Our Sacred Journeys

Our Sacred Journeys

by Linda Duncum


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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781452001937
Publisher: AuthorHouse
Publication date: 12/01/2010
Pages: 60
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.14(d)

Read an Excerpt




Copyright © 2010 Linda Duncum
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4520-0193-7

Chapter One

Section 1


    A golden moon rises slowly above a lonely prairie,
    its light showing secrets that are normally hidden
    in the night sky.

    Here an old man stands alone on a hilltop,
    watching the approach of a thunderstorm
    riding in on the western wind.
    His aging silhouette seen only during flashes of light
    from the incoming storm.

    While the wind carries his prayers up to our Creator,
    his tears flow freely for his grandchildren who were
    sent to a far away land by a government he no longer
    cares to recognize.

    Now looking up into the stars he awaits patiently for his
    grandfathers to come and take him home.
    For now he realizes that his true home lies across the light of
    the milky way, and his soul belongs to the heart
    of his Creator.

    Linda M. Duncum


    A young warrior with tight bronze skin
    and a strong muscular body,
    kneels down to look at himself in the mirror
    of a small mountain lake.

    In his reflection he sees an old man with wrinkles
    that cut deep into his skin, like the canyons he use to
    hide and play in when he was young, and gray hair
    flowing loose in the wind like the feathers he
    wore in his youth.

    Following memories of trails his family once traveled,
    deep in the heart of Apache lands, he comes across
    muscular statues carved into tall majestic mountains
    now standing guard over sacred entrances.

    He travels with the spirits of Apaches past,
    running along invisible trails, his moccasins
    making rustling sounds across the dry grasses.

    Bloody and exhausted by his journey,
    He rests at the base of a tall mountain.
    Here, crowds of prickly spined cactus with arms outstretched
    to the heavens join him in prayer,
    while ocatillo reach out with their long, green, painful, arthritic
    fingers to tear into his flesh, if he turns the wrong way.

    At night, his ancestor's cries can be heard through massive boulder
    fields and deep canyons that lead up to jagged mountain peaks,
    which turn into ghost-like shadows in the mid-day sun.
    Their drum beats sound like thunder echoing
    through deep canyons formed by wind carried songs
    and flowing tears from leaders past.

    It is here that our warrior will return to the womb
    of his mother, where his spirit will ride once again
    on the backs of Eagles, to fly across ancient Apache lands.

    Linda M. Duncum


    Three empty chairs covered in blankets,
    sit alone in the western edge of a circle.
    In a place of honor they sit, filled with only
    memories and mementos that bring tears
    to their families eyes.

    Their elder's chairs represent a wisdom
    now forever lost to the wind,
    while their teachings sit like seeds,
    waiting to bloom in the hearts of the young.

    Wrapped in their blankets, their spirits now
    sit and watch over their children.
    Their songs of honor and family pride are heard
    above the drums which echoes about their homeland.

    And as the sun starts to set, their voices begin to fade
    into a distant golden light.
    "Don't forget us" they would cry,
    "Don't forget us".

    Linda M. Duncum


    The spirits call me to a simple monument
    that stands, in now a sacred spot
    over Colorado lands.

    Where the spirits of women and children
    will forever hide among the shadows
    of promises too easily made and broken.
    Where old one's stories will never again
    be heard or spoken, forever lost to some men's
    ghastly tokens.

    Cottonwoods line the creek bed
    filled with the dried blood of hundreds,
    the last witnesses of this horrid past.
    When cavalry came and steel met flesh and
    where the graves of women and children amassed.

    The snap of a flag could still be heard
    today among the dying trees and winter winds.
    Hovering over the spirit of a peaceful people,
    massacred for others' sins.

    Escorted by some of these not so ancient warriors,
    they continued to show me these tearful moments
    of their past, in hopes that this sinful massacre will
    not repeat and that true peace will always last.

    Linda M. Duncum


    Dance softly upon the Earth for this is our Mother.
    Dance, my children, to the beat of the drum,
    while you look beyond the Tree and into the sun.

    It is here at the Tree where we begin our search for the truth,
    and for some answers, where we pray for the healing of
    Mother Earth, our family, and for all the other dancers.

    Where we not only pray for the land but for all people,
    for our Mother is our Church and the Tree our steeple.

    Linda M. Duncum


    A large cottonwood tree is centered
    in the middle of a small universe.
    Its limbs reaching up toward the heavens,
    its branches protecting those who gather beneath it.

    The trunk is tucked deep inside its Mother's womb.
    Its spiritual roots reaching out to all four directions.

    It carries the prayers of all the people, all people of all colors,
    genders and religions.

    It calls upon the Eagle, Buffalo and Thunder beings for blessings.
    It understands no prejudice, no hate, it calls out to all the people,
    "Come to me to pray my children,"
    "Come to me to pray."

    Linda M. Duncum


    Fighting a world filled with prejudice while trying
    to protect their children against the many evils
    of a dying society.

    Strong women whose prayers hold up their families
    before themselves into the light of our Creator.

    Teaching an ancient language and traditions once
    thought drowned in white man's alcohol, to
    a generation dying of junk food and soda pop.

    To women of strong prayers who set aside their lives
    to pray for their people.
    To the women of the sun who dance to bring healing to
    all the land, I give my love and respect.

    Because what you have shared with me I now understand,
    that we are all sisters of the same blood, truly related in the
    eyes of God.

    Linda M. Duncum


    Tender touches of the wind traveling through open ranges,
    stirs up scents of sweet grasses and sage which rises up
    to meet lost souls looking for their way back home.

    Yellow flowers scatter their medicine to the wind,
    stirred up by the hoofs of ancient buffalo, trying to heal
    our people's sacred homelands.

    Alone on a bloodied hilltop, a small white church sits,
    overlooking graves of women and children and old men,
    who carried no weapons, but who were killed by
    Christian men in the name of God and gold.

    Here lies testaments to greed, and indifference,
    prejudice and hate, now written on a monument
    made of cold dark stone. Tears forever frozen in time,
    so we never forget.

    Linda M. Duncum

Chapter Two

Section 2


    A wise man once said,
    "taking an eye for an eye will just make the whole world blind".
    This should be a scary enough thought to shake up all of mankind.

    To be able to walk with sight intact while
    following His most precious light,
    should open up our hearts and minds to
    the most sacred of possibilities,
    where no man would want to fight.

    To respect all of our differences but to share just one prayer.
    Can we challenge each other to take on God's dare?

    To show love, not violence, I am so inclined.
    Just so we don't have to walk through this beautiful world,
    our gift from God, being blind.

    Linda M. Duncum


    We are all God's apprentices,
    we all have lessons to learn.
    And today we are all sitting in His classroom,
    with not a minute left to burn.

    For our time here on earth is limited,
    with many things left to do.
    And personally I'd like to finish all this
    homework, before I say my last adieu.

    I promise to help you with your homework,
    if you help me with mine, so we can all enjoy
    this world we live in, while we still have some
    peaceful moments in time.

    For no matter what you call Him, God wants
    us to succeed, and come home to Him
    forever as we have all earlier agreed.

    Linda M. Duncum


    The hand of our Father lives in the clouds,
    His voice echoes in the wind against mountain peaks
    and canyon walls.
    His thunder is like the sound of a thousand buffalos
    running across the plains.

    Over lifetimes He gives back to us what he receives,
    though like any good Father, He tries to teach us the
    difference between good and evil, right and wrong.

    Through His messengers He speaks, though only His
    human children refuse to listen.
    As the Eagle, Hawk and Owl fly, their cries go unnoticed.
    So He calls upon His helpers to gather the clouds
    for this is what His two legged children will listen to.
    As the storm clouds gather, some will stop and pray
    asking for mercy, while others will give thanks for rain.
    Others though, will only pray when our Father's hand
    falls upon them.

    But even though hardship will fall on some,
    others will still not listen.
    We must remember that lessons not learned will return
    again and again, each time harder than the time before.
    How much more will it take before His lessons
    are learned.

    Linda M. Duncum


    In the early morning light, I see our Grandfathers' mountains
    wearing their ancient sacred skirts, which in the sunlight
    appears to wave in continuous motions of vibrant colors.
    As dawn brakes, small furry creatures scurry across desert floors
    to hide beneath or grandfathers' skirts, while predators watch and
    effortlessly glide high above them.

    Shear cliff faces rising high above the desert floor,
    are soon kissed by the morning sun, exposing sacred colors
    earlier blanketed by the night sky.
    Mountain tops are gently awakened by rolling
    wisps of fluffy white clouds,
    to temporarily hide these beautiful peaks from my view.
    From a distance in the early morning light, the small scrub brush
    and juniper along these mountain sides, reminds me of morning stubble
    on the face of my own grandfather.

    It is here in this sacred place, that ancient mountains slope skyward
    like petrified waves of water frozen in time.
    Crusty old sea creatures now hide within the cracks and crevasses
    of our grandfathers' stone faces, while dry
    waves of sand carried by the wind,
    continuously blow across this ancient ocean floor.

    Now, modern men travel along the bottom of these ancient seaways,
    in crafts made of metal and rubber. Tears roll down my face as I witness
    modern men preparing to conquer sacred mountains and lay claim to
    mountain tops that do not belong to them.

    During the light of day, desperate prayers from our brothers can be heard
    echoing along deep canyon walls, while spirit cries can be heard
    in the night wind, whistling through fields of volcanic rock.
    "Walk gently and respect our sacred lands," they cry.
    "Respect our sacred lands."

    Linda M. Duncum


    Power is supernatural,
    belonging to nature,
    whose birth began as love,
    molded by the hands of God.

    Power is the voice of God,
    speaking through the cry of an eagle,
    carried along the breath of the wind,
    striking deep within the souls of all He created.

    Power is the healing hand of God,
    reaching through the mire of man,
    touching all He created with His mighty
    loving hand.

    Power is the breath of God,
    which has given the gift of life to all of His children.
    His love is felt through a kiss of a gentle breeze on a
    beautiful spring day, while His discipline could be
    felt by a slap of the wind against a churning sea,
    or by the twist of a roaring wind during a summer storm.

    Pitiful is the man who declares that he is the powerful one.
    For it was through the true power of God that this world began,
    and it will be by the true power of God that this world will end.

    Linda M. Duncum


    Veins of redden clay and rock cascades down mountains
    of harden lava, with grasses and small hardy bushes
    pushing their way up through wrinkles in the faces
    of our Grandfathers.

    Pools of water formed from their tears gives life
    to all who live here.
    Smells of sacred sage rises each morning
    above the desert floor, blessing each sun rise
    with its cleansing spirit while awakening
    each living thing with its gentle aroma.

    Though through the harshness of these mountains
    lies a stillness, broken only by the occasional cry
    of our brother, the hawk, who shares the sky with the sun,
    and by the owl who is heard only during the blackness of
    the night.

    Here there is a harmony of spirits, from the smallest
    brown field mouse to the large muscular mountain lion,
    from the venomous reptiles and insects who live within
    the deepest caverns, to the mountain sheep
    who tap dance over our Grandfathers' shoulders.
    It is here they share the gifts of life.

    Winds blend with the stillness of the night to carry
    the prayers of all living things up to our Creator.
    For with these prayers carry the blessings of the new day.

    We must never forget that these mountains
    will always carry life. Birthed by our Mother and guarded
    by our Brothers, who live deep within the heart of our
    Grandfathers known only to some as
    the White Mountains.

    Linda M. Duncum


    They walk past ancient pueblos and sacred kivas,
    hearing the sacred songs sung by their elders, carried
    in the whispers of wind through deep gorges and hidden canyons.

    They travel through barren deserts and volcanic trails
    of blackened rocks struck with the veins of bloodied earth,
    hidden by our Mother by a thick blanket of white ash.

    Cries from horrors past draws the ancients south,
    past majestic mountains covered with snow.
    They continue past sand covered fields where huge boulders
    were thrown to detour the evils of white men from entering their
    sacred grounds.

    Tall stair step mesas exposing sacred colors offer places of solitude
    and prayer, while small rock shaped hogans offer a safe refuge
    during their long journey.

    Following an ancient trail, they gather at the base of Shiprock.
    Their songs and prayers flow among the sails up to the highest peak,
    for it is here that the great Eagle will carry
    their prayers Home, to the
    heart of our Creator.

    Linda M. Duncum


    What would the world be like
    if we shared everything we owned?
    If we actually treated our Mother Earth
    as a loving gift, as well as a sacred home.

    Would we be more humbled if we all tried
    to live the same?
    With all of our current troubles, wouldn't
    it be nice if just one person stood up
    to take the blame.

    And if we all saw each other as equal and in the
    the same light, would we finally have a world
    of peace, with no actual reason left to fight?

    Linda M. Duncum


    Guardian of the people, flying high up in the sky,
    looks down upon his Mother which makes him want to cry.
    Too much hate and prejudice, to much want and greed,
    too much death and destruction causing his dear Mother to bleed.

    Poisons floating through the rivers, poisons
    in the air, too many toxins
    sown among our Mothers' seeds causing them not to bear.

    Through the tears in his eyes the sacred
    colors fade, but once again the sun
    scattered new seeds in hope that our Mother's children once more
    could be saved.

    The lower the Eagle flew, the cloudier his
    vision became, until the tips of his
    wings scattered the seeds that the sacred sun has laid.

    Afraid of scattering the seeds onto the
    poisons left by man, the Eagle lands
    on his Mother and starts to walk; crying
    on Her seeds, praying for all the
    children that this land one day could feed.

    Linda M. Duncum


    What do I hear when the world is silent,
    when all man made sounds do not exist?

    I hear the cry of an eagle calling me to a secret place
    high in the mountains, where time stands still and the
    sounds of silence are deafening to untrained ears.

    Where footsteps are only echoes along canyon walls
    and sounds of human breath are taken away in the wind.

    Can you hear the voice of God, in the roar of the falls,
    and in each raindrop that falls upon the water?

    Follow the voice of God to that secret place that can be yours,
    a place where time stands still, where His voice
    can be heard over the chaos of man.

    Remember this my children, to man,
    silence is the absence of sound.
    To the eagle silence is the absence of man.
    What do you hear when the world is silent?

    Linda M. Duncum

Excerpted from OUR SACRED JOURNEYS by LINDA DUNCUM Copyright © 2010 by Linda Duncum . Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents


A Journey Home....................1
Apache Lands....................2
Empty Chairs....................3
Sand Creek....................4
The Sun Dance....................5
The Tree....................6
Women of the Sun....................7
Wounded Knee....................8
A Prayer for Peace....................10
God's Apprentices....................11
Our Father's Hand....................12
Painted Desert....................13
Power Belongs to God Alone....................14
The White Mountains....................15
Traveling Along the Trail of the Ancients....................16
What the World Would Be Like....................17
When Eagles Walk....................18
When the World Is Silent....................19
Child of the Earth – Winter....................21
Child of the Earth – Spring....................22
Child of the Earth – Summer....................23
Child of the Earth – Fall....................24
Forgotten Lands....................25
From the Eyes of My Brother....................26
God's Mirror....................27
Our Mother's Tears....................28
Our Mother's Womb....................29
Unplanted Dreams....................30
The Rio....................31
The Sentinel....................32
Hidden Conversations....................34
I Walk....................35
Kindred Spirits....................36
Ministers to the Wind....................37
My Trail Home....................39
Night Shift....................40
One Step at a Time....................41
Search for Time....................43
Take My Hand....................46
The Blood Left Behind....................47
The Cry of a Child....................48
The Unknown Promise....................49

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