​​​​The Greater Canton Writers' Guild, Inc.


                                                                                                                                             est. 1964

The Bow


His arrow tips now darkened

with dried buffalo blood

his eyes dried with sand and dust

​the wigwam falling around his head

his wife and family all lay dead.

the air now cold the frost is deep

he hangs his head and begins to weep.

     Why have these things come to pass?


The wound now deep in his side now bleeds

he presses the dirt and mud inside.

One more fight and then he'll die.

The sun now warms his now cold 

and dried heart.

He prays to the great spirit for one last start,

picks up his bow and moccasined feet

one step for mankind and into the street.

His language, his culture is all but forgotten

all his people who still search for salvation

find no hope on the government reservation.

Owen's page