"This is not a political protest.
This is an uprising of the soul."
David Brower
ecologyofthespirit.com
Wild Woman hears the voices
of the Old Ones,
rising on the winds of change,
telling us the white buffalo calf
has been born, and the time
of the prophecy is at hand.
On the soft breezes of dawn, I hear
Grandmothers weeping all across the land,
where so much of what we have loved
is gone.
The Black Snake slithers
across Mother Earth.
Oil spills into the rivers of life,
the water of the People.
Mother Earth’s womb is torn apart
by fracking; the ocean fills with
plastic detritus and toxins. It vomits
a graveyard of man-made garbage.
Wildfires burn; mountain slopes crumble;
rivers overflow their barren banks.
Whales and polar bears are starving,
the earth heats, the poles melt,
and hunger stalks the living.
Meanwhile, the Mad God of Money rules.
Men with dead eyes stuff their pockets,
grinning goulishly, as the planet burns.
Our Grandmothers’ blood stirs in our veins.
This is the earth we love;
we can’t stay silent as it is destroyed.
This world and its future
belongs to our grandchildren,
not to these mad fools.
We are muttering, across the land and oceans;
we are rising in our numbers.
We are gathering, in peaceful protest,
but with hearts like banshees.
Feel the chill on the hairs
on the back of your neck;
we are coming.
We are standing by the sides of rivers
and sacred burial grounds.
We cannot turn away,
for the bones of our beloveds are here,
near your bulldozers and dynamite,
your pipeline of destruction.
We cannot turn away
because our children (and yours!)
need fresh water to drink.
You have dotted the landscape
of our nightmares
with strip mines and oil derricks.
In every corner, you threaten
our combined existence.
No! It is Enough.
We have lived men’s ways for millennia;
see the result, as the earth gasps
under the yoke of your oppression
and misuse of power.
The Grandmothers and the Mothers,
the Aunts and Sisters, the dancing Maidens,
and the strong little rainbow children
are rising, with fire in our bellies
and the hope of transformation in our hearts -
with understanding even of the men
in the halls of power, wounded
and empty, whose dead eyes proclaim
they have never really felt loved.
Here is what wise women know:
even a trillion dollars will never ease that wound.
Instead, hug your sad-eyed sons
and smile – not like crocodiles -
at your unhappy wives.
We will unseat you – hopefully quite soon -
replacing you with those
who can lead with compassion:
the grandmothers and mothers,
the aunts and sisters,
and strong, dancing maidens.
This war is a holy war of light over darkness
and truth over lies.
The Grandmothers, the Women, are stirring;
the force of the Ancient Ones
is standing with us in our sorrowing.
Stand aside; we can show you
the way of life, of justice,
of harmony and healing.
We are grandmothers with wolf howls
in our hearts.
We will never be silenced.
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