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Long Native american Poems | Long Native american Poetry

Long Native american Poems. Below are the most popular long Native american by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Native american poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Travis Lone Hill | Details |

One Among Many part 2

I live in a place striving for sobriety surrounded in alcohol looking for happiness trapped among our very own sadness. I hear my people’s laughs and I hear my people’s cries, but most of all I see their dreams because their dreams are my dreams because we remain not against each other today as enemies but hidden friends united through culture, language and blood. I laugh with my people and of course I cry with my people and I fight with my people but most of all I continue to dream with my people. I know who I am and where I am from to know where I been to still hope to where I am going to go. I feel darkness engulf not only myself but also almost my entire reservation’s race, no matter mixed or not because soon our culture and language will have no face without any more light to shine upon it. I know where I lived and still live to know if I will truly go where I truly want to go in life before I have my one walk with death. I know by a long shot that I am not the best but by a close hit on the reservation’s target I could be better. 
I take a stand against self to stand against others to better a worsening crowd of many young lost indigenous souls waiting to be unknowingly found and waiting for something similar to what I’m about to write. I take a stand for self so that others know that we aren’t all lost and we can and will be found with the true hope of no one’s but your own. I take a stand because my brothers and sisters wont, I take a stand because now days most the people around me or within me can’t or don’t know how, I take a stand for the children who don’t have a father and mother as I once had, I take a stand for my unborn child almost here, I take a stand for courage because within me is filled with fear, I take a stand against because the alcohol and drugs within me now I just can’t stand, I take a stand for those around me who cannot stand, I take a stand for a culture dying on its knee’s trying to get back up, I take a stand for the forsaken yet to be forgiven self-stand.
 I patiently wait, lying away in the darkness searching for light even though I can see the light I just don’t know how to get on thy path to the light. I am not alone, I know for a fact that I am not alone in my thoughts and feelings about life on earth here. I can see our pain, I can hear the hollers and screams, I can feel your anguish and I can smell our destruction. I walk through the reservation valley of darkness as if I am but a blind witness to our own destruction upon where many of us go unknown truly forever in depths of time, in the depths of death.
 I know that I cannot give in or give up on a dream of a people’s dream where the buffalo in our young hearts and minds may roam around free and where the wolf warrior chief may rise above all odds and become thy greatest modern day warrior, the people seek him, the people crave him, the people need him, the people need someone to rise if not geographically the worldwide mentally.


Long poem by Travis Lone Hill | Details |

A Soul Called Soul

I’m trapped in the American struggle/ 
Surrounded in the alcoholic drug addicted jungle/ 
In my soul called soul I seem to unknowingly look for trouble/ 
Yeah am I the only one to truly see our invisible chaotic bubble? / 
Am I the only one to truly live in while I realize the hidden pains in our own ghetto living rubble? /
 I see in what I still saw of the pains at the same time I hear the alcoholic mumbles/
 Like a burnt cracker over a uncooked cookie I still see the culture crumble/ 
I see the staggering, I see the swerving and I see thy own stumbles/ 
Still yet I am crawling out the dirt like an ant spreading my wings in the sky like the bees bumble/
 It’s when I knew I was a soul called soul/ 
In my soul called soul I am in the super bowl/ 
Seven hundred seventy-seven now I can’t let thy football fumble/ 
I am not going to let thy ring leader lead me in the circus no more, I am no longer an elephant Dumbo/ I’m here to stay not to go/ I been down that same road too many times before/
 I know what it’s like at the bottom, I hit it straight rock ,yeah I been that low/
 now pains of my life I outgrow/it’s when I knew I was a soul called soul 
In my soul called soul/ I hang on not to my enemies nor my friends but my own inner foes/
 I got no true friends, I got no true bros/ I got no true women, I got no hoes/ 
I don’t even know if I will even make it to be thirty-four/ 
I worry about alcoholic danger in the hood every time I walk out my front door/ 
I thank God I’m not rich and thank him for the experience of being dirt poor/ 
I thank him for the fact that I no longer have to steal from the local store/ 
I thank him for the simple fact that I can do simple everyday chores/ 
I remember a time when I was in a prison cell where even death itself felt like a bore/
 until one day something great pick me up off the prison floor……..that was a time when I know I was a soul called SOUL/
 I know my truck of life was ready to take it’s damage when it can still pull its own toll/
 I knew my boat of life was ready to go against high winds with a broken bow/ 
I knew I was ready when I can go against waves 100 feet high go under and still row/
 if not then I make the surf board roll/ The storms comes like shadow hidden in the skies undergrowth/ I’m not only floating I’m also flying through them both/
 I am no longer empty with darkness I am filled with light shone/ 
I am no longer alone, I am force of many through word flow/ 
I am a prophet among my own/ words put together like no other only I condone/ 
I say it in a unique tone/ 
I’m going to make it past the internet and cell phones/ 
I am the one, I am by a higher power chose/ 
These problems in life I will outgrow/ 
I will overcome being just another SOUL CALLED SOUL….


Long poem by Shanity Rain | Details |

young American days


              
                   To be in a young America ~
           visions of a ship upcoming statue of Liberty
               the young lad holding tightly to his Mothers leg
             in all excitement of a new Land to call their own
      celebrations of apple pie and fireworks on the 4th of July 
          
             thoughts of the old Hollywood on screen 
                films without 3-D costing less then a dollar
        Greta , Monroe , Betty Davis eyes tantalizing blue glare
       The Wizard of Oz or books written by Steinbach, Capote, Mark Twain

             exciting new visions of creating new concepts 
                 before Capitalism bought all little ones to bigger
           songs came from the hills of Virginia to the black Mountains
               surfacing in Tennessee for all to hear and wish to see  

          The day when one travelled by car on the road travelled
             every town a story told , learning history we once shed blood 
         American Indian tears to the British man whom choose freedom of taxes
            Boston held a tea party , now wishing they threw out marmite instead
 
         The day when we knew our neighbors and bought homes with a paystub
             Everyone had a chance to make their own with pride , even through wars
        When Martin Luther King stood proudly as did President Lincoln for Freedom 
             How many streets have been named after the man whom had a dream ?

             When milk was delivered on doorsteps in Glass bottles 
                 Babies wanting the very first of the top being cream 
             leaving doors open , watching news with your family at 6pm
                cartoons were shut down and it was now grown up time 

                      Cereal being a cheap snack for after school 
                         school supplies costing twenty dollars 
                      Grandma school clothes shopping for fifty 
                   before the internet , cell phones , and text for hello ~

                         2 week Vacations not afraid to put up Camp 
                Christmas sold in December with the sentiment of Love not money
        a day when if one were sick , you could actually get penicillin without question 
         The Doctor treated everything calling it General Practice no fear of Malpractice 

               Never forgetting our Motor city  
                 Old Ford Trucks Chevrolets and Dodge
                  The city that brought Ottis Reding and Marvin Gaye 
               

                     What happened to us ?  Where did America Go ? 

                   

         
  


Long poem by Farshid Rezaee Araghi | Details |

Nagi Tanka

The following is a tribute to all Native Americans. Please check the footnotes for
unfamiliar words.

A lonely man riding a tashunke
Toward the anapo
Where the yellow-gowned prince
Rises majestically
With an army of golden spears
Aimed at desert’s sandy heart
The ozuye ohitika cries out:
He-ay-hee-ee
He-ay-hee-ee
And dances the can wakan
Esnella
Little naughty miracles
Come out of tepees
Cinks-cunks
To welcome me,
Eyes twinkling
With hope, with fear…
Le mita sunkaku, le mita cola, le mita tahunsa
Oo-oohey
Happo happo
And we rush with our mila hansaka 
To hunt the tatanka
Under blue sky
Where cetan flies
Ocheti of us
Men with pahaska
Adorned with wanbli’s niyaha
Ride like wakina on burning sands
It’s noon
And the lunchtime
Our tepees are filled with le mita colapi
Dancing flames
Siyotanka’s melody
Joy and laughter
All is skuyela
Can this last ohinyan?
Owanka wakan is shaking
Nituwe he?
Traces of worry 
On my tunkasila and unci’s faces
The wasichu
Mahpuya shrouds 
The sky
-Hohahe
-Miyelo ca kola!
-Should I believe that?
-My friends will be here anytime
To be your guests!
Mind is drowned in doubt’s lagoon
Yellow prince is wounded
His bleeding chest 
Disappears into horizon
Haho! Haho!
The white are coming
A black wickmunke
O wakan tanka
I ask for peace
I beg for love
Is that much to have?
Tepees are glowing?
Or greedy flames
Have found their victims?
This is wicoti mitawa
Wahi, wahi
He-ay hee-ee
He-ay-hee-ee
Nagi tanka
Raise my spirit…
O cherished land
Oh burnt tepees
Smokes, ashes, cries
Blind the eyes, deafen ears
Hecheto aloe…
---
Footnotes:
Nagi Tanka: Great Spirit
Tashunke : Horse
Anapo: The Dawn
Ozuye: Warrior
Ohitika: Brave
He-ay-hee-ee: A call to the Great Spirit
Can Wakan: Sun dance
Esnella: A loner
Tepees: Native American Tents
Cinks: My son
Cunks: My daughter
Le mita sunkaku: My younger brother
Le mita cola: My friend
Le mita tahunsa: My cousin
Oo-oohey: It is time
Happo: Let’s go
Mila hansaka: Long knives
Tatanka: Buffalo bull
Cetan: Hawk
Ocheti: Seven
Pahaska: Long hair
Wanbli: Eagle
Niyaha: Feather
Wakina: Thunder
Le mita colapi: My friends
Siyotanka: A kind of flute made of cedar wood
Skuyela: sweet
Ohinyan: forever
Owanka wakan: Sacred Altar
Nituwe he? : Who are you?
Tunkasila: Grandfather
Unci: Grandmother
Wasichu: White man
Mahpuya: Cloud
Hohahe: Welcome
Miyelo ca kola: I am friend
Haho: Look at this
Wickmunke: Trap
Wakan tanka: God
Wicoti mitawa: My village
Wahi: I am coming
Hecheto aloe: It is finished


Long poem by Sidney Beck | Details |

VISION QUEST

VISION  QUEST

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.


Long poem by Wayne Mattison | Details |

Milo and Me

Milo and Me- Born well-timed fore-teen mouths from Me.
In an unknown town, in New York somewhere north of Albany.
Known to the Native American-as Wings Falls-
In their time-so it seemed.
Known as Milo to only a few--but to Me, my Brother-Best Friend!

But- It’s my assumption GOD had other intentions-
for Milo and Me. We lived and were reared by that poor family.
On that unknown Street- North-off Main Street.
Known to few-like J.F.COOPER and the“Mahikans.”
North about 66 miles from Albany.

You will ask of me and I know-how did two mountain boys ever make it off that Street?
It would have seemed to the multitude residing near that street-
That Milo and me were as good as disconnect from ANY Eternal Majesty.
My resolution to you would be-only by GOD’S Devine Grace and Majesty.

Then-the day came, much to the surprise of Milo and Me-
Mom and Dad sold that OLD CURSED house on that infamous street.
We moved clear across town to a more superior Street--or it seemed?
Until- Milo and Me got to know the natives living ON THAT STREET!

You see- on THIS STREET for Milo and Me-we discovered our addictions-
can’t you see? Myself just 13, and for Milo, fore-teen mouths younger than Me.
It started with drinking some “stout,” with was innocent-initially,
then lead to trips with Mary-Jan-I hope YOU see.
My presumption is for Milo and Me-we should have never got to know-
those good old boy on-THAT STREET!
 
Well-If I told the rest of this story-though poetry,
it would be far too long--hope you can see.
So--let Me take you to the end of the story.
We will travel by make-believe time machine..
Close your eyes, Close your eyes,--so you can’t see.
Fast forward we go, to the year 1998-now you may see!!
 
By this time, for Milo and Me, we had not seen each-other
in a LONG time-you see?
For each of us--a Wife and some kids-- only if you could have seen!
You would know-- the pain and heartache without Milo and Me.

You may notice and see now- But--you will NOT find--Milo and Me.
You see, you see-- it has been ten years now--for Milo and Me.
He journeyed to some faraway land, to get away from--his home land.
Helped by the Army--left 3 little girls to fend for themselves--in His home land.

At the end now- I raise one final toast to the memory of Milo and Me.
Not a toast like the days of glory brought--from some fine ALE- or smoke from Mary-Jane.   
But--a toast--or better said--a petition of a different sort.
To the GOD we once knew together as young men-- on THAT STREET!!
By: W.E.M


Long poem by deb radke | Details |

The Man Who Loved Rain Woman

She loved him when she was a young girl, stepping softly on the rocks,
Holding her basket close, as rain fell on her dampened hair;
Seeing him across the river, she raised her eyes to his, and smiled;
Looking upon The Man Who Loved Gimiwanookwe.

Her love grew stronger when they first knew each other, 
Silently, among the towering pines, hidden from their families, 
She reached her hand to his, loving him as rain and thunder raged;
Giving herself to The Man Who Loved Gimiwanookwe.

Her love grew stronger when they defied their fathers and rode away,
Running the white horse full out against the wind, as rain pounded the world;
Laughing as she laid her face against his back, seeking shelter,
Resting upon The Man Who Loved Gimiwanookwe.

Her love grew stronger when she felt the consequences,
Of losing all she knew, all she was born to be,
A woman who chose to live hard and uncertain;
Keeping with The Man Who Loved Gimiwanookwe.

Her love grew stronger when they birthed their child,
He easing the child from her heaving body,
She looking silently to the heavens as rain melted her tears;
Trusting in The Man Who Loved Gimiwanookwe.

Her love grew stronger when their children grew away,
And he became restless, longing for his lands, his heritage;
Leaving her on a day of bitter darkness, rain fell on his bowed head;
Looking away from him, pulling inward, her sorrow met the rain;
Grieving for The Man Who Loved Gimiwanookwe.

On a day when rain softly touched the world,
He returned to her, with fear in his eyes --
She had never seen him afraid;
He told her he had dreamed of the white horse,
Running full out against the wind,
Ridden by The Man Who Loved Gimiwanookwe.

Her tears fell upon his face
And became the rain,
As she held him close,
And the day faded from his eyes.

The white horse thundered towards the heavens,
Running full out against the wind as she leaned against his neck.
Her tears pounded the world as she rode against the wind,
Urging her spirit horse to mount faster towards the sky.

She is Rain Woman, daughter of the spirit god,
Riding upon the white horse, thundering across the skies,
Her tears of pain and sorrow fall upon the earth;
Mourning The Man Who Loved Gimiwanookwe.


[Written by Deb Radke for the contest 'Rain, The Story',
sponsored by Constance La France.]

[‘Gimiwanookwe’ from the Ojibwe language meaning ‘Rain Woman’.  This poem is based on nothing other than my imagination, and I mean no disrespect to the Ojibwe peoples.]


Long poem by Katherine Stella | Details |

Little Moccasin { Edited }

<                                    on the trail 
                                      he took a wife
                                      comanche made 
                                      and full of life
                                      two breeds 
                                      different nations
                                      outlasted  
                                      family  love's
                                      segregation

                                      little moccasin and blue moon
                                      for their love did not come unglued
                                      little moccasin and blue moon
                                      for their love was so brand new

                                      high above  canyon ridge
                                      little moccasin calls her name
                                      without his blue moon
                                      love would never be the same
                                      so he dances the ring of fire
                                      mounts his horse
                                      and returns
                                      for his ones desire

                                      little moccasin and blue moon
                                      for their love did not come unglued
                                      little moccasin and blue moon
                                      for their love was so brand new

                                      little moccasin's leap of faith
                                      blue moon stride for stride
                                      echoes linger canyons ridge
                                      we'll  always's be husband and bride
                                      Navajo and Comanche
                                      they said it couldn't be done
                                      under one God and one indian nation
                                      hunting grounds now they can finally begun

                                      little moccasin and blue moon
                                      for their love did not come unglued
                                      little moccasin and blue moon
                                      for their love was so brand new




This Poem Was Based 
On The Song
Running Bear  
Debs Contest G.L. All
                                      


Long poem by Travis Lone Hill | Details |

We Belong To Our Children

Today we need a miracle of revolutionized culture to survive with our heritage's past for our future.
 Many of us don't even know our traditional language no more. 
So much has already been taking from us that it seems most of our culture is forever lost.
 There is a big difference between white man's law and our Native American laws,
 Many of us have been here in America since time began here in the America's and the only waste we leave behind is the bodies of our people burried like our culture is being buried in the prarie.
 The white man has raped and took our culture and way of life from us. 
So what kind of legacy will we leave behind as a Native people? We must reject the white mans way, we must take no part of it, but how can we when we are now a conquered people among a conquering people which a majority remain white.
 We as a Native people only want to survive so that we can remain who we really are, and its our language and traditions who make us who we are and it is dying at a alarming rate.
 Our way of life is today is almost gone and how can we ask to pass on our culture when too much of it is gone and soon our people's legacy will be just that, a legacy.
 We are the lost generation of young Native's unseen to the mainstream American eyes.
 So with that said we as a people must cling onto what we have left because if we don't do it now we will never get back to who we once were as a people.
 There used to be millions of buffalo that feed, clothed and helped us survive as a people now the buffalo roam no morem and all that roams the prairie is a broken dream of many spirits longing for the living to bring back the buffalo.
 Many of our elders and great one's died are will killed too quicly for their knowledge to be passed down the wisdom of our great people.
 Now we have to pick up the many broken piece's where our ancient ancestors left off.
 Now for the one's who do want to keep our culture alivewe have to teach ourselves what we dont already know with experience.
 Now that the cultural leaders are dead and gone we have to search deep within ourselves to know who we really are as a ancient Native people.
 We must teach our children now for great grandma's and grandpa's are in our children, many or almost all just don't lnow it yet.
 My life and the life of my peers belong not to certain indivduals but the life we live and breathe belong to the people no matter our Native blood degree, it's not that our children belongs to us rather it's us that belong to the children.


Long poem by keith baucum | Details |

GREEN Chapter Three

Kenya was glowing but Nubia didn't know 
why.  "You know what?  You been trying to 
get me to dread my hair for the longest.  
I'm going to let you dread my hair".  Nubia 
almost 
fell over when she heard Kenya's words.  
"What on earth made you decide on such 
a drastic change all of a sudden?"  Nubia 
asked Kenya.  A man said Kenya.  
"Guuurrriillllll tell me who he is and what 
he looks like".  Nubia was so excited she 
didn't know
what to do with herself.  "His name is 
Malik Maxwell Williams.  He showed up at 
the bank Friday to open an account.  I'm 
changing my look to get him to notice 
me".  "He's tall I'll say around six foot 
three, milk chocolate skin,  small eyes like 
a chinese, deep waves in his hair.
You have to see him for yourself".  Nubia 
was on Kenya's hair for three hours.  
Monday arrived so fast Kenya didn't know 
where the weekend went.  That Monday 
morning she got up showered, put on her 
new outfit, and a little bit of makeup.  
carefully applying it so she didn't over do 
it.  Looking in the mirrior to see how she 
looked.  "Damn Nubia did a good job on 
my dreads".  Thought Kenya.  She 
practiced what she would say to Malik on 
the way to the bank that's if Malik came to
 
the bank today.  She made her way 
through 
the bank front doors.  Right away her co-
workers mouths fell open.  They couldn't 
believe their eyes.  Is this the same Kenya 
they all thought to themselves.  Her co-
workers complimented her on her new 
look.  Kenya counted the hours before 
Malik finally showed up.  Kenya walked up 
to Malik and asked "How may I help you?"
"I would like to make a deposit".  "How 
much would you like to deposit Mr. 
Williams?" Kenya's voice was a high pitch 
from being nervous.  "I would like to 
deposit five thousand dollard".  Malik 
handed Kenya the money with a cocky 
look in his eyes.  "Excuse me Malik I 
normally don'tdo this...........but would you 
like to go out some time?"
Taken back by Kenya's question Malik had 
to recompose himself.  "Yes I would".  I 
never had a woman to ask me out before 
thought Malik.  This is different.  "Meet me 
in the bank's parking lot Saturday at 
6:00pm".  Kenya told Malik in a low voice.  
Malik left the bank with an extra step in 
his stride and a boost in his ego.
As he drove away from the bank Malik's 
cell phone rings.  "Hello what's up 
Mecca?"   "The deal with the Asians is 
taking place right now".
written by Keith Edward Baucum


Long Poems