Timothy Littlehawk Blanchette

The 6th Sense

I see her
On posters and on the TV screen
I see her
Outline piercing through beams of light
That pour Through the old, long-pained windows
Inside The Osbourne Correctional Facility

I hear your
Lyrics Whisper Inside my head and on the wind
I hear you
Singing On the radio, fancy dancing on the speakers
Her frequency permeates, Her melody gives me goosebumps
A chorus of generations echo behind her voice

I feel her
Hand rest on my shoulder, standing tall in the shadow of ivory skyscrapers
I feel her
Strength, my standing rock on wounded knees
Her gentle caress as these tears Roll down my cheeks and freeze in place

I can smell her
Fragrance In the Air, As I smudge this canvas to my liking
I can smell her
Essence As I dig my fingers deep down into the moist soil
And As I let the liquor bottle slip, now it’s out of my dirty hands

I taste her
Kiss as my lips weave this poetry into existence
I taste you
As the juices of mother nature’s bounty serenade the tip of my tongue
She nourishes my spirit, with beautiful medicine

I know her being
From another life
I recognize her energy
From sometime long ago and somewhere far away
Like a landscape that I mirror in my mind
That I gaze into, a reflection of the past
And I walk backwards along the lonely road that will lead me home

The Politics of Prophets

Ladies and Gentleman! Girls and Boys!
Welcome to the Circus,
Out front, They are selling tickets for admission
All the drinks are watered down
Stacked decks with green cards,
If they trace our bloodlines
Why don’t you see their papers?
Wearing masks and costumes on their souls
Imitation immigrants littered up and down the coast
One mans trash lies in the sand, beside the ocean
Washed ashore, received like one thousand letters
A people’s Hope
Poured into one thousand plastic bottles
Wearing red labels, still stubbornly clinging to their weathered faces
That displays a table of contents
By which the world will read their story
But they are Long since purged of bubbly oil
Acidic, addictive, and oh so sweet
But they are not empty
A thousand recyclable prophets
Cocoon’s, serving purposes beyond their shelf life
Butterflies on Native land,
A thousand flapping wings
Seeding a storm
Inside a modern society that would
Siphon our blood, our sweat, and our tears
To sell to the highest bidder
The politics of prophets
Is not to overlook the scripture that lies within
Do not fear those tiny pieces of paper
Cast your ballot off the pier
Every line you send out into the ocean
Will catch a wave
That carries it across the Universe

Nuwisuwôk Awáhshihs

Verse 1

Nuwisuwôk awáhshihs
My name is Little Hawk

Nuskitopák Mohiksak
My people are the Mohegans

Nuwáhto kocuci
I know only a little

Wipi -nuki-kátoh-ká kipi Aqi wôwôsôp/shá, kihtamsh!
But I talk fast like lightning, listen!

Nuki-kátoh / káwôkansh / wàwàpi wámi ôkatuqash
my words dance above all the clouds

Nay, uy nucoq kuwihkumuquw yaqi kisuq
yes, like my spirit summons me towards the sky

Tapi nunimskawô wiyon / Aqi nuwaconum miqunak
I can go get the moon like I have feathers

Ni-yan Aqi takôk, Cáqan ni?
My tongue is like a hatchet, What is that?

NuPotawá tukowak piyômush wuci n’hkunôk
I make a fire on the waves that come from my head

Ôcimut papômi nu-pumôtamuwôk
to tell a story about my life

Mutáwi máhkusunsh pupamshàk nanuk
many moccasins travel the path the same way

Somi mundu pumôtam, wu-yahshawok áyasun-uqiyak aqi ayaqsak
because the creator is alive, his spirit leads us like the stars

Verse 2

Wicwush awáhsh awáhshihs
Come with me, I am Little Hawk

Awáhsh awáhshihs sôsôqhuwá / wusayakatuwôk
Little Hawk always overcomes his troubles

Cáhsuw pupiqáwôk ni tá qutuyôtamuwôk qutáhum?
How much does music and honor weigh?

Qutahamsh Ahtá / Awáhshuk mihqônumuwôkanuk
Weigh it, it is on the hawk’s mind

Nunotam cipayak, Kayoyak aqi cikunásuwak
I hear spirits, they speak like sparks from a fire

Nupamshá káhtôpskáwuk yuw’i uyuqômuwôkansh
I walk along the cliff between dreams

Sáhmôskash yaqi sôpwiyusikwôk
From the stronghold towards uprightness

Yaqi owáhtamowôk ni tá yaqi kitiyayôk
Towards understanding and towards soul

Nusáhamowôk. Numôcanatam mômansh
My departure, I wonder at it sometimes

Qá nunatotum Manto witkámum
And I ask Creator, “Dance with me!”

Munumkimo aqi áhsitash
He rushes like the rivers

Manto kunáwuq qá mushôtowáw pisupáyan
The Creator sees you and he shouts when you sweat

Nôpihyo wômôyát ôqánumwuniyán
Especially loving when you are in pain

That is true, it is so
Ni wimináyuw, ni yáyuw


Tim LittleHawk Blanchette, member of the Mohegan Tribe of Connecticut, is a freelance Audio Engineer, Eastern War Dancer, Recording Artist, Entrepreneur and Writer.  He lives in Uncasville, Connecticut. Tim’s Instagram profile can be found at: https://www.instagram.com/dances_with_Mohiks/