Long poem by
SillyBilly theKidster | Details |
Sentenced to hang in the town of Lincoln,
Billy made his bold escape.
Both of his guards died from thinking
that a shackled young boy couldn't break away.
I've often wondered what thoughts were going through his head
as he stood staring out that window chained to the floor by his bed,
watching the gallows being built that would soon seal his fate.
Was he planning at that very moment his greatest escape?
Did he already know that his hanging would never come to be?
Was he already aware that before night fall, once again he'd be free?
Whatever his thoughts, they were interrupted rudely
by Deputy Bob Ollinger, one of his guards while in custody.
"Word has it you said that if we ever met again
you'd kill me on the spot.
Well here I am Kid. Now's your chance.
Show me what you've got.
It's a shame that you'll hang in another week or two,
because I'd love to be the one who gets to kill you.
I've got silver dimes in the barrells of my shotgun.
I'd love to try them out on you, but I can't unless you run.
If I free you from those chains will you run for the door?
Oh by the way Kid, your Ma was one sweet filthy whore.
I'll kill you before you hang Kid. That's a sure bet."
"Be careful Bob," said the Kid, "I'm not hung yet."
Bob thrusted his shotgun hard into Billy's gut.
The Kid looked up at him in pain and said, "Now what?"
"Don't do it Bob," Bell screamed angrily,
"or you'll be the one who'll hang for sure
for killing an unarmed boy in cold blood
who was chained helplessly to the floor.
It's time for the other prisoners
to be escorted across the street to be fed.
The Kid's not going anywhere.
He's chained to the floor by his bed.
Anyway, I took the prisoners last so now it's your turn.
Go and have yourself a beer
and I'll stay here
and guard the Kid until you return.
Bob Ollinger placed his shotgun into the gun rack.
Before he left, he said to Billy, "I'll see you when I get back."
No one can say for sure if the above scenario ever truly took place,
but one thing's for sure.
Ollinger tormented Billy at a merciless endless pace.
They were enemies who fought against each other
during the Lincoln County War.
Ollinger was in the posse that murdered John Tunstall,
Billy's employer, friend and mentor.
"I have to use the privy Bell," Billy said to the deputy.
Bell kept his rifle trained on Billy as he tossed him the key.
Billy unlocked the chains that kept him bound to the floor.
Still in handcuffs and leg irons, Bell escorted Billy out the door.
Billy entered the outhouse closing the door behind him.
"Let's not take too long in there Kid," Bell said with a friendly grin.
While in the outhouse,
Billy managed to slip one of his hands out of his handcuffs.
"You fall in there Kid?" Bell laughed,
"You've been in there long enough."
"I'm coming out now Bell," Billy said opening the door.
"Sorry I took so long Bell. I must have ate something bad for sure."
Deputy Bell then escorted Billy back to the jail cell.
Once inside, Billy spun around and smacked hard Deputy James Bell.
Bell lost his balance, dropped his rifle and was momentarily stunned.
"Hands Up Bell!," the Kid yelled. In his hand was a gun.
"Please don't do it Bell," Billy pleaded, but Bell tried to run.
The Kid had no choice but to do what had to be done.
He shot and killed Bell, then went and got Ollinger's shotgun.
The Kid never found pleasure in killing,
but Ollinger would indeed be the exception.
Knowing that Ollinger heard the gunfire, Billy stood by the window
and waited for Ollinger to appear in the street down below.
One senior named Godfrey saw Bell fall dead down the stairs.
The moment probably gave Godfrey a few more gray hairs.
Ollinger ran out into the street as Godfrey screamed,
"The Kid's killed Bell!"
Ollinger looked up into both barrels of his own shotgun
and whispered, "..and now he's killed me as well."
"Hello Bob!," Billy called out with a song in his heart
just prior to blowing Bob Ollinger apart.
He blasted both barrels into Ollinger's chest and face.
Pieces of old Bob lay scattered all over the place.
Billy smashed his shotgun in two, threw it at him but missed.
"You'll never rifle me again," he screamed, "you son of a bitch!"
On the balcony he addressed the crowd whose jaws hung agape.
"I don't want to hurt anyone,
but I will kill anybody who tries to prevent my escape."
In the office he found a sledge hammer
and smashed the chains of his leg irons free.
He told Godfrey to fetch him a fast horse immediately.
As he walked down the stairs, he came upon Bell's lifeless body
and many eyewitnesses admit
that the Kid looked upon him and said somewhat tearfully,
"I'm sorry I killed you Bell, but couldn't help it."
As Billy mounted the horse
the chains of his leg irons startled the beast.
The horse bucked violently throwing Billy down onto the street.
He was at this point his most vulnerable laying down on the ground.
The crowd could have overtaken him easily,
but none made a move or a sound.
One might think that they were all too terrified to subdue him immediately,
but the truth is that he was so loved by so many
that they all just let him go free.
Once again Billy mounted the horse
and fled with the sound of his leg iron chains ringing.
Many claim that as he rode out of Lincoln County
that they heard the Kid singing.
Billy had escaped danger so many other times in his past,
but this was his greatest escape ever.
It would also be his last.
Copyright © SillyBilly theKidster | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Shadow Hamilton | Details |
The horse is a fascinating creature that serves us so well
Having had a life long relationship with horses
I am full of admiration for their endless toils.
They are fiery yet mainly gentle giants
and give hours of pleasure to their carers
I worked first as a working pupil
then in racing yards some flat but mainly jumping yards
going on to having my own stables
doing the show jumping circuit and some taming
I prefer the term taming to breaking in
it is all a matter of trust after all
why break a spirit? When with love
you get an unbreakable bond
Using this method I was able to school a horse
from wild to saddle in 2 to 3 weeks
then the real fun begins as you start
the real relationship of bringing it on
I had two people who taught me so much
when I was around 14 years old
we used to go in school holidays to the new forest
I told Maddie I wanted to become a show jumper
Now I was tiny about 4 foot 3 high
and she put me up on Yanta
he was 17 hands and a cat jumper
boy I had some spills over fences
Maddie's response was to take away my saddle
she said I needed to improve my seat and balance
well after many more spills it started working
and I became a burr on his back in total harmony
Later at 18 I started my training as a working pupil
training to be an instructor
now Heather was a tough cookie with quality horses
a formidable lady who took no excuses
She used to get us in the indoor school
taught us dressage and much more
some days she would remove both saddle and bridle
saying that a true rider steers with hands, knees and bodies
You riders try it some time once you can back up a horse
and do flying changes and shoulder ins and outs
without any tackle then you are a rider
at one with your horse in body and soul
One of my pleasures has always been night riding
the horse is a prey animal and prone to flight
they get up on their toes and spook at shadows
riding without a saddle means you can feel each muscle tense
getting a sense of when they are ready to whirl and flee
leaving the unwary rider on the ground eating dust.
These two ladies shaped my life with horses
giving me insight into them and their needs
a sense of wonder and awe at their trust
and their willingness to work with us
Be they an Arab or thoroughbred or plain Jane
each one teaches us so much as we interact
there is nothing more heart warming than
a horse nickering to you delighted you are there
shaking and tossing their heads stamping the ground
impatient for you to stroke and caress them
giving you comfort when you are down
and joy when you are up and excited
Now no longer able to ride due to a bad hip
I still share a close bond and delight
when I call to horses in a field
and they come at a charge to greet me
it is the simple things that give the most pleasure
Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
S.zaynab Kamoonpuri | Details |
I've always admired
and I guess I most surely
No legend without em'
The unsung heroes of
any heroic battle
Pony, colt, filly or mare
ride it bareback if you
Ride them to a trot, ride
them to a canter
your beast of burden yet
be fair with the
Dön't think it cannot
throw you off
just coz' your feet are
secured in the stirrup
A horse is so handsome,
graceful and royal
Know you've harnessed
a stately, princely animal
Tis surely a conveyance
both regal and loyal
Hooves and horseshoes
have trodden paths since
Whether twas the
magnificent Moghuls or
the mighty maharajas
tis horses who added to
their pomp and glamour
The knights, squires and
all needed horses too for
any show of valour
I ardently admire the
of the silky maned
Arabian horse of
Described as a powerful
white beauty with
flowing manes and tails
To me a horse with
dashing, equine charisma
altogether of admirable
build and countenance
On these majestic yet
depended the victory
feats of most battalions
No victory or history
The horse is indeed the
heroic champ of
As for food feed it
Hallowed be the stables
for this fauna of the
But be not harsh with
Stroke its mane or its
The rider seated in its
And the rider goes a'
as the gelding goes a'
Ah and there goes a
jockey in his jodhpurs
racing in a livery of
Thus a more flattering
sporting exercise is the
esp if compared to the
And then to have a look
at horsey hues
coats in shades of
mustard, magenta and
Feel that velvet touch of
Tis universally admired,
that glossy brown sheen
The bridle and the reins
on this regal being seem
quite ironic and unfit to
But it is indeed quite a
task to tame
that wild mustang hued
in deep mahogany
Famous heroic horses
that've ridden into the
from the anals of history
and I'll mention those
well-known to me
They're Al-Boraq, the
Zuljanah, the wooden
Trojan horse and the
Some real remarkable
horses, others more
They do deserve such
fabled epic and fuss
Horses are heroes no one
and while horsecarts
mightn't have units of
but a foal shall grow into
a steed as time goes by
when it shall welcome on
its back the rider
Hearken em' horses
neigh, whinny snort or
Have been mounted both
by villains and hero riders
There riding on smooth
sandy dunes or even
Clip clop go the hooves
of the heroic horse.
Copyright © S.zaynab Kamoonpuri | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
craig sharman | Details |
A strong gale cuts its path across the snow laden mountain tops,
light and tough the timor, thoroughbred mix, leads his mob at a trot.
A day spend grazing the valley below they now ascend the range above,
his brumbys follow out of awe and fear not with any love.
Echoing through the gullies is the thunderous clap of a stock whip,
in pursuit of the mob the mountain horseman cut a mean pace at a clip.
Coming up on the brumbys, surrounded them their lariat ropes are let loose,
the stallion is caught for the first time in his life his neck feels the noose.
In 1897 born to tough stock, I think Steve was his name,
His family raised cattle by Corryong of Snowy River fame.
Riding before he could walk, in the saddle he would ply his trade.
Catching brumbys on Kosciuszko's slopes for a little money to be made.
He made the high plains and steep valleys his primary domain,
believed that this was his home, in the hills he would ever remain.
Word reached his ears of the great war in Europe from a close friend.
with fear of threat to king and country, to enlist his mind would bend.
The noble thoroughbred steed, king of his country was finally tamed.
Saddled and bridled, freedom lost, and now he was named.
Garnished with weapons of war to a new mob he was placed,
rigorously put through his training in readiness for battle to be faced.
Somehow he sensed the young man on his back was of similar ilk,
rode low in the saddle, moved with ease, yes they drank the same milk.
A bond was formed, a friendship even, between man and his stallion,
Although both small they rode tall as though kings of the battalion.
Unloading in Palestine the hot sandy desert now their new home,
a far cry from the lofty peaks and steep valleys they both would roam.
This tough little man and horse to new environs would quickly aclime,
strutting across the dunes, a fine stance cut and looking sublime.
The bugle calls out a mighty charge on Beersheba they began to lay,
horse flaring his nostrils , galloping wildly, into battle making their way.
Flying over the trenches the young man with his bayonette swinging true,
horse compensating expertly as the enemy lines are burst through.
In the heat of the battle cannon fire starts to rupture the ears,
the young man and his horse are finally realising their fears.
A solitary rifle round pulls young Steve from the saddle of his panting steed,
the horse pulls up fast, spinning around, recognising the riders need.
A mortar fatally reaching its mark, puts the poor brumby to the ground,
man and horse mortally wounded, dying without making much of a sound.
In the hot sandy desert final memories flood through their whole being,
and long lonely valleys with snow covered peaks, the last thing they were seeing.
Copyright © craig sharman | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Terry Trainor | Details |
One fine blustering autumn day an old man puts on his boots pulls up his trousers off he goes,
If anyone wondered where he was going it was to a forest a good long walk it was a fine day,
The old man walked at a leisurely pace stopping every now and again pulling up his trousers,
Looking over fences just to see what the farmer’s men were up to and who was ploughing today.
In his days, the prime of his life, he and his old horse would plough the fields from early morning,
Working through the day stopping for a bottle of cold tea a loaf of bread and a large lump of cheese,
The horse had a nosebag and while they rested, eating, the clapper of the bird boy could be heard,
He would work on until the sun went down on a blue horizon and shadows disappeared with the day.
As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry roaming around the farmhouse,
Duck and geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors pecking out the chaff,
And he could hear the flail, or the swipple, knocking the corn, as the bails piled high in the barn,
Happy that all was well he carried on walking, smiling and made his way up to the brow of a hill.
As a young farmer he leaped over stiles and ran in the corn, the land was his workplace and home,
There was no job he could not do or did not enjoy doing, whatever needed doing it had to be done,
His arms were so thick, strong, the farm girls giggled but could not get their hands all the way round,
He used to blush as each girl tried, he was a bit shy, but it made him feel good to be so very strong.
He also stopped at stiles, or a rustic bridge casting its arch over water, fish swam in the shallows
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air, a bonfire in the distance,
After looking all around he wished he had brought some tackle to catch some for his late dinner,
Never mind he thought it’s another day tomorrow I will be up here to fish at the crack of the dawn.
In his young days he was not allowed to fish the river, so in the moonless nights he would poach,
Beautiful brown trout as fresh as a berry from a tree eaten with warm bread a feast fit for a king,
It would not be long before he stopped again getting his breath resting for a few short minutes,
As his lungs filled with the purest of pure air he restarted his country walk and relived his life.
He passed by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from a hedge and took time to pick a few,
And clusters of nuts hanging by the wayside through the copse on his way along a little old lane,
And in all this natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child one more time,
The world moved around but this time backwards he saw the things he used to see as a young boy
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Shadow Hamilton | Details |
First let us take our friend the horse
a noble creature who serves us well
supplying us with a source of good compost
ferrying us here and there in fine style
pulling carts and carriages with aplume
carrying riders proudly on their backs
seldom a traffic jam and smell the pure air
enjoy the freedom to gallop with the wind
Now let us take the motor car
this guzzles fuel at an alarming rate
spewing out poisonous fumes that pollute
and if you should have a crash a tangled heap
of near useless metal is all that remains
and people torn and broken trapped inside
and the queue of traffic stretching back
maybe cars are fast but they come at a high price
In olden days the fields were much smaller
quilts against the landscape so pleasing to see
the hedgerows full of flowers giving shelter
to a host of birds, insects and small animals
the stately shires furloughing the fields
laying the lines true and straight
their leisurely pace giving dormouse time
to scuttle away and find some safety
The big modern threshers and ploughs
need far bigger spaces to work so large fields
gone the pretty quilt work, gone most hedgerows
rushing over vast areas harvesting the crops
behind them lay the dead and injured bodies
of all the little creatures unable to flee the blades
now the crows move in to feast alive or dead they eat
so yes more crops fast harvested but at a high price
In days gone by we dwelt in villages and small towns
where most if not all knew one another by name
you could safely leave your house unlocked
and your children played freely in the streets
neighbours helped one another in whatever way needed
and shared the little they themselves had gladly
street parties were times of great delight
but best of all you truly knew your friends
Sky scrappers looming towering up high
stinky lifts that break leaving one trapped
danger round every corner, its each one for themselves
rapists, burglars, murderers and plain gangsters
have a field day in the metropolis with easy pickings
here one keeps ones children safe and tucked away
concrete blocks of houses along concrete streets
everywhere you see strangers at what a high price
When one stops and really thinks about it all
are these advances really worth the price we pay
does it really matter with the vast food piles
if it takes a little longer to do the harvest
cars are all every well but wheres the romance?
the quivering flesh of an excited horse galloping
does far more for me than a petrol guzzling beast
I admit I prefer the less complicated times of yore
Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
charles hice | Details |
Inches make feet without inches there is no foot without beginnings there is no work without measure there is no dearth without a ruler there is no worth there must be rules and there are rules but eye will let them all apply to them my enemies at work and never eye. The horse runs well it has a heart so then they fill syringes from the start to inject the muscles of the neck to make the beast faster than the wind oh heck the animal is dead it never hit the ground but flew too fast and lost the race and life. Desert life is winterless but not without some weather life the sun is always shading and the water is found in sub altern placing near the animals for killing under the ledge of apprehension near the fire of desperation comes the frog and toad and watercrest nut sandwiches. Eye had been to the desert on a horse with no namme it felt good to be out of the rain. Voices come out at me from the air into mye membrain eye call it Disraeli musick it is usually someone in the area with a boom box or even cars with the windows rolled down can be the culprits they hound me when eye am hicking place to place. There is other answers to the crazxy place eye hear noises mad mostly by people in the other cubicles the walls are just invisible the talking is allowed. The thief cannot sneak in sneakers they squeak like he is sweating in his shoe laces. This brings me to mye priority eye. The reason that no one wants to be a Detective is the movies the guy may have had DAMES by the score but he had fights and was so sore the men were ruthless and left him spinning on the side of every road. The streets of New Nuevo York has gum shoe on them. The American idea of Indians and wampum has brought us to the test of food in rest or rants of foreign style they smile and bring the menu back to make certain that the orders write the man has pointed several times at five bills a whack. One from Column A and 2 from Column B brings us to a bill of $23. Well eye wanted some meat too but you are so expansive. Rice and curry hot mustard radishes. Try finding food in the summer time how careful now that eye a homeless one should be then tossing caution to the winding blowing wind when it seems only wrapped so tightly to keep flies at night away. To feed myself is easy to offer some to others almost impossible a few times eye have asked to share they slide that nostril in the air and leave the food to the one that found it in the lair of tossed and discarded things the general city the loose leaf cabbage so nicely adds a bite to the membrain of mye priority eye.
Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008
Long poem by
Debbie Guzzi | Details |
The summer sun was high. The heat was oppressive.
The whalebone corset dug into the body's tender parts.
Peering from the shop, my hand touching the pane
of dearly brought glass, I feel the vibration of the incoming riders.
The weak blue sky pales, and clouds over with the dust.
Children playing at hoop, let it drop with an unheard clatter.
Inside Fort Laramie’s provisioner, Mrs. Dreary’s dropped plate clatters.
Outside the general store, a thunder of hoofs race pell-mell through heat oppressive.
“Indians,” the children scream, running through the miasma of dust.
Folks in wagons and on horseback flee for other parts.
“Sioux,” I nod. Gunshots ring through the air savaging the riders.
The shopkeeper’s wife runs up the back stairs. Her baby screams in pain.
Arrow flights buzz by shattering shop window panes.
The indians leap from horse back to tile roof raising a clatter.
Mr. Dreary reaches for his Sharp shooter and aims at the riders.
A cat’s eye marble falls from the toy display, a mundane oppression.
Dreary slams shut the door. The shards of glass scatter, bullet parted.
“Mame, git away from that window now! Gener’l Connor’ll kill me if y’ur dusted.”
My eyes, now black and hollow as a barn owls, tear, full of dust.
“Damn heathens” Mr. Dreary cusses. Bullets clip through the broken pane.
Pulling me behind, opening the useless glass door. “Thop” an arrow parts
his scalp. He falls backward, landing beside me, spurs clattering.
The wee baby screams again and I turn to see Mrs. Dreary's oppressive
grip on the child. “He’s dead.” She says grabbing the Sharp. She kills a rider.
The arriving soldiers chase the mongrel band of heathen riders.
Mrs. Dreary, babe in one arm, Sharp in the other, kicks the fallen marble in the dust.
She walks through the door, out of one carnage into another type of oppression,
the soldiers are executing the Sioux braves. Children watch in pain.
Across the street a lone warrior perches. A roof tile clatters
to the dirt. His arrow flies and a soul is parted.
Falling with blind numbness, forward, down, parting
the water in the horse trough left for the incoming riders.
My brass buttons and flint arrowhead scrape the tub clattering,
no one in the street notices my departing in the days dust.
My open mouth fills with the rancid, taste of pain.
“How improper,” was my last lucid thought, oppressive.
The clatter of hoofs rocks my parting
The oppression of man against man leaves with the riders.
Only dust and the pain of the living remains.
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010
Long poem by
Ravindra K Kapoor | Details |
Entry submitted in honor of - Constance ~ A Rambling Poet ~
Rain, The Story 2 / 3
In those beautiful moments, what she was feeling
Was only an illusion of Aiden, created by her blessed horse Past,
She was aware that she had only few more such moments,
To enjoy the pleasures of Aiden’s company and
To get completely melt and lost,
In the lovely soothing, enfolds and embraces of Aiden.
She felt, while in the arms of her princely love, Aiden,
As if, the entire universe was flying and dancing and
A soft melody was flowing in the air,
Making her to feel, the ecstasies of joys and pains.
The illusion was touching her mind and heart and it was
Filling her with the sensations of an unusual lore.
The sensations she felt, in the arms of her love
Was beyond her imagination and perhaps,
It cannot be described in words.
She cried in an ecstasy of joy and mirth and closed her eyes,
So that her Love may not get lost, when she returns,
From the enchanting world of her dear Past.
She was trying to grasp every image of joys,
As if, she was blessed to preserve these serene moments,
Given by her lost love Aiden, who was standing right before Rain, although,
Rain had lost her love Aiden, many years back,
When he went in a battle and became a martyr for a great cause.
Suddenly she felt the warmth of a touch,
Close to her lovely hairs and neck, given by her darling horse.
Past appeared to be saying to her, to come back
From the depths of his eyes, into the normal world of life.
She slowly opened her eyes and found,
The alluring images of her love were over,
Only Horse Past and Future were standing very close to her, and
Her horse Past was saying in his own language,
She should now wake-up from the dreams of her love.
She was aware that her horses were blessed to create only illusions,
For a very short period.
Past knew that after some moments,
His powers to create the illusions would not work and before that,
Past wanted Rain to return in her normal world.
Horse Past silently told her by his expressions,
It is now time to come back,
Into the world of the realities of Life.
Even in his silent language Past appeared to be conveying, that
Rain should find a new Love,
Instead of searching her future, in the lost and bygone days of her past.
Concluded in part 03
Contest entry: For this contest only
Contest Name: Rain, The Story
Sponsored by: Constance ~ A Rambling Poet ~
Written by: Ravindra K Kapoor
Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2010
Long poem by
Sidney Beck | Details |
The Sioux chief Brown Eagle taught me self-respect
And I saw my life as an Englishman must have greater purpose,
And that these "savages" were actually my saviors.
The spirit of his tribe drew me; to resist was useless.
The closest spirit was Brown Eagle’s sister :
But Bright Water could marry only a warrior-chief :
To prove worthy to marry into the tribe, and to lead it,
I had to endure long tests and trials of grief.
I studied the ways of Brown Eagle,
Whose many scars were openly displayed,
Showing his warrior-status, as well as reminding all
Of the torture ritual in the tribe and the respect to be paid.
The tribe medicine-man explained what should happen:
I had to undergo a series of ritual tortures and tribulation,
Including an O-Kee-Pa style chest-suspension ceremony,
And its most grueling part, the Sun Vow Initiation.
I was hauled up to the roof of a huge tepee
By buffalo-bone hooks through my pectoral muscles, flowing red:
Excruciating exquisite pain - as my former life was torn out of my chest:
My spirit ascended to the roof and I saw my own body dead.
In a sincere desire to become one with the tribe my spirit left
The tepee on a shamanic journey into another order of realization,
A landscape of magic and mystery - and during this ordeal
Manitou came to me in the form of the White Buffalo - a sacred vision:
Hooves pounding, eyes flaring, He emerged from a vast prairie fire.
And of leadership, duty and responsibility I heard Him speak:
And His huge presence ran with my horse and guided me over the endless
Short-grass plains to Bright Water’s flowing creek.
Attention and energy of my small self was removed from its centre;
The world around expanded correspondingly, enhancing
A changing, fluid, magical, and mysterious realm of the unknown.
Deep-etched imagery, a dream of death-and-life entrancing.
My emotional state transcended any normal boundaries
In sacred time and space - because of the ritual, the ceremony,
The privation, the torture, the longing for communion.
I drank from the flowing creek and returned to the tepee.
Helpless, I was cut down from the tepee roof, rejoined
To the world of flesh and bone; but my fire-baptised
Spirit had new authentic power, and Brown Eagle took my arm:
What is your name, brother? I proudly took the name - Buffalo Eyes.
From the culture of the High Plains Sioux in the USA
Inspired by the movie A MAN CALLED HORSE (1970) starring Richard Harris.
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011