were holes dug and the bodies that were there, were gone. 

“To the East”

   Then to the big city, on the south side of St.John’s,

   Shanawdithit’s mound that will last, only one of her kind, many people so fond, I could feel everybody’s thought, she’s at rest alongside,

   In solid cliff, on a blade of man made grass, a tombstone, facing the sky,

   We visit quite awhile, but in the end, I would not have a friend, if the truth, I could see, was a lie. 

“To the South”

   I got eager and travelled South on to the Val of Conne, I seen at once, an ancient burial site, 

  Reminding me of, time , but lay their quite at home, with kin, in an Indian stile,

  A big black bear, was eyeing me, shade me not to there, enter that circle of life, around our people at rest,

  So I sang a chant and left with ease, never to return again.

“To the West”

   Then unsure, I went back to the west, where my people also lay, and to St. George’s grave site I was shown…

   Now at this road area, I felt uptight, my great-great grandfather and mother was bulled away, to prevent six feet of land on the opposite side of the fence,

   When the parish told me this, I prayed for the spirits 

to be in control of that task,

   Because from my loving Mother it was taught  to me, to be humble, to those err of the past, and times in life they’ll meet and greet, too final judge their cast.

“To the centre” 

   

   After those trips, I trailed no more,

   Until a friend, Victor French, ordered a helicopter and landed me on an Isle on the Island in Newfoundland,

   Glover Island, it was called by name, twenty –seven miles long,

    Into a sacred place where I’d rest my bones, just walk and heel my thought with the orchestra of natural sound.

    Strangest visions in my life appeared before me,

    Tones of gold under the crusts of the beaded white stone, that was land locked for billions of years,

    My senses grew, those unseen stones, I’ve seen before, 

    Where people think, was untouched by other generations because they could never reach the shores. 

    

   This mighty Island of gorge, I stayed a month or more,

   Studying the natural habitat, especially our mother’s nature call the loon, with medicine of glory to cure my sores,

   At a hut, in a Garden of Eden, the blackened boron, king of his domain, though each other to share, still I had to settle a score,

   And chased the dog, to my last cross, on a rock in the forks of the road. 

  

    Finely, I heard the echo, and perched at the height of a bog, the Elder Eagle Catcher,  my brother Len,  and four cubs he’s standing beside,   

    Then one bear carrying a loaf of bread, and fish I left to thaw and pondered on to hide,

    That delinquent child reminded me of a scripture I read in the Holy Bible, but he was here before my time, that’s why I’ll never ever get sore,

    On the end, I did stand, where my people stood before, 

     Then I saw the remains of an ancient site, Beothics, Mic’mac, Eskimo where they would mate, and eat the bearing fruit and divided mankind into the fourth. 

   Composed Dec.10, 2005 at the closing of the Trails of Life.