Best Native American Poems
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Native 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.
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Native 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.
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Native American
Poem
the first thanksgiving
steal their land
then dine with them....
no reservations needed
**for Chris Aechtner's Yet Another Senryu contest
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Native American
Poem
Beautiful Litter - Part Two
II. (cont'd)
My Good Spirit of empathy, compassion, forgiveness, love and understanding,
is forced back when the Bad Spirit moves to the forefront.
I walk amongst the beautiful litter, a moment's trend of sanctimonious trash,
sunlight reflecting off tinfoil in the alley,
youth chasing the smoke and mirrors of dragon's breath,
plastic smiles
plastic music
plastic money,
gigantic slabs of flesh and grease lumbering along,
stuffing holes with more gigantic slabs of flesh and grease....
....and I think through the tongues of the Bad Spirit,
"Am I a star-too-far trapped within the flesh of a skinwalker?"
At that precise moment, I lower myself beneath the beautiful litter,
beneath the festering rubbish,
as a hateful, despicable Bishop of rage and despondency.
It's not them and me
-We-
It's We
It's We!
Smash glass houses and people will continue imagining glass walls
to be(not to be)still climbing,
so throwing stones won't accomplish much anyway.
But but but but the Great Mother is choking on the beautiful litter,
much quicker than predicted,
and Old Raven doesn't fly on broomsticks and pentagrams,
for Old Raven has always had wings.
Stupid huemans. Stupid you. Stupid me.
-We-
must break free from this global American dream,
because it isn't a dream at all, but instead, a nightmare
cloaked in sugar plums and fairies cutting tongues on razor-edged incisors.
_____ you, American dream.
-We- must break free from the hypodermic urges of the beautiful litter,
for fool's gold glitters, yeah, for fool's gold glitters.
With the last 22 grams of the Good Spirit remaining in my heart,
with the last coherent feeling remaining in my bleeding heart,
I hope that when I exhale my final breath, a loved one is there to catch it,
I hope to be miles away from the hell.icopters, false idols, empty eyes and neon lights
and the beautiful litter,
the beautiful litter.
June 13th, 2012
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Native American
Poem
Beautiful Litter - Part One
I.
The Bad Spirit rises behind my eyes in an attempt to overthrow the Good Spirit.
This is the free-based essence of the god-narcotic -
the earliest shamanistic theologians were actually shamanistic psycho-analysts,
and ever since, too many huemans have been searching
without instead of within
pounding the pavement two-by-two,
selling Armageddon from the outside,
when the Apocalypse happens on the inside. Anyone can have visions.
Anyone can be prophetic -
but a vision isn't one for all. Yeah, welcome to the fall, welcome to the fall.
Wot's good for the goose, may not be good for the gandly pandeR bear.
Try as I may, I am still not able to purge myself of the Bad Spirit.
If I could snap the umbilical cord attached to the serpentine cortex, codex-stem,
releasing the Bad Spirit out of my eyes,
it could probably fell a million men with its lies,
with a soft, ghostly whisper. A twister
of insidious incantations covering my sight in filtered glasses made of everything
that slithers along the fringe of subconsciousness and psychic television.
Blue light flickers, empty eyes attempting to fill a void
by vicariously watching people die from a cold-shouldered distance
on the eleven o' clock news -
rabid cameras frothing at the lens,
capturing the worst possible moment in a stranger's life.
The worst __________ moment in a stranger's life.
-We-
We should all be as one.
If one person out of 7 billion is starving,
the world is still in famine.
Swords to plowshares,
plowshares back to swords again.
We are born with the Good Spirit.
The Bad Spirit enters after birth
in a collage of experiences:
the brain is washed with price tags,
the inconsistency of jealousy,
landfills growing beside Christmas trees,
the violation of incestuous rape clinging as rotten fruit
falling
amongst deeds performed on bent knees.
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Native 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
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Native American
Poem
Spirit In The Flute
I walk an already trodden path...
Uncertain, of future lives that lie ahead
But, in faith I close these earthly Ojibwa eyes
In trill, thus, I hear the old ways in your presence amidst Chinook winds
As harmonic they play across the plains, from sacred astral pipes
Mimicking cricket songs that echo abstract out of the season's last autumn mist
I also hear your fifes in the rustle of the leaves, rising into writhe
And almost see your spirit aura as it accompanies the Algonquian breeze
Ancient ghost of proud, but now lost upon a dying nation tribe
Your music from beyond is narrations of a mystical language nature speaks
Sweeping thrush calls, chirps through weeping willow weeps,
Unto past September sounds, beating down on war drum clouds, of thundering maelstrom claps
And babbling brooks going on and on until narrowing creaky creeks
Alas, whooper wills warning and morning loons mourning, hidden amidst the swaying grass
When I see you, I imagine spectral legends majestic high across horizon's sky
Snowy silhouettes in headdress, drifting in flowing rainbow crowns
And with the night, I see you in my mind dance as the "Will-Ó-the-wisp" just might
Then, my body shivers from the distance, where your flute imitates the cry of the lone coyote's sound
As for all of your Mishomis (grandfather) traditions, I accept there is a greater essence
Kindred I am, son to your spirit and without partition from an Ojibwa eye
And I stand here staunch in cattail marshes, pondering my place in ancestral questions
Now, your answers again begin to play upon the wind, but this time traveling through the November... Whispers on needles of the pine
I walk an already trodden path...
But, each new step before me keeps this culture alive...
Written in honor of my Chippewa family ©2012 Michael G. Smith
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Native American
Poem
A Raven's Thirst - Part 1
I
Aloft, from highest cliffs o’er icy seas,
upon great wings of arrogance and pride,
the raven whispers soft, on ocean’s breeze,
notes cloaked with charm to lure his future bride.
In midst of kith, to sate his lust, he vies
to reign supreme, and bathes in self-adore.
Magnificence against cool ashen skies,
yet ‘neath the husk, so rotten to the core.
As shallow suns recede and rise anew
day after day, still beats his heart alone.
One frigid night the moonlight's silver hue
imparts the word his reveries have flown…
and so upon this night is hatched a plan,
to seek his bride he takes the form of man.
**based on Inuit legend**
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Native American
Poem
Symbols of Pride
Of Western Red Cedar, totems are made
Though few have been built in the last decade
Tribal emblems speak of lost lives with pride
Striking they appear as storm clouds collide
The Ojibwe graveyards can still be seen
As in reverence visitors convene
Symbols of Native American tribes
With colorful markings they are inscribed
Homage is paid to a culture now lost
Many died in battle, paid such a cost
As thunder rumbles, it chills the viewers
They know that white men were the wrongdoers
Pilfering land and breaking trust offered
Treaties ignored as land filled their coffers
By Carolyn Devonshire, August 11, 2011
Entry for Francine’s “Totems in the Darkening Sky” contest
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Native American
Poem
My Blessings...
Steven, My Love, my best friend in life,
Parents that support me in whatever I do;
My two puppies Zeus & Eos (both mutts)
My heritage of Potawatomi, Huron and Sioux;
A family willing to lend me support,
A wonderful house to come home to;
A simple world I can call my own,
My siblings, out there to help pull me through;
My horses willing and full of heart,
And all of my friends - Old and New;
My semi-good health and happiness;
And the passion that writing allows me to peruse!
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