Cherokee artist Ken Pomeroy: On ‘adult-sized feelings,’ healing, and the proof that ‘we’re still here’
By Troy Littledeer | @candyminksprings
Ken Pomeroy was 7 years old when she heard something in a folk song that changed her.
She was sitting by a radio, listening to “Leaving on a Jet Plane” by John Denver — a campfire staple about travel and longing. But to a young Pomeroy, it was a revelation. She didn’t just hear the melody; she felt the weight of the man singing it.
“I felt sad for him,” Pomeroy said. “I think that was frame one of me being like, ‘I want to do that.’ I want to do that for other people.”
Now 23, Pomeroy is doing exactly that. She is no longer just a listener. She is a recording artist with Rounder Records, a label that has released albums by Alison Krauss and Billy Strings. She has worked with producers including Gary Paczosa, according to label materials.
The comfort masks the edge. On “Pareidolia,” the opener of her 2025 album Cruel Joke, she sings about “lying in the debris” and concludes that “a cruel joke is all we can afford.”
For Pomeroy, music is the place where she puts her “adult-sized feelings.” It is a container for the things too heavy to carry in regular conversation.
“I try to find a balance between how the music makes you feel versus how the lyrics make you feel,” she said. At George’s Majestic Lounge in Fayetteville, she watched the first trickle of fans arrive for the Gar Hole-idays showcase, then added, “And most of the time, they are very, very different things.”
She joked that her cheerfulness in conversation might be the Lexapro talking, even while the songs stay anchored in grief. The specifics of that past remain hers to keep. She doesn’t offer a detailed catalog of the wreckage. She is clear, though, about where she goes to rebuild.
That healing process is grounded in Oklahoma. Despite the Nashville contract and the national tours, Pomeroy’s heart remains tethered to Tulsa. She notes that 85 percent of Cruel Joke was recorded not in a high-gloss studio, but in a house she shared with her partner, Dakota. The polish of Nashville came later. The bones were built at home.
That sense of home is defined by more than geography. Her grandmother, whom she calls Mamaw, is in her 90s and taught her the heritage she carries. On stage, Pomeroy paused during the introduction to her song “Coyote” to share the name her grandmother gave her: ᏩᏯ ᎤᏍᏗ — Little Wolf. It was a quiet declaration of identity that predates the music.
She does not do the work alone. The Tulsa music community operates more like a safety net than the competitive scenes in Nashville or Los Angeles. Pomeroy points to Oklahoma artists including Kaitlin Butts, Kyle Reid, and Samantha Crain as part of the community that shaped her — musicians who didn’t push her out, but pulled her in.
“Never once did I feel pushed out,” Pomeroy said. “I honestly blame a lot of my perseverance on that because it was a very strong foundation.”
The intimidation factor remains real. Pomeroy grew up listening to John Moreland on an iPod at age 10. Moreland, a songwriter known for his stoic persona and lyrics that can level a room, was the figure who “hung the moon” for her.
“Coyote” carries a tension of its own. On stage, Pomeroy shared that her Mamaw taught her a coyote was a bad omen — something to be wary of. It seemed the exact opposite of the name she had been gifted, Little Wolf. Instead of running from that omen, she turned it into an ode to Oklahoma. To finish it, she took a shot in the dark and cold-messaged Moreland to ask for a harmony. He said yes.
When they eventually toured together, the transition from fan to peer was jarring.
“He’s very mysterious,” she said, laughing. “He’s very reserved… I caught myself just tripping in front of him or doing something stupid because I was nervous.”
For Pomeroy, a Cherokee Nation citizen, purpose shifted into sharp focus during a recent show in Manitou Springs, Colorado. She said the moment was not about industry recognition. It was about who stood in the crowd.
In a sea of faces, she noticed three Native audience members.
“That was the first time ever that someone came to see us,” she said. “It’s truly everything to know that, one, people are coming to see us, but also, family are coming to see us. We’re all one.”
“It’s realizing how many people don’t realize that Native people are still around and literally everywhere,” Pomeroy said. “We’re not all feathers and teepees. I guess it’s educating people like, ‘Nah, we’re still here. We’ve been here the whole time.’”
Troy Littledeer is a journalist and photographer based in Candy Mink Springs, Oklahoma. He is a member of the United Keetoowah Band of Cherokee Indians and reports on tribal governance, education, and public accountability across Indian Country and surrounding communities. His work centers primary documents and recorded statements, with a focus on tribal law and the public record.
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