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Details | American Poem | |

Indian Ink

“Indian Accent”

Hear the whispers inside

Chanting from long ago
Echoes come and go
Losing time in a soft eternal glow

A beautiful and delicate autumn mountain scene
Dry blue eyes enchanting melodies!
Voices falling from the sky
Rising hymns release ancient demons that cling to the soul

The darkness dwells under gentle moonlight
Ancestors of the Spirit World,
Exposing Indian hands that weave native smoke into the air
Their spirits taunting burrows from the muddy Earth
Moccasin makers rise from underneath
Guardians of dream catchers
Smooth thread from the outer edge, bowing heads.
Luminous gems of ivory,
Chasing a florid kiss.

Through the winds of enchanted drums, voices cry out for rain.
The hollow chimes mesmerize  
An ancient rage begins to flare
Stale madness, 
The spears of the perfumed buffalo skin pierced my senses
Removing the veils that cover my eyes
The hands that cover my ears
Washing the scalp that bleeds on my face
They collect tears from memories of the past.

KINDRED IN EVERY WAY!

Raven silk braids, feathers fall from my hair.
Dancing in a horrid hallucination of Peyote,
Waking up from the “American Dream.”
Holding out my arms, I am free, I can fly.

I AM A BIRD!

By; PD

Details | American Poem | |

Ancient Warrior

I see the wrinkles in your suntanned brow,
You carried burdens then; you see them now.
You’ve heard the cries your people who in pain,
Have shed their tears two hundred years like rain. 

Your sad brown eyes, reflecting now the sky
I see the wings of eagles flying by
Beside you stands an Appaloosa mare
Her spirit one with you now over there.

You hear the drums, they bid you to come near,
Your spirit drawn the beats they ring so clear.
Song like prayers are chanted through the night,
Calling you come, and help them end their plight.  

You’ve heard sad cries and now stand at their side,
You join the prayers with both arms open wide,
United spirits sing until the dawn,
When in the fire’s flames a golden fawn.

Remembering a smile crosses your face,
When tribes were one with Mother Nature’s grace.
The lakes and streams flowing with waters clear,
Flow sadly now, the planet lives in fear.

The weightless feathers that adorn your head
Your tribes grey future weighed you down instead.
Now breathing deep you smell the winds of change
While here on earth your people rearrange.

Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.21.2014
Giorgio A.V. Contest 
Iambic Pentameter 
1st place

Details | American Poem | |

Ancient Stones

Charcoal black tip of arrowhead
among these ancient, stones - stained red

Heartbeats feel rhythms of ghostly drums
Winds carry haunting, chanting hums

I feel your blood, flow here with mine
Outlasting, even decaying time

I've been told the stories, told by you
I know we're just spirits, passing through

When thunder, shakes awake the night
I vision warriors by firelight

Their voices echo, around mountain's soul
While moon and stars watch us below

Respect the sky, and mother earth
Borrow the beauty, from time of birth

Then give in death peacefully
yourself, to rest eternally

Among these ancient, stones - stained red
my mirror reflects traces, of those long...........
    remembered.......

©Donna Jones
11-8-2013

proud to be one quarter Cherokee.....native american indian

Details | American Poem | |

Indian Girl

--Virginia Slim--

Different eyes, the same world 
Ancient skin, dirty Indian Girl 
Smokey, eyes, exotic raven hair 
---Now listen to  the colors, of transformation, 
On the day she was born, the wind blew in, 
A blessing ---her soul, fallen from the heavens
A  gorgeous puff of smoke, Miss Virginia Slim

Able to walk the world with an open mind, she twirls
Pocahontas, one of her many names. 
She carves, and climbs on trees, this little Indian Girl, 
Her feathers ride with the wind, against her red titian skin
Daughter of Chief Powhatan, a powerful tribal, red man 
Peace and love with the Indians of her Virginia Lands,

Many myths, many stories, maybe a mad woman, 
A new Christian, living sad poverty, a silent hero, 
Twisted tales, from savage green to ivory white religion
In her eyes, life never was about greed and skin
Her new look, attained an altitude precision
Pocahontas, tricked and captured, 
Set to sail another tribe, lands were taken over, 
Boat sailed out of Virginia Lands

Tribes acclaimed her to be wild and ambitious
"The naughty one," searching for admission
Native American child, before princess, 
Her beautiful soul, a short auspicious beginning
Leaving her world, beautiful and fearless
Forgetting her roots-- From Mother Willow's Vision 
Pocahontas, the Indian Legend from, The Virginia Lands

by;PD

Details | American Poem | |

Heritage

The ranch on which I hang my hat, though short on most the frills,
Is thirteen sections, give or take, of rugged trails an’ hills.
We call it ‘home’, our little world, our very own frontier,
Amongst the cattle, sheep an' goats; the varmints, hogs an' deer.

Today I watched the breakin' dawn an' whiffed the mornin' air,
A time I often set aside for things like thought an' prayer.
A Mockin'bird an' Mornin' Dove, an' other birds at play,
Were there to sing an' set the mood to start another day.

This mornin' saw the strangest thing, like time itself had merged,
An' all the souls who once were here, appeared an' then converged.
In swirlin' clouds of mist an' fog, right off the bluffs they rolled,
Till all had gathered in the glen, the modern an' the old.

The Indians, conquistadors, an' other ancient men,
The soldiers from this country's wars, an' cowboys from back when…
They all had come from yesterday to help me understand
Our link with those who came before, to heritage an' land.

A crazy notion, so I thought, that they could just appear,
But as the morning went along the reason got real clear.
They rode along with me that day to show me things I’ve missed,
The things I’ve seen a thousand times an’ some I’d just dismissed.

Those wagon roads of long ago, still evident today,
Are carved in rock an' rutted earth, not apt to wash away.
They linked the missions, forts an' towns those many years gone by;
An' left their mark for all to see, as modern times grew nigh.

The artifacts an' weathered ruins attest to yesterdays,
When others came an' lived their lives in very different ways.
We've seen their skill in arrowheads they honed from fired stone,
An' craftsmanship in beads an' tools they fashioned out of bone.

At ever turn and trail we took was something to remind,
The Maker must have had a plan laid out for humankind.
The Earth He made’s been feedin' us a half-a-million years,
An' used it's wonder, force an' change to challenge pioneers.

I do not know if they'll return or if they’ll feel the need,
But I’m prepared to ride the trail, where ever it may lead.
We all are spirits ridin’ time with bodies of the Earth,
Whose time has come to take the reins an’ offer up our worth.

The land has been the legacy we cultivate an’ reap,
The life has been the heritage our father’s fought to keep,
An’ we are bound throughout our time with those who came before,
To put our hearts and souls to it, and make it something more.

Details | American Poem | |

Who Am I

I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend

I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies 
through speaking my thoughts into existence

I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance 
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen

I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery 
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry

I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards

I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels

I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent  of it

I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
Judge that

I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM



Details | American Poem | |

Each Day Takes its Turn

Standing firm 
we live 
we give 
we take 
we learn 
we strive to make sure 
each day enlightens us 
and brightens us
even as light fades to gray 
may we keep fighting 
with two swollen feet
beneath the body and soul 
experiencing trials 
and intense life lessons 
meshed with stresses 
may we persevere 
turn off  fear's song 
may we stand firm 
as we glide along 
through shifty winds of change 
that may cause things to sway
rearrange
but we hold true
inside the values and morality
we stand for 
we
fall for nothing 
we
may stumble along the trip 
we 
may swerve at the wheel yet 
we 
do not lose our grip
because no one 
can eclipse the sun 
yet
everyone heals 
before they're done

Just when situations arise 
flooding us with pain we despise
and just when it seems like
our tear ducts are dry 
from ongoing cries
we may think 
things are on the brink of ending
then God shows us the ways of faith
by way of love that he's sending

Standing firm 
we live 
we give 
we take 
we learn 
we make sure 
every day enlightens us 
and brightens us 
as each day takes its turn. 

~JSLambert



Details | American Poem | |

Sweetest Love Note

One night a guy & a girl were
driving home from the movies. The
boy sensed there was
something wrong because of the painful
silence they shared between them
that night. The girl then asked the boy to pull over
because she wanted to talk. She told him that her
feelings had changed & that it was time to move on.
A silent tear slid down his cheek as he
slowly reached into his pocket & passed her a folded note.
At that moment, a drunk driver was speeding down
that very same street. He swerved
right into the drivers seat, killing the boy.
Miraculously, the girl survived. Remembering the note, she
pulled it out & read it.
"Without your love, I would die."

Details | American Poem | |

Before the night is Over (He's coming back) pt.2

             
                  Well my friend, my conscience would not allow me the pleasure.
              The pleasure not to report the news that I treasure.  That as I
              open the book, the book full of new's, a book full of true's.
            
                  All that I know, and them to be in doubt, one day they will all
              shout, "He's coming back", "Before the nite is over".  That's what
              the Bible (the book) is all about.  "Enter ye in at the straitgate: for
              wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction.
              Lord (now): "Show me the way Home", the poem is all about subduction.

             "Before the night is Over, the attempt is to capture your mind".  So may
               you be aware, as he is lead, lead like a lamb to be slaughter.  He is
               beaten like as if they don't care, he look like news I cann't share but
               the book (Bible) say's the reason he suffer for you and for me.
                  Because Love, Well yes my friend, [Love] is the reason to feel free!!..
                
                    My conscience want allow me the pleasure, that I too was less inform.
                That, cause of my sin, I couldn't be reform, and many amonst many was
                 also in doubt.  "Before the night is Over, hope all once blind, now see".
                Before the nite is over, before the night is become dawn and just before
                the dew hit's the ground.   

               "Give your life to what is living and not to a deadless Clover".  Do this, feel
                this.
               "Before the night is Over".

Details | American Poem | |

Tribute to Susan Boulet Art

Susan Boulet was an artist 1941-1997
Her paintings are famous for their layered effects which she started later on in her artistic career. She loved fantasy which is easily seen in her paintings. This is my fantasy poem as I look at this beautiful picture painted by Susan Boulet.

The old man sits quietly on the hillside, knowing his days as one
Spirit would soon be coming to an end. He stares blankly at the heavens where the pale blue sky is the backsplash for Cumulus clouds now filling in, the horizon. He chants his prayer over and over again calling his brothers to come receive his spirit and be one with him for all eternity. Brother bear, cloak me with the warmth of your coat that we may walk through each winter and never be cold again. We will stand together as one, never again will we know fear. Brother wolf fill my heart with your loyal spirit that we may rise to heights of a love greater than any human could possibly achieve. His prayer seems to rise more intensely as he continues. Mighty cat, share with me your speed that we may be faster than the wind, jumping through the clouds as one. Wise and good owl, become one with us that we shall have wings to fly as eagles and wisdom to find eternal peace. Now the old man whispers, together we shall hold the secrets of the universe in our hands. Soon his chin drops down on his chest as a smile crosses his face, and the old frail body crumbles to the hard rocky ground. Then the cry of a wolf, the hoot of an owl and simultaneously the roars of a sabre-toothed and bear echo through the valley. As darkness fills the sky and the moon is high, the silhouette of a young warrior stands proudly on the bluff.


Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.26.2014
For Debbie Guzzi’s Contest:
Free Verse, Prose Poetry, Haibun

Details | American Poem | |

A SLave's Cry

Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost

Details | American Poem | |

Granny Panty Annie, the Tranny

Lemme tell ya' about a
*ding-bat skit-zo 
bee-hotch* tranny
named Annie...

I met her one night 
under disco lights 
up at Candies

She was 
starin' at me
grittin' her teeth
aimin' ta' see 
if I wanted a piece
of he 
OR
of she 
by way of flashin' granny panties

She was
shootin' pool
actin' a fool
so I 
took a shot
and one tiny glance 
but got caught

So I
lit up a smoke
and tried to play it off cool
but it was too late
she had pulled up a stool

She slurred,
"Hey young felluh, where ya' been all my life!"

I replied, 
"Sorry to burst yir' bubble, but I got a wife!"

"That don't matter kid, what she don't know won't hurt the girl" 
as she fisted my collar and yelled, "I'LL ROCK YIR' WORLD! Annie the Tranny is what they call me. Bet you been wanted ta' bone me since you first saw me!"

Fear and frustration danced on my face
I begged the bouncer to 
"Get this he/she outta the place!"

My pleas were to no avail, 
and that sea donkey lurked hot on my trail
flailin' it's arms and grindin' bar stools with it's tail

Speakin' of tails...
a shiny blue wale tail crept up her back
Her jeans were mean, but couldn't hold her underwear's elastic slack
but at least it beat feastin' eyes upon her crack
then she... 
wrapped her grimy hands around my neck and asked, 
"You n' me, boy, what the heck!?!"

I screamed,
"Look here lady, you seem real nice for a tranny;
but...
ya' see...
ya' need 
to hit the bricks,
you
and yir' Granny Panties!"

At that point the joint started to really heat up
people were glarin' like they really wanted me beat up
I can't recall how the hell I got out of there 
alive and free
it was like a big manly freight train
headin' dead at me

I'm pretty sure I owe the good Lord a big favor
that beast was the devil
and Jesus was my Savior!

It's a night I thought would never end... 
the night at Candies Bar n' Grill
Granny Panty Annie got a thrill 
tryin' to make me her sexy friend!!!




Details | American Poem | |

Oneness

Oneness
                   Authored by Chuck Keys

It had no color,
Lacking shape, size and dimension.
It wasn't moving or breathing.

There was neither aroma nor taste, not here or there.
Touching was useless because it wasn't physical.
It was indistinct and limitless.

Thinking multi-physically
Multi-sensually and multi-psychologically 
It wasn't here or there and it was.

With no distinction, 
It looked like everything else,
Or it could not have looked like everything else.

It never made me feel good nor bad,
Nor happy nor sad
Nor quite nor trite.

In our world of joy and destroy, we sort and distort,
Looking more on the surface and less on the inside,
Ready to judge and be judged from outside in.

The "oneness" of mankind stretches beyond definitions and limits,
From outside to inside and from inside to outside.
We are one distinct and alike world of "oneness."

Differences exist for differences, 
Therefore, differences don't exist.
Only "oneness" exists.

DEDICATION:
This poem is dedicated to Dr. Clayborne Carson and The Gandhi-King Community,
For Global Peace with Social Justice in a Sustainable Environment.  
www.gandhiking.ning.com

Details | American Poem | |

New Dawn

As I roll out of bed tomorrow
I’m gonna say goodbye sorrow
Fare thee well Mr. Cynicism
See you later Mr. Pessimism
Adios to Mr. Skepticism
Exit negativity, enter positivity
No procrastination and inactivity 
An idle mind is the devils workshop
That’s why I’ll exert myself nonstop
No more misery and depression
As exuberance replaces dejection
Success is around the corner
It’s coming now and not later
Victory is surely heading my way
No matter what people may say
I quit banking my future on luck
Time has come to break the duck
A new dawn has shown its face
My home will be a better place
I’m a potential winner, a true born victor
Within me lies a superstar, a megastar
No I’m not building castles in the air, 
I’m not dreaming, I’m not hallucinating
I have to earn my place in history
Put a good ending to my unfinished story
My story is about confidence, not arrogance
I advocate humility, not vanity
Trials and tribulation come and go
Sticky situations are not unique to you
But we all know as well as you do
You need hard work and determination 
For the youth, education is the only solution
You’ve got to make the decision
To extract yourself from destitution 
Leave nothing at all to chance
For fortune favours the brave
No sweet without sweat, no pain, no gain
Each time you fall recollect and try again
A dream doesn’t become reality through magic
Lazy genius is not only sad but also tragic
Stay focused, keep your eyes on the prize
There is no substitute for hard work
There are no secrets to success
Only in the dictionary does success precede work
We are all gifted, skilled and talented 
Unshackle that innate ability 
Let loose that latent capability
I’m gonna prepare, plan and plot
Execute and give it my best shot
Until the day that I hit the jackpot

Details | American Poem | |

Song Of A Cherokee Princess -

Cherokee chamber,
where a pow wow stampeedes preconceptions of inheritence,
from Her beaded neck charms of chance & chains of change
glisten from opulent offerings of roots, corn & lavender ablaze
on an alter of unworked stone mantled with skins strong beasts knew,

She is a " Stomp Dance " Queen with an owl as a friend and a spider as assassin,
with rattlesnake ribbons around Her wrists and prayers in Her braids thick with traditions,
the walls of Her teepee painted with the pigments of buffalo blood & sunflower pollen,
portraying a history hewn from customs known to Spirits and men alike,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen speaks for Her People and sings from the stars,

I found this Tribe, not in Appalacia nor on a prarrie stage but in the smoke of ceremony,
the Cherokee Princess has rattlesnake teeth tied to Her thigh & turtle shells upon Her hips,
She played the rabbit on the scene, then the wolf, if you know what I mean,
celebrated by the warriors as a tomahawk maker,
praised by the medicine men for Her Visions,
and feared by the Elders because of wrath that may follow Her steps,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen is a Princess, She is a Cherokee with a song Her own -

J.A.B.

Details | American Poem | |

Historic Perspective

Battered
From a dark angry cloud
Beaten
By a storm wild and loud
Splattered
On history's hardest rock
Heaven
Smile at the little flock
For as a drop of water 
Curls to become a river
So I gather my dreams
To trickle like a stream's
First fall
From a leaf, to swell
To haul
The hill down, and tell
My victory in the sea
Tell me history from the sea

This month
Short as wounded memory
I hunt
Myself, stalk their history
To find all I have lost
Just to tally the cost
Of being black
Of watching the clock
For the hour.

Details | American Poem | |

The Black Boomerang

The word’s speaker and listener would hear 
Cackling, 
Not from one another, 
But from a burning Sixo; 
They would feel
As though
A noose was choking 
Their voices 
Before they could even tell 
Themselves to “rest in peace”; 
They would see 
The bullets
That rushed, 
Jealously, 
Into the bodies of intelligent black heroes and heroines; 
They would taste 
The blood 
That could have filled all the courtrooms 
Where racist murderers were not convicted; 
They would smell 
The human 
Waste of those treated like human waste –
A stench strong enough to make some jump 
Ship just for a breath of fresh air, 
Before the waters 
Then enslaved them …. 
These effects may sound 
Insane 
But are they any more 
Out
Rage
Us 
Than our current 
Usage of the “n”- word? 
That is, 
Many of us would say nothing 
If a black friend declared, 
“A ______ will never become the President of the United States of America ….” 
To be honest, 
I even agree 
With the essence of this statement. 
For only a full black man or woman 
Will 
Eventually 
Become 
The President. 
Thankfully, 
That still leaves all black people in the running.

Details | American Poem | |

No American Idol

A gentle hush fell over the pond
The crickets ceased their evening song
Many jewel-toned feathers circled and flew
And perched as tonight's "Idol" audience grew

Poor little bird looks out from his tree top place
His voice must enthrall them in the "Idol" race!!
He must choose the right song, and be a hit, 
Just one more chance is all he gets!

Oh My! He sees Jennifer Lovebird, soft feathered, and fair
And Steven Tucan, in the judging chair!!
Ol’ Randy Jaybird with his ‘Hot Dog’ hoots!
Oh dear, this poor little songbird, is shaking in his boots!

With stage fright, he fears his chance is bleak
He opens up his tiny beak
With not even one tender note, so sweet
All he can muster,  is one awful squeak!!

Quickly, Ryan Redbrest flaps his wings....hops to the branch
And clamps him shut, without a glance!
Poor little bird,....! He's lost his chance!
To sing among the tallest trees,
To win the prize, with songs to please...
Or be a part of history!     :(  
               So off he flies, into the breeze....!   


-------------------------------------------------------------------
For Francine Roberts Contest "Enough!"

Details | American Poem | |

A Totum Pole Ode

.

                                      forever           gazing
                                           cold,    blazing
                                              eyes in the
                                              sky, where
                                             wings of the
                           grain, have weathered many rains…. 
                                            ~~~~~~~~~~~
 deep, fluid etchings, carved in the wood, stetching high over the hood of earth…
   a thunderbird’s wings, perch a lofty plateau, above a graveyard of tales long ago…
     over years, the curious swell, enchanted by spell of legends dwelling here
         
                                   emerging from gold lands 
                                          so far and near
                                          skin and bones 
                                    through windswept loam
                                     thick with thistles, 
                                    with courage and fear
                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
                                   a river on their back
                                    and a cloak of home
                                  draped across shoulders 
                                       in a world unknown
                                  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
                      tears ran rivulets on the white man's ground
                   drenched with forgiveness, from a crying sun
                    and the eyes of time, from a tribe now gone
                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~
                                 as wind spins, curls, and winds
                                           around the spine
                                            ~~~~~~~~~
                                   of native vines... unfolding
                                          old tribal codes
                                             ~~~~~~~~ 
                                             ~~~~~~~~
                                             ~~~~~~~~        
                                         stories are told with
                                        each turn of the pole...

                                        in the totum pole ode
                                              ~~~~~~~
                                              ~~~~~~~
                                              ~~~~~~~








Details | American Poem | |

A faceless enemy (what's there to Celebrate)

He appear to be a ladd of maybe 9 yrs. old.  It's Friday, as our troop's prepared to move
out unto enemy territory, and then KABOOM!!...he becomes a suicide bomber.  WOW! face-
less at such a young age.  Now as I gather my comrade's body parts (as well as my thou-
ght's) to myself I say, "these people's belong in a cage".  Pain in Irag, will it ever end, here
children's are taught too kill again & again.  Our Boy'zz in misery, misery all around us, the
stinch of death is everywhere.  Their fearless leader leads no more.  Soon he's capture, "one
would think, finally!! and now answer's of life can be restore, but sadly there's only more
bloodshed here in Irag.  And a salacious cloud still hoovers above our heads as the dead
bodie's continue's to rise, another soldier get sent home and familie's shall not be able to
stop the flow of tear's pouring from their eye's. (faceless at such a young age)
Our Boy's and Gal's in misery - here in a country, were there is no love, "A faceless enemy",
we continue to fight.  Our Congressmen and Senator's vote to keep this sinceles war going,
"for our freedom", lying to themselve's and to the American people's.  "For our Freedom",
"I don't understand-how can freedom be justified with a bullet and a gun".  How can Freedom
be (?) when every Saturday you'll be burying your daughter or your son.  Someday soon
we do get to go home, from here to a faceless nation.  As the dead bodie's continue to rise,
and before the break of dawn starts another day.  Your lil 9 year old goes outside to play.
In this land of confusion lil boy's also goes outside, freedom for him is to suicidily kill the
enemy-each and every morning in the name of Allah his mother tells him.  So 10 U.S. sold-
ier's live's are gone, more are on the way.  Remember their President is dead and gone
while our wants a "Celebration".

P.S.... This particular poem came to me in a dream, as in a dream I was there (in Irag)
holding this soldier who had been shot, and he relate's this particular
poem for me to write:

Details | American Poem | |

the first thanksgiving

steal their land
then dine with them....
no reservations needed













**for Chris Aechtner's Yet Another Senryu contest

Details | American Poem | |

Massacred Nation

The year 1890
December 29th
Wounded Knee, South Dakota
My tribe lost their lives

The USS 7th
On their orders so
To round up the Sioux
Railroad herd them and go

Us Lakota were next
To disarm their request
But my cousin Black Coyote
At best he was deaf

Not hearing the orders
To lay down our guns
A chain reaction
Ensued on my tribal ones

Chaos and mayhem
Distressed our grounds
This proud nation
Beaten down

Men, women and children
300 slain
Another reminder
For the white mans gain

To disrespect the fallen
Slows our souls to our gods
We were left in a blizzard
Hardened like logs

In three days we rose
Civilians did lift
And dumped us unceremoniously
In a hole in the drift

My corpse and my peoples
Stripped and robbed
As flakes of snow
Confirm our spirits have sobbed

As i am reborn again
In another country
It gives me the freedom
To look back and see

That December day in 1890
Gunning down innocent ones
Not so mighty
The Medal of Honor
In their distinguished past
The record still stands
On their chests they flash

But attitudes change
As two centuries pass
The Medal Of Honor
Has won back its class
No longer the weak
Gunned down by the strong
Its man against man
Sometimes they do wrong

So as i sit back in my adopted nation
Will i live again past this lives station
Writing the wrongs of modern man
This Lakota warrior who never ran


http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/native-americans.php

Details | American Poem | |

Temptation

Your smile, Your eyes I can't deny that I want to try something that I know I shouldn't. 
I'm tempted to touch, to kiss, to go to another level with someone who doesn't even 
belong to me. It's hard sometimes when I remember that feeling, I'm shy but I can be 
crazy if I need to. I can't let that person escape from my soul because then I might try 
to do something I will have no control over so stop looking my way. I can't control 
these urges, Let alone stop thinking about what I want to do. Your making it hard for me 
to walk away. Easy for me to stop pretending. It's so easy to just say I want you, It's 
a physical attraction nothing more nothing less. So I close my eyes and get myself in 
check. But slowly as I open them you can see temptation on my tongue rolling all over 
me. I want to stop but I also want to go. Please temptation please please let me go. I 
don't want to do this but then I see your face and oh I can't believe your doing this to 
me. I hurry and run the other way, A street where you can't catch me. I need to survive 
but i'm breathing hard, sweat dripping down my neck this is what I crave for so 
temptation is lust. A sweet tasty drip of affection from someone that I shouldn't be 
desiring to taste. But I want this and some how my body slaves for this, I need this. 
Thus begins the chase of temptation a race I might not win.

Details | American Poem | |

I Remember

I remember all the nights we use to play, 
but now I can't play anymore because your not here today.
Your here in my heart and that will never fade away.
Sometimes I would be a hard-headed child,
but in your eyes you saw an angle smile. 

I love you like God love the family, unconditionally.
I remember your brown eyes, gray hair, for you were wise.
I also remember when you had to leave, so your soul could be free.
See, I'm older; more mature, and understand what's going
on, but back then I was only four.

I still remember that day like it was yesterday. 
Well, you were buried that day and everyone had a sad face. 
I remember that day very well indeed, as I looked at you 
and pleaded that you wouldn't leave me. 
Now you’re gone and I have to be strong for both 
of us, so our love can live through people who love us.

Details | American Poem | |

Grandfather Speaks with Eagles

Irony cries out in Boulet’s rendering. Elderly Native American’s stern expression seems captured beneath eagle’s wings. Symbol of power and freedom, mighty bald eagle was chosen by European ancestors - United State’s national symbol. Yet independence for all was denied. Tribes seeking only to preserve their culture, their way of life, were undeservingly imprisoned on reservations. Stifled was freedom’s speech. Let the eagle’s voice be heard; toleration of injustice carries harsh consequences. Spread your wings, powerful bird, restore harmony to land seduced, neglected, compromised. Transmit tribal elders’ timely message. Human annihilation’s path is cruelly carved when animals and plants face extinction. Mounds of trash blister our land; parched prairies struggle to support life. Sorrowful cries of dying species echo through stripped land, causing songs of despair to resonate. Grandfather, speak with eagles; others appear deaf to your wisdom.
*Written October 15, 2014 and dedicated to late artist Susan Seddon Boulet, whose 2003 painting “Grandfather Speaks with Eagles” is but one of many pieces that evoke emotional response.