Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Native American Poems

Below are the all-time best Native American poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of native american poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for Native American poems, articles about Native American poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Native American poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

New Native American Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Native American poems are below this new poems list.

A Native American Song as Remembered from my Dreams by Jacks, Timothy
Native American Winter by Gorelick, Barbara
Native American collage by A. Sharma, Dr. Upma
Native American Blessings by Kimathi, Teddy
Cherokee Legend Retold for CONTEST NATIVE AMERICAN COLLAGE by Oliver Rotman, Mary
Native American Boarding Schools by Martin, Thomas
Native American Love Poem by Carroll, Ken
A Native American Song by Gorelick, Barbara
Native American People by Hamilton, Shadow
Native American Son by Hinshaw, Robert L.

View all new Native American Poems

The Best Native American Poems

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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

Darkness dwells under - gentle moonlight
Ancestors of the Spirit World!
Weaving Native smoke into the barren air
Indian spirits haunting the muddy Earth---
Moccasin makers rise from underneath; While
Guardians of dream catchers, print the Universe
Smooth thread from the outer world; 
Arrowheads, Ivory gems, feathers, and illusions
I stumble upon a florid kiss.......   My veins;
Run Cold, like ice through a desert night.

Winds of enchanted drums, cry out for rain.
Hollow chimes mesmerize, my ties, my eyes
An ancient rage begins to flare --- Madness 
takes place among the sanity of who I am
The spear of the perfumed buffalo pierced my skin
Removing the veil that covers my eyes
The hands that cover my ears
Drying the scalp that bleeds on my face

KINDRED IN EVERY WAY!

Raven silk braids and feathers on 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


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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


Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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 the 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


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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.


Copyright © Jim Fish | Year Posted 2009

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Ancient Stones

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

Heartbeats share 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 to 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



Copyright © Donna Jones | Year Posted 2013

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

SKY

            

Sky    blue
Soft    sleepy    morning
hovering over
Earth Mother
who wakes slowly
rubbing slumber’s dew
from her eyes

Sky    gray
Churning    boiling    rage
The Thunders
arrived mid-day
speaking with lightning tongues
showering a world
with tears of pain and rain

Sky    red
The Creator’s sunset
settling his children
down to rest
Sending songs of night
on the gentle wind whispering by

Sky    red
Molded from clay
of the Mother’s womb
Shaped by Creator’s hands
into a man
enduring as the
ancient towering trees

Sky    red
warrior’s heart beating strong
Brother to
the thunder and the rain
One with the sky
changing from gray to blue
and back again



This poem is dedicated to a dear friend who drifted quietly out of my life 
as he struggled to adjust to a world beyond the reservation. 
I pray you are well and have found the peace you searched for.





Copyright © Monterey Sirak | Year Posted 2013

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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.


Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2012

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Wind Talker

‘neath the halo of a full moon Wind Talker gives music to the night flute carved from a fallen tree he plays to the dwindling forest trees that remain and creatures losing habitat softly the melody resonates through the woods Wind Talker recalls stories handed down tribal legacies of prosperity, joy an era when animals were protected and revered glory days of spiritual people proud Native Americans who honored their culture cast away even as treaties were signed so much has been lost so much clad in soft skins Wind Talker wishes for what might have been if settlers had never made their way to his land yes, the land is his it always will be; this he knows his heart’s sadness emanates from Wind Talker’s flute development is approaching, encroaching more houses, more highways fewer trees, less land for animals to roam freely resignation sets in no way to reclaim the past ceremonial drums fade in the distance so much has been lost so much


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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
                                              ~~~~~~~
                                              ~~~~~~~
                                              ~~~~~~~









Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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


Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

the first thanksgiving

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













**for Chris Aechtner's Yet Another Senryu contest


Copyright © Deb Wilson | Year Posted 2010

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Dream Weaver

Oh Great Dream Weaver
may the strands of hair 
be placed just so

While the fog settles down 
out in the fields hovering
ever so low

With wise hands just where 
to wind the leather
to know

How to entangle bad dreams,
caught upon your web
so away they go

Through the many intricate 
patterns and all the 
tiny little holes

Permit the good dreams 
to pass through and
take hold

Halito = Blessings to you in Choctaw-Apache
Copyright © by Scarlett Anderson


Copyright © Scarlett Sepulvado Anderson | Year Posted 2010

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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


Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2009

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Today Is A Good Day To Die

"O-ka-hey!", the Sioux warrior's cry,
"Today is a good day to die!"

Tribal drums beat along banks of the river,
White mists drift upon the turquoise-blue,
They take their aim with bow and quiver,
Ready to fight for a purpose, free and true.

"O-ka-hey!", the Sioux warrior's cry,
"Today is a good day to die!"

Into the heart of battle they will ride,
Mounted upon a fearless palomino horse,
Lead by their ancient spirit guide,
He courageously braves his course.

"O-ka-hey!", the Sioux warrior's cry,
"Today is a good day to die!"

Blood-stained fields of dry autumn maize,
Was predicted by spirit guides to happen soon,
A golden sun rises in the morning haze,
And sets on darker days of many moon.

"O-ka-hey!", the Sioux warrior's cry,
"Today is a good day to die!"





Written for Shanity Rain's contest - "Native American People"

Note: "maize" is a Native-American word which means "corn".
"O-ka-hey" was a battle cry from the Sioux Indians, 
it meant "today is a good day to die"
I am not sure of the spelling of this phrase.
If anyone knows the correct spelling, I would greatly appreciate the help.


Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Guardian Of The Environment - Indigenous Peoples

For several thousands of years
you upheld the sacredness of Nature
avoiding wanton destruction 
of plant and animal life
taking only what you needed
since their sacredness was 
just as important to you
as the sacredness of humanity

When harvesting wild rice for food
you let some fall into the water
to produce crops for the future
Surrounding a pack of wild sheep
while hunting in the mountains
you let a male and female escape
so by their reproductive process
they would ensure the
continuation of their species

You saw yourself as part of Nature
living in harmony with it
and not plundering it with greed
Your religion was to respect Nature
viewing all plants and animals
as parts of its magnificent fabric
Abuse of a part of it was
an abuse of the whole

Your way of life 
provides valuable lessons
that can teach mankind how 
to deal with today's ecological crisis
that threatens the survival 
of all life on the planet
You were the genuine
Guardian of the Environment



I have always admired the way of life of the Native American Indians living in harmony with Nature before the advent of the Europeans. By extension, this applies to all indigenous peoples including the Amerindians and Polynesians. This piece is dedicated to them. 


Copyright © john beharry | Year Posted 2013

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Wisdom Warriors

The blood of my Grandfather, has inspired me to write. A tragic tale of Native Americans, who have been denied their rights. To live upon this land, they used to call their home. To be herded together like cattle, no longer allowed freedom to roam. Blood of many great warriors, has been shed upon these lands. Pridefully giving their lives to the greediness, of the new white man. Though not all people, felt the need for this shameful greed. What was being done to these people, did not go unseen. The Native Peoples heritage, didn't fit the plans. Of our fore fathers dreams, of this new American land. I have learned many great things, through the wisdom of these wise men. In honor and respect, I share these few words, in a smoke filled prayer, that I now shall send.
11-3-13 Contest: Native American People


Copyright © Dan Kearley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Red Cloud

Melding thoughts.. A guiding force;
Showed strength through sharing Ways, 
drew spirit, from the great One, following the wind,
finding a hollow,  gliding the currents stringing a bow,
Being close at hand for us, What more was there to know?
amid familiar scents of pines so fresh, taking for our needs enough, 
To sustain the tribes, to be all; all we Ever should Want to know, 
in this knowing to be as one!

© Joe Maverick 23-11-2013


Copyright © Joe Maverick | Year Posted 2013

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

SPIRIT RIDER

Alone figure stands, 
On sunsets rock.
Summers hot breezes brush,
Against bare skins flesh.
Stalking the ageless path.
Behold histories Indian brave, 
Man, and horse intertwined.
Symbiotic beings joined,
They are one.
The spirit rider gallops, 
Across freedoms trail.
Cautiously, allying arrow unto bow,
Aiming swiftly his shot to kill.
Guardian’s raging bull charges,
Forward.
Protectors sacrifice, blood mingles,
Amongst dust clouds aftermath, 
His majesty lies slain.
Dark brown eyes close, 
Glimpsing blue sky for the,
Last time.
Heavens prairies, welcome destiny's,
Honorable foe,
The hunter kneels beside the giant's,
Stilled heart,
Giving thanks, singing chants rise,
Ascending heights greener, 
Pastures unto a higher plain.
It echoes in valleys deep,
Touching the lands of his,
 Fore fathers.
Tonight beneath flames tribal fires,
Rhythms beating drums, gives praise,
Many shall celebrate, feasting,
 In memories tribute,

  BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2013

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Native American People

The old indian chief had seen much
fought in many a battle or raid
he had fathered seven children 
with his four fine young wives

Now he took his ease 
sat smoking his pipe 
with the other elders
spent time in dreamland

He knew it would not be long
before the great white spirit
came calling out his name
he had made his peace with all

His children and wives wept
when he departed in his sleep
they carefully dressed him
and laid him on the platform

His favourite spear and shield
thick fur rugs and some pots
his faithful horse battle dressed
some gold and his finest headdress

When all was ready the witch doctor
Set the platform ablaze with fire
wailing his wives mourned his passing
as the fire died his ashes blew away

Now in the after life
he hunts once more
riding the ghost horse
he races through the skies

10/31/2013

contest: Native American People


Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2013

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

American Pride

Americans are proud people
bringing peace to every steeple
causing wars they will not do
destroying enemies for their due
eating fast foods they will 
forgetting all the thrill
God’s a tricky subject for some
having faith but no one will come
Indians have lost their lands
jackpot slots replace their sands
Kamikazes hit us hard
no one held a winning card
military keeps us safe
nuclear threat is unsafe
open arms policy long gone
Policing neighbors? Should be done
quit pollution always a goal
recovery is in my skull
science against religion
we’re better than a pigeon
understanding is the key
I hope we’ll always be free
war should never be the answer
with many falling to Cancer
youngsters keep growing up quickly
with parents becoming sickly
hold on to that American pride
we’ll take on challenges with stride


Copyright © Robert Heemstra | Year Posted 2013

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this 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.


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2014

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

NATIVE WHISPER OF THE WINDS



Legends of tribes roam across the plains Bold spirits guarding their own mighty land They dance and offer songs asking for rain To nourish grains when omens rise on, Encircling a bonfire with shaman’s praise. The whisper of the winds gives them strength An Indian terrain, they protect Oh, hear drumbeats pound a mighty roar As chieftain gathers the arrow’s quest For the call of blood, for freedom’s dreams. Legends passed from generations Grandpas holding peace pipes, tales unfold When full moon speaks of native wisdom To recount strides in brave moccasins
Marking prints from whisper of the winds.
Native American People Contest by nette onclaud


Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2013

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Legendary Lady Leaders I salute you

I am like
Cleopatra
embraced by serpents many
fear
always trying something new
and dramatic with my
hair
I am like
Eva Patrón
growing up with a painful family
getting lost in movies
thinking of my own
hypnotizing when I speak
First lady of Argentina
meeting you, after death
would be a treat
a nervous habit, of nibbling
on my jewelry
the similarities, between us
gave me a sense of foolery
I am like
Wilma Mankiller
Chief of the Cherokee Tribe
for ten years
fighting against Native stereotypes
despite such distress
enemies did stress
promoting to ‘be of good mind’
you were a leader, of your time
an advocator for women
that they may grow up
and become chief
as a child, you wondered
the forests, like me
not the streets
I am like
Aung San Suu Kyi
wearing three types of 
flowers in your hair
feeling at times like a 
‘splinter of glass, sharp, glinting
power to defend itself against hands
that try to crush’
winner of a Nobel Peace Prize, 
for courage, was
a must
I am like
Catherine The Great
a love to laugh,
coffee, and feeling compelled
to always fill abandoned blank
sheets of paper
you were a Royal Russian Empress,with
not one red drop of Russian blood
and her people, were blessed
to have her
I am like
the Queen of England
longest royal lifetime in history
strong built, from a miserable childhood
toughened her
this is no mystery
preferring candle light
to electricity
handwriting over typewriter
and poetry
I am like
Indira Gandhi
dreaming to live as she did
riding elephants and having
tiger cubs as companions
your own Sikh security
killed you, the story
a sad one
secret dreams of being a writer
angered, by the imbalance of
power
between men and women
listening to beat poets
like Ginsberg
as a great Prime Minister of India 
you were heard
and understood
I am like
Rigoberta Menchú
drew the worlds attention to 
native Indians rights,
because of you
your goal, to be
a drop of water on a rock
dripping in the same spot,
eventually in the world, you
may leave a mark
wearing many colors
‘because it gives you life’
insisting men and women be equals
you fought this fight
to relax, as I do
writing poetry into
 the night
I am like
Joan of Arc
French Military Heroine
burned at the stake at just
age nineteen
known for keeping your cool
even on the battlefield
being a courageous and inspirational
rare jewel
Legendary Lady Leaders
I salute you




Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Jungle Love

Your sweet nectar
wraps around my senses
like jungle vines
steady drums beating
Your heart near mine

Your strong hands
hold me suspended
by my waist
Just enough pain and strength
against my supple skin
For my taste

The musk of your
sculpted body and the forest
has me going wild
But yet, the tender way you
protect me, reminds me of
Being a child

A safe familiarity
with a strain of animalistic
seduction
Your invisible hold over me
leaves me arrow poisoned
Unable to function

My long dark hair wraps you
with smells of coconut and ocean Sun
your locks full of mud and enemies
Blood
together, my warrior
We make One




Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010

Details | Native American Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Under A Miccosukee Sky


Big Cypress stirs, heated by Miccosukee 
sky hung in spun gold. Rising in the east, 
morning sways with waves of river grass
as the elder paddles through waking water
in dugout canoe. Bare-chested, he whistles
an old, creek song, lost and found in tangles 
of green swampland. Bronzed face chiseled from
stone gazes on soft, flush of Indian summer;  
a burning heart beats with nature beneath. 
In hand, he clenches twine of sacred bundle. 
Beads of sweat fall from head lowered in prayer
to the Creator. His silent prayer for earth, hunt, 
harvest and tradition collides with modern tribal
life, a quiet moment complicated by thoughts of 
upcoming ceremonial festivities. If only,
he could step back in time to dance in ancient 
garments 'round sacred fire free from tourists’ pale,
intruding eyes. His daughter and wife will sew
and bead jewelry to sell; his grandsons will wrestle 
alligators; and he, the elder, will stand proud,
fighting to maintain dignity and culture under 
a warm Miccosukee sky, hung by his ancestors
...in spun gold.


By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 11/17/13
for Shanity Rain's Native American People Contest  


Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2013