Jump to content
The Education Forum

America


Recommended Posts

My "only" patriotism.

AMERICA

See her awesome wonders from shore to

Fertile shore

Jewel of creation spread afar with

Nature's flair

Unfolding wealth from mirrored

Deserts in the west

Blue Ridged Mountains where soaring

Eagles feast

Redwood forests; vast star crowned

Central midlands

Scenic New England and Pacific sunset

States

An Atlantic harbor where breathed

First liberty

Wild mighty rivers; The Great Lakes

Inland seas

Echoic skies upon this favored earth

Endowed

Visions of Eden - Imaging the mind of

God.

{c} by Harry Dean

Link to comment
Share on other sites

This is the JFK debate forum, not for poems about America that have little educational value. Maybe you accidently posted your poem in the wrong forum.

Sorry ol chap, and thanks for your sage advise.I Probably placed

it in the wrong section of the Forum? However 55 other members

have yet to mention it.

H.Dean

I don't mind, Harry, but then I'm not the forum either. I wonder what it is like to be an american, this may sound even blasphemous to some, I visited America a couple of years ago and admittedly it was a fast track through america through hawaii california denver santa fe saint louis washington new york and then on to canada. One thought I had is that there possibly are more americans living outside america who never had a citizenship, let alone a green card! A value I see in Harry's poem is a painting of an ideal, that unfortunately has been tarnished. Considering this shift, if there is/was one, could reveal broad groups, forces, interests that have shifted to the fore as aresult of JFK's murder.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Hi Harry

Nice poem celebrating what is best about these United States. Here's another to go with it. . .

Deep Impact

The NASA techs and scientists give each other high fives.

Dressed in red and blue shirts especially for July the Fourth,

they're joyfully ecstatic to impact the comet with their probe,

"igniting a dazzling fireworks display in space," CNN extolls.

Planned destruction, shock and awe in the name of science,

like the bullet ship in Georges Méliès' Voyage dans la Lune

filmed in 1902: one in the eye for the green cheese Moon.

Disregard the destruction, NASA reassures Earth worrywarts,

"The comet will not split in half or be jarred out of its orbit;

the impact will pose no danger to Earth in the near future."

And what if life exists on it? Inside the comet may be

the DNA that made you and those NASA geeks.

Christopher T. George

Meliesmoon.jpg

Voyage dans la Lune (1902)

Cosmic Fireworks on July 4

Link to comment
Share on other sites

This is the JFK debate forum, not for poems about America that have little educational value. Maybe you accidently posted your poem in the wrong forum.

Sorry ol chap, and thanks for your sage advise.I Probably placed

it in the wrong section of the Forum? However 55 other members

have yet to mention it.

H.Dean

I don't mind, Harry, but then I'm not the forum either. I wonder what it is like to be an american, this may sound even blasphemous to some, I visited America a couple of years ago and admittedly it was a fast track through america through hawaii california denver santa fe saint louis washington new york and then on to canada. One thought I had is that there possibly are more americans living outside america who never had a citizenship, let alone a green card! A value I see in Harry's poem is a painting of an ideal, that unfortunately has been tarnished. Considering this shift, if there is/was one, could reveal broad groups, forces, interests that have shifted to the fore as aresult of JFK's murder.

Yes.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

This is the JFK debate forum, not for poems about America that have little educational value. Maybe you accidently posted your poem in the wrong forum.

Where's your icon or photograph, Mr. Wilkinson? Or, are you merely just new to the forum? John or Andy, decide which categories certain topics should, or should not be posted under, on their site. Plus, they'll inform you, or move it for you themselves, thank you. :)

Link to comment
Share on other sites

This is the JFK debate forum, not for poems about America that have little educational value. Maybe you accidently posted your poem in the wrong forum.

Where's your icon or photograph, Mr. Wilkinson? Or, are you merely just new to the forum? John or Andy, decide which categories certain topics should, or should not be posted under, on their site. Plus, they'll inform you, or move it for you themselves, thank you. :)

Hi, Terry

'Always' nice to read your posts. In my answer to Mr. Wilkinson's remark, I was

trying to avoid hurting the feelings of this 18 year old Australian chap.

Harry

Link to comment
Share on other sites

My "only" patriotism.

AMERICA

See her awesome wonders from shore to

Fertile shore

Jewel of creation spread afar with

Nature's flair

Unfolding wealth from mirrored

Deserts in the west

Blue Ridged Mountains where soaring

Eagles feast

Redwood forests; vast star crowned

Central midlands

Scenic New England and Pacific sunset

States

An Atlantic harbor where breathed

First liberty

Wild mighty rivers; The Great Lakes

Inland seas

Echoic skies upon this favored earth

Endowed

Visions of Eden - Imaging the mind of

God.

{c} by Harry Dean

Yes, Harry. This once was so very true. But, as I ponder the documentary I saw last night on KLCS, our public education channel, here in L.A., I can't help but notice how far we have fallen from grace, as a race of supposedly civilized people.

You see, Harry there are Native Americans residing in the remote areas of the Alaskan wilderness who've survived alongside the herds of caribou that once thrived in the area. That is, until the Chevron Oil Company was given access to Prudhome [sic.?] Bay for drilling and excavation. With each encroachment into the hinterlands, the caribou are being forced to graze higher into the timberline of the Alaskan Tundra. Biologists, as well as the native populations, have been noting a marked decrease in newly born calves, and those that survive have serious health problems, resulting in shorter life spans. By being forced to higher elevations in search of grazing areas, they've encountered permafrost covering their food sources that remain frozen for longer periods of time than at the normally lower elevations, from which they've thrived for centuries. The instinct to survive has driven them to become anemic due to their persistence in trying to break through the permafrost, sometimes 2 inches in thickness, resulting in them cutting their hooves and hocks in the effort to break through to their food source, which can be seen to appear to them as lying just below the surface. This was very painful to behold, watching them walk away leaving a trail of blood in the ice and snow, all the while observing how emaciated they've become as their bones can be seen to protrude from beneath their fur.

The native inhabitants have stated that the oil companies attempt to compensate them for eminent domain of their ancestral hunting grounds, by providing natural gas hook-ups to their homes, and sewer lines from which to install toilets. The jobs generated are minimal, and will be short-lived once the oil has been fully depleted. Also, these modern conveniences require monthly payments that they've never had to depend upon before, nor maintain, even as much as a few years ago. In other words, they were self-sufficient in their symbiotic, if you will, [for lack of a better word] relationship with the caribou, and fishing lands they've managed to survive and thrive upon, by maintaining their traditional ancestral lifestyle.

The Alaskan tundra and hinterlands are the last remaining vestiges of a rapidly declining rain forest system from which part of the earth's fresh water table is replenished. I find it egregious and self-centered that this present regime in D.C. stubbornly persists to exhibit such total disregard for the inhabitants of the planet as to continually ignore the requests of its citizenry to design an automotive engine less dependent upon fossil-fuels and more conducive to the biosphere. We surely must possess the technology required to effect this. My other question is, do we possess the intellect, or has that been compromised along with the dumbing-down of our educational system, as well?

Unless the United States can break its dependency upon fossil fuels and foreign oil sources, we shall remain a debtor nation, preferring to wage unnecessary wars on foreign soil for the sole intention of annexing that country's natural resources, thus perpetuating the image of the blood-suckers we've become. How many times must this point be driven home before it's comprehended, and fully understood?

And, for those of you who fail to see the connection between what is being reported to you in this documentary from Alaska's native population, and what happened in Dallas on November 22, 1963, please feel free to reiterate.

"CHIEF SEATTLE'S 1854 ORATION" - ver . 1

AUTHENTIC TEXT OF CHIEF SEATTLE'S TREATY ORATION 1854

Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never change. Whatever Seattle says, the great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can upon the return of the sun or the seasons. The white chief says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him for we know he has little need of our friendship in return. His people are many. They are like the grass that covers vast prairies. My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain. The great, and I presume -- good, White Chief sends us word that he wishes to buy our land but is willing to allow us enough to live comfortably. This indeed appears just, even generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also, as we are no longer in need of an extensive country.

There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory. I will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been somewhat to blame.

Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, it denotes that their hearts are black, and that they are often cruel and relentless, and our old men and old women are unable to restrain them. Thus it has ever been. Thus it was when the white man began to push our forefathers ever westward. But let us hope that the hostilities between us may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Revenge by young men is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.

Our good father in Washington--for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since King George has moved his boundaries further north--our great and good father, I say, sends us word that if we do as he desires he will protect us. His brave warriors will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his wonderful ships of war will fill our harbors, so that our ancient enemies far to the northward -- the Haidas and Tsimshians -- will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men. Then in reality he will be our father and we his children. But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates mine! He folds his strong protecting arms lovingly about the paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant son. But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they really are His. Our God, the Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken us. Your God makes your people wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the land. Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never return. The white man's God cannot love our people or He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help. How then can we be brothers? How can your God become our God and renew our prosperity and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness? If we have a common Heavenly Father He must be partial, for He came to His paleface children. We never saw Him. He gave you laws but had no word for His red children whose teeming multitudes once filled this vast continent as stars fill the firmament. No; we are two distinct races with separate origins and separate destinies. There is little in common between us.

To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors -- the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of the night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.

Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely hearted living, and often return from the happy hunting ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort them.

Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun. However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them. Then we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the words of nature speaking to my people out of dense darkness.

It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.

A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves of a people once more powerful and hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant, but it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see.

We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children. Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.

Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds.

Other sources of information:

http://www.archives.gov/publications/prolo...ef_seattle.html

Detailed research calling into question the very existence of the speech, based on the Bureau of Indian Affairs records at the National Archives, by Jerry L. Clark.

http://www.geocities.com/Athens/2344/chiefs3.htm

Research by Per-Olof Johansson in Denmark

http://www.webcom.com/duane/seattle.html

"Chief Seattle's Thoughts" - two versions of the speech, by Duane Bristow

Edited by Terry Mauro
Link to comment
Share on other sites

In response to everyones comments, I am sorry, I was in a bad mood when i posted that comment,  :( . I have tried putting a pic of myself, but it obviously didn't work, so I will try that again. It is a good poem though.  :)

Thank you, Adam, for having the sensitivity to explain yourself to us. You have no idea how much respect I now have for you since displaying this humble side of your personality. It speaks volumes for your good character, and upbringing.

Harry has been extremely generous in coming forth with many aspects of his life, of which he's obviously had to come to terms with over the years. He didn't have to volunteer his help, and could have just as easily kept everything to himself. I consider people such as Harry to be truly genuine, which is rare among those of his profession who've chosen to contribute, their time and knowledge of the events that happened, to this on-going investigation. He's never sent us on a wild goose chase nor been a distributor of misinfo/disinfo. I only have the utmost respect for our friend and teacher, here.

So, again let me extend my hand in friendship, and thanks for your response.

"I have tried putting a pic of myself, but it obviously didn't work, so I will try that again. It is a good poem though. :("

When I had trouble putting up my bio, and had absolutely no idea of how to scan my picture into an icon, I sent it to John in an e-mail and he was able to set it up for me. All you have to do is ask, him. :)

Link to comment
Share on other sites

My "only" patriotism.

AMERICA

See her awesome wonders from shore to

Fertile shore

Jewel of creation spread afar with

Nature's flair

Unfolding wealth from mirrored

Deserts in the west

Blue Ridged Mountains where soaring

Eagles feast

Redwood forests; vast star crowned

Central midlands

Scenic New England and Pacific sunset

States

An Atlantic harbor where breathed

First liberty

Wild mighty rivers; The Great Lakes

Inland seas

Echoic skies upon this favored earth

Endowed

Visions of Eden - Imaging the mind of

God.

{c} by Harry Dean

Yes, Harry. This once was so very true. But, as I ponder the documentary I saw last night on KLCS, our public education channel, here in L.A., I can't help but notice how far we have fallen from grace, as a race of supposedly civilized people.

You see, Harry there are Native Americans residing in the remote areas of the Alaskan wilderness who've survived alongside the herds of caribou that once thrived in the area. That is, until the Chevron Oil Company was given access to Prudhome [sic.?] Bay for drilling and excavation. With each encroachment into the hinterlands, the caribou are being forced to graze higher into the timberline of the Alaskan Tundra. Biologists, as well as the native populations, have been noting a marked decrease in newly born calves, and those that survive have serious health problems, resulting in shorter life spans. By being forced to higher elevations in search of grazing areas, they've encountered permafrost covering their food sources that remain frozen for longer periods of time than at the normally lower elevations, from which they've thrived for centuries. The instinct to survive has driven them to become anemic due to their persistence in trying to break through the permafrost, sometimes 2 inches in thickness, resulting in them cutting their hooves and hocks in the effort to break through to their food source, which can be seen to appear to them as lying just below the surface. This was very painful to behold, watching them walk away leaving a trail of blood in the ice and snow, all the while observing how emaciated they've become as their bones can be seen to protrude from beneath their fur.

The native inhabitants have stated that the oil companies attempt to compensate them for eminent domain of their ancestral hunting grounds, by providing natural gas hook-ups to their homes, and sewer lines from which to install toilets. The jobs generated are minimal, and will be short-lived once the oil has been fully depleted. Also, these modern conveniences require monthly payments that they've never had to depend upon before, nor maintain, even as much as a few years ago. In other words, they were self-sufficient in their symbiotic, if you will, [for lack of a better word] relationship with the caribou, and fishing lands they've managed to survive and thrive upon, by maintaining their traditional ancestral lifestyle.

The Alaskan tundra and hinterlands are the last remaining vestiges of a rapidly declining rain forest system from which part of the earth's fresh water table is replenished. I find it egregious and self-centered that this present regime in D.C. stubbornly persists to exhibit such total disregard for the inhabitants of the planet as to continually ignore the requests of its citizenry to design an automotive engine less dependent upon fossil-fuels and more conducive to the biosphere. We surely must possess the technology required to effect this. My other question is, do we possess the intellect, or has that been compromised along with the dumbing-down of our educational system, as well?

Unless the United States can break its dependency upon fossil fuels and foreign oil sources, we shall remain a debtor nation, preferring to wage unnecessary wars on foreign soil for the sole intention of annexing that country's natural resources, thus perpetuating the image of the blood-suckers we've become. How many times must this point be driven home before it's comprehended, and fully understood?

And, for those of you who fail to see the connection between what is being reported to you in this documentary from Alaska's native population, and what happened in Dallas on November 22, 1963, please feel free to reiterate.

"CHIEF SEATTLE'S 1854 ORATION" - ver . 1

AUTHENTIC TEXT OF CHIEF SEATTLE'S TREATY ORATION 1854

Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never change. Whatever Seattle says, the great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can upon the return of the sun or the seasons. The white chief says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him for we know he has little need of our friendship in return. His people are many. They are like the grass that covers vast prairies. My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain. The great, and I presume -- good, White Chief sends us word that he wishes to buy our land but is willing to allow us enough to live comfortably. This indeed appears just, even generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also, as we are no longer in need of an extensive country.

There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory. I will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been somewhat to blame.

Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, it denotes that their hearts are black, and that they are often cruel and relentless, and our old men and old women are unable to restrain them. Thus it has ever been. Thus it was when the white man began to push our forefathers ever westward. But let us hope that the hostilities between us may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Revenge by young men is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.

Our good father in Washington--for I presume he is now our father as well as yours, since King George has moved his boundaries further north--our great and good father, I say, sends us word that if we do as he desires he will protect us. His brave warriors will be to us a bristling wall of strength, and his wonderful ships of war will fill our harbors, so that our ancient enemies far to the northward -- the Haidas and Tsimshians -- will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men. Then in reality he will be our father and we his children. But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates mine! He folds his strong protecting arms lovingly about the paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant son. But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they really are His. Our God, the Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken us. Your God makes your people wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the land. Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never return. The white man's God cannot love our people or He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help. How then can we be brothers? How can your God become our God and renew our prosperity and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness? If we have a common Heavenly Father He must be partial, for He came to His paleface children. We never saw Him. He gave you laws but had no word for His red children whose teeming multitudes once filled this vast continent as stars fill the firmament. No; we are two distinct races with separate origins and separate destinies. There is little in common between us.

To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors -- the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of the night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.

Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely hearted living, and often return from the happy hunting ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort them.

Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun. However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them. Then we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the words of nature speaking to my people out of dense darkness.

It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.

A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves of a people once more powerful and hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant, but it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see.

We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children. Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.

Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds.

Other sources of information:

http://www.archives.gov/publications/prolo...ef_seattle.html

Detailed research calling into question the very existence of the speech, based on the Bureau of Indian Affairs records at the National Archives, by Jerry L. Clark.

http://www.geocities.com/Athens/2344/chiefs3.htm

Research by Per-Olof Johansson in Denmark

http://www.webcom.com/duane/seattle.html

"Chief Seattle's Thoughts" - two versions of the speech, by Duane Bristow

Hi Terry,

Very interesting, Thanks

In 1854 Ohio country, Mrs. Walker, the wife of a preacher upon the forced movement of Indians from that area wrote;

"Go, fated Indian, to the farthest verge

Of earth's remotest shore;

There let the night-bird sing thy dirge,

When thy weary wandering's o'er.

Go sit upon the ocean's brink,

And in its solemn moan,

Fit music for thy broken heart,

Forget thy distant home.

But the white man's foot is on thy track,

As the blood hound seeks the hare;

Then arise,and scale some barren rock,

For the white man will not spare.

Go dwell upon some craggy peak,

Where the eagle makes her nest,

And eternal snows are drifting down-

There thy weary foot may rest.

Away from where your kindred sleep,

Beneath a fridged sky;

Where the wintery blast will freeze thy tears

There lay thee down and die.

Cast not a look to thy native land,

But to that blissful shore,

Where oppression's sigh is never heared,

And thou shall weep no more."

Thought you would like it.

Harry

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Harry has been extremely generous in coming forth with many aspects of his life, of which he's obviously had to come to terms with over the years. He didn't have to volunteer his help, and could have just as easily kept everything to himself. I consider people such as Harry to be truly genuine, which is rare among those of his profession who've chosen to contribute, their time and knowledge of the events that happened, to this on-going investigation. He's never sent us on a wild goose chase nor been a distributor of misinfo/disinfo. I only have the utmost respect for our friend and teacher, here.

Well said Terry. I have also been very impressed with the way Harry deals with questions. A few weeks ago I posted an extract from Richard E. Sprague’s Taking of America where he accuses Harry of being involved in the assassination. He explained in great detail why he believed Sprague made this mistake. It was done without the slightest hint of anger. We have a saying in the UK that is very appropriate for you: “Harry, you are a gentleman and a scholar”.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Harry has been extremely generous in coming forth with many aspects of his life, of which he's obviously had to come to terms with over the years. He didn't have to volunteer his help, and could have just as easily kept everything to himself. I consider people such as Harry to be truly genuine, which is rare among those of his profession who've chosen to contribute, their time and knowledge of the events that happened, to this on-going investigation. He's never sent us on a wild goose chase nor been a distributor of misinfo/disinfo. I only have the utmost respect for our friend and teacher, here.

Well said Terry. I have also been very impressed with the way Harry deals with questions. A few weeks ago I posted an extract from Richard E. Sprague’s Taking of America where he accuses Harry of being involved in the assassination. He explained in great detail why he believed Sprague made this mistake. It was done without the slightest hint of anger. We have a saying in the UK that is very appropriate for you: “Harry, you are a gentleman and a scholar”.

Hi, John

I Thank you, and others, for the kind but much undeserved words.

Harry

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Harry, it is good to have you elders amongst us to temper the tone, to lead by example, it humbles and instructs me.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Please sign in to comment

You will be able to leave a comment after signing in



Sign In Now
 Share

×
×
  • Create New...