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Long Native american Poems

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 William Masonis | Details |

The Ghost Dance Part III

                                     Wovoka in the Feverland

In the Dying-Grass Moon came another winter to claim the old and sick.
This was when the first messengers came
To the desolation known as Pine Ridge.
They came riding in at the end of a century of tragedy,
A hundred years that broke an ancient people.
Their world now cold and hollow,
Where no god's voice was heard upon the winds.
Grey clouds scudded across a blank sky
And hung like a shroud over their conqueror's makeshift home for the defeated.
No god's voice answered to their listening hearts,
None heard any god's lament for their children lost,
Lost here, adrift in heart and mind
Beneath the bitter grey skies
Riding over them on chilling gusts, day by day.

The people beneath this sky were weary,
The future hung dim before their eyes
Their hearts dragged down like stones
A sorrow great and silent
Private and unshown,
A shared Eucharist of desperation.

Into this rode the messengers, outriders of a new prophet,
With words to lighten their heavy hearts,
Threads of hope for weakened hands to grasp at.

The one named Kicking Bear had seen this Messiah;
A voice had commanded him to go out and meet the ghosts of the gone-before
Who were soon to return, to walk the earth with their brethren.
He and some other pilgrims rode the Iron Horse as far towards sunset
As the tracks ran, and from there on riding for four suns
Until they came at last to the Paiute camp near Pyramid Lake.

The people there said that The Christ,
Son of the white people's great god,
Had come down to Earth once again.
They said He had sent for them to hear Him speak;
That this was foreordained.
Even now he awaited them two days' ride away at Walker Lake,
Full of important news for all the Indian brothers.
These people were full of a fine new spirit,
Good to all newcomers, infectious with hope.
Together they went to Walker Lake and waited there two days,
An expectant multitude milling about,
The same sort this Christ was said to have spoken to
Long ago, when last he appeared to men.

     As the sundown burnt the sky on the third day
     The mighty Christ appeared before the crowd.
     He appeared, and he was not white, as was expected.
     This time he manifested as a brown man like them,
     And his words were words of light and hope and love,
     Words of life to this dying people.

     He was old and wrinkled, scars upon his hands and face
     In tattered clothes and a hat too large,
     But his eyes cut like flint
     And he spoke as a strong man should speak.

These words and more were his:
"I will teach you how to dance a dance, and I want you to dance it."
And with that, The Christ rose and taught them the Dance of the Ghosts.
And with that, The Christ sang and danced with them far into the night.
Come the morning, he addressed them again.

He told them that God his Father had made the Earth,
And sent Him as teacher to the people.
He had first come to the white people, but they had treated Him badly,
Jeering, unbelieving, scarring His body.
So He had returned to Heaven and now He had returned.
His intent to restore things to how they first were,
Indeed to improve even upon that.

Come Springtime, Wovoka said, when grass waves to the knee on the plain,
The world would cover itself with a new skin of soil and bury all the whites.
Come Springtime, Wovoka said, the reborn land would cloak itself
With a brilliant blanket of sweet green grass, adorned with trees and rivers.
Come Springtime, Wovoka said, the vast thundering herds of buffalo,
The many-colored herds of wild horses, beautiful things well known once,
Would return forever.
Come Springtime, Wovoka said, the Indians who danced the Ghost Dance
Would be taken up into the air, suspended in glorious freedom
While the wave of new soil consumed the whites.
Come Springtime, Wovoka said, they would descend from the sky
Among the ghosts of their ancestors to stand on the fresh new world
And all would be young and strong again,
And live in harmony in this reborn time and place.
Come Springtime...

     The Springtime! The Springtime!
     So near! So soon!
     Can it be they were not forsaken after all?
     Can such a thing be, even when hope had died?
     Kicking Bear was stunned, yet he hoped and believed.
     After all, had he not dreamt of this?
     Was it not foreordained that he should be here?

     Aflame with desire to bring such news to those languishing back home,
     Kicking Bear and the rest rode the Iron Horse back
     To spread the word and way to every reservation they could reach.
     Wovoka himself never came to Pine Ridge, but his spirit did,
     And held court with those who danced there.
     They said he flew in the air above them as they rode,
     Teaching them new songs to sing as they traveled.
     Who's to say? It could be true.
     Who is to say what purer and more savage sight
     May have shown them in their fervor, hearts unfettered
     By the locks, the twistings and mists of civil, "ordered" life?
     Who would dare say?

They felt triumph rising from the ruins of despair,
That the mighty God of the whites, who gave such power,
Snatched it back in anger to give it to those they despised!
The hope caught on and lept in every heart in the hated Feverland.
Had not these whites treated their God's own son shamefully,
Like a toy a child breaks and forgets?
Who had listened to the words of that Son and paid them greater heed once heard?
The messengers brought the news of the Ghost Dance to Sitting Bull's people,
And soon there were many believers,
And in great groups they danced together.
Dancing through the night into the first light of dawn,
Dancing till they fainted, calling their lost warriors back.
Reeling, stamping the dust under the stars' cold light,
Calling to the dead through the frozen blackness.


     
     
     
     
     

Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by William Masonis | Details |

The Ghost Dance, Part I

                                                    1.

                                    Red Mesa Dreamscapes

The sun spreads its red light on the mesas, 
Those ancient sentinels, those fractured bones of the Earth
Scattered outposts that rise as lonely islands
Through the vast dry sea
That fills the heart of this continent;
Its heart beats in notes slow, deep and sonorous
Buried somewhere deep in its weathered flesh
Of canyon, mountains, desert -
All cast adrift upon this sea of hollow, howling spaces.
The mesas thrust themselves up, pointing at the sky
Like great bony fingers cut short at their last joints,
Reaching into the merciless deepblue immensity
Falling down on all sides, enfolding the distant horizons,
Where the light of the nearby yellow star
Goes shifting to red as this side of the Earth turns its face slowly away,
Burning in soft rose light
Caressing the cooling arms of the night in the brown flesh of the land,
So like the flesh of its people.

Dawnings and sunsets, ages and ages, the red light washes the mesas
Turns of the world beyond counting as the people gazed mute in wonder
Standing in the purity of the red light
Bathed in its clean magnificence, purified by its brutal beauty,
As alive in their way, these bones of a planet
Alive as the strong brown flesh of the people 
Who gazed on them in sanctified silence
The ancient people who took this land for their home
Long ago, when Man was new and still fearfully reverent;
These ancient ones were meant to live and die
Beneath this endless paradise of blue,
And to love this land at times in ways too deep
For any civilized mind to comprehend.

     The brown ones loved this land,
     And the land accepted their love in bountiful return to them
     In the fullness of the life and glory they once knew here,
     Singing to them in the eagle's screams that cut the still air
     Drumming in the brown waves of bison herds
     Speaking to their souls in Winter winds and coyote howls, 
     Rumbling in the dark voice of Summer thunderings
     Carrying down to the ears of men the mystic troubles of their gods.l

     They passed together a long, still time
     The people and the land.
     The balance smooth between them,
     Until the coming of the Others.

From across the Great Waters the Others came,
Beings white in both appearance and deed.
They walked and talked like other men.
But their ways were new and strange.

They came and they came,
More with every shift of the seasons
Filling the land 
Like the snow fills the forests in Winter.

They came, taming all that they touched,
The world to them a thing to be conquered and changed,
For this was their way; this their lives' purpose,
And the spirits of the land allowed it -
Neglecting their invasions, accepting the smallness of their thoughts,
Aloof and above in distant toleration.

Without the Spirits' help the people lost their fight for the land,
Falling ever back against the Others' strange magics.
More clever than strong they were,
But in the end, it's cleverness that wins.
They drew their strength from the magic words
Gifted to them by their god,
With which they would call on him for the powers of conquest,
And they were: Manifest Destiny.

Manifest Destiny granted them terrible powers,
The powers to build a new thing,
A thing which propelled itself in a way that none could stop,
And this thing's name was Progress.

Progress, right hand of Manifest Destiny,
Made everything change,
And change above all, as an end in itself,
Is what the Others loved the best.

The brown ones could not comprehend it,
And so they lost all before they fully new it was happening.

How to fight those armed with an oath from their god?
Through his will they held their power,
Never doubting the right of it.

For their love their god returned them power,
The magic of the metal tubes that boomed a hard burning death,
Weapons no magic could stop,
And more than this, numbers,
Numbers to drown the land.
Against all resistance they claimed the land for their own.

     The survivors they sent away
     To wait out their time in being forgotten,
     Casualties of Fate.

So now, the red light spreads across the mesas
Changed parts of a changed land that goes by another name
Part of a new nation vast of size and strength
And terrible in sleeping might,
Kindhearted giant, great and noble in its way,
Though forgetful of its native sons.

     Where now hangs the eagle's scream?
     - Lost, blown apart upon the wind.
     Where do the great gods of Old hide their faces?
     - They sleep, infusing the Earth with their dreams.

     Where walks the demon named Progress?
     Only look, his marks is everywhere.

Now we live in the long forgetting-time,
When the wrinkled elders sit in their ramshackle homes
The driftwood of some primeval sea's recession,
And dream.

They dream, in a fog blurred with the alcohol poison,
Of the stories of fathers and grandfathers,
Tasting memories again and again,
The salt lick of remembered moments aging like strange wine.

They dream of the ending-time,
Of the last stand made
In the face of the endless advance
When Progress buried the world in its relentless avalanche,
The dream of the wearied few,
Worn and shaken in disaster's wake,
Gathered one last time on the heartless plains.

They take a long straight look into the land of the Dead,
The shadowland out of sight beside our own,
Where the gone-before walk and watch in silence
The steady procession of the living,
Existing as memories until the time of reunion.

Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by William Masonis | Details |

The Ghost Dance Part IV

                                                           IV
                                             The Holiest Dance

Come out and dance, children of the New World.
Come out brothers, sisters, old and young.
Come dance and call back your dead.
Wheel and turn in long slow movements,
Passing through one another like eagles in flight,
Sailing over the endless plain.
Dance in rhythm, dawn to sunset
Wearing the sacred Ghost Dance shirts
Flapping in the grey cold mist lifting
As the sun climbs into the bluing skies.
Dance in the magic shirts their bullets won't penetrate,
Your protection from the great New God,
Who has forsaken His White Ones, adopting you as His own.
He has given them over to his enemies
For they have betrayed HIm,
Given His son over to His enemies and turned from His words.
Now He walks with us to make us strong again,
We His children now.

     Dance, Dance, Beloved Ones,
     All the day and into the night
     Calling to the Dead, the Gone-Before.
     They stand close to us now, - can't you see them?
     The shadows of yesterday drawn close by your hope?
     Can't you feel them gathering close by the fires
     As the days out in wild, smoking skies
     As you dance together, calling their names, 
     Calling them back to the light,
     To the dreams and fears and loves of life
     While the stars come out to keep their watch
     Bejeweling the night with their cold sweet shine
     As you dance and dance and dance
     Until exhaustion claims your bodies with a faint.
     No matter: the good times come and with that knowledge
     The sweet dreams go one, even in collapse.

Dance, children, dance all together, safe in the magic shirts
Adorned with strange magic symbols
Our Fathers' Fathers knew so well.
Their power returns with your belief
And the Whites are afraid, for once.
They don't understand this, they feel something is wrong,
But they cannot grasp what is happening.
That must be our secret - they'll find out soon enough.
When their well-deserved ruin overtakes them.
Enough for now to be patient and tread lightly near them,
For they are easily moved to destroy anything that puzzles them too much.
     Dance and Dream.     
     Sing and grow stronger.

Sing sweet, wheeling under the stars:

                                                        Father, have pity on me,
                                                        I am crying for thirst,
                                                        All is gone; I have nothing to eat.

Wovoka's spirit will hear and smile. Sing on:

                                                        The Father will descend,
                                                        The Earth will tremble,
                                                        Everybody will arise,
                                                        Stretch out your hands.

The Spirits hear. Can you feel them gathering?

                                                         The crow! Ehe'eye!
                                                         I saw him when he flew down,
                                                         To the Earth, to the Earth.
                                                         He has taken pity on us.
                        
Throw back your hands and laugh. Soar with joyous thoughts. 

                                                         I circle around
                                                         The boundaries of the Earth,
                                                         Wearing the long wing feathers as I fly,.

The Whites are afraid. Their time is passing.See their faces, and pity them.

                                                          Iyehe'! My children -
                                                          My children,
                                                          We have rendered them desolate.
                                                          The Whites are crazy - Aheyuheyu!

Yes, children, the time is come at last.
Dance and rejoice; dance them into Oblivion.
The Game, our Dog Soldiers, all the true men
Are returning to us.
The old ways shall be ours again.
Dance and rejoice! This Earth, our Love,
Will be ours again.
Ours forevermore.
Dance.   
                                                        


       

                                                        
                                                        

                                                     
                                                        
      





     
     
     
     



Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by William Masonis | Details |

The Ghost Dance Part V

                             The Ending at Wounded Knee

This is what happened:
Two worlds collided,
And the elder one died.

Pony soldiers and Indian police,
Triggerhappy and jumping at shadows,
Killed Sitting Bull at Pine Ridge;
     His horse pawed the muddy ground and danced
     To the thunder of the shots as they rolled over the plain and back,
     Shuddering through the grey empty space
     To toll the birth of another memory.

When change rolls through, things happen fast.
Reason gives way to confusion,
In the manner of beginnings and endings.
This is how the dancing ended
And the Spirits evaporated into silence.

Leaderless, his people wandered
In the cold of The Moon When The Deer Shed Their Horns,
They set out for the Badlands
To join their brethren in the New Faith.

Searching for Bigfoot's camp on Cherry Creek,
Unaware that he was to be arrested, as a "formentor of disturbances."

He and his were en route to Pine Ridge
To seek protection under Red Cloud.
Chief Bigfoot traveled a dying man, chest rattling with the wood of his wagon.

He ran up the white flag,
Parlayed with the pony soldiers who stopped them.
Major Whiteside said to go to the cavalry camp at Wounded Knee Creek.
Chief Bigfoot nodded,
Red drops raining from his nose
To make red flower stains on the snow.

They arrived in the twilight,
With pony soldiers all 'round in the frozen glow,
Ice crystals flashing in the air like Winter fireflies.

     Somewhere nearby, the Dancers all knew,
     The heart of Crazy Horse lay buried in a secret place
     Somewhere his Spirit walked, in converse with the winds.

Major Whiteside posted his men about the camp,
Placed cannon on a rise,
Sent his surgeon to see to the Chief.

     In the deep, bitter darkness
     The new 7th Cavalry arrived,
     Set up 2 more guns
     Spent the night drinking whiskey.

Came dawn, the prisoners were assembled and told to disarm.
Unsatisfied, the soldier chiefs had the teepees searched,
Then, finally, the warriors' blankets as well.

Their Shaman, Yellow Bird, had had enough.
Strong in his faith, he stamped the Ghost Dance steps into the snow,
Singing a Sacred Song.
"The bullets will not go towards you;
The Bullets will lose their way."

What followed might yet have been avoided,
But at last the soldiers found a gun.

Black Coyote, who was deaf, resisted,
And somehow, it went off.

     With that, the killing ensued.

In the chaos that followed
Carbine fire made death;
White smoke rolled like fog over the fallen.
The guns on the hills roared like Heaven and Earth
Being torn asunder;
Shreds of teepees, women and children
Blew like scattering leaves
And blood fell to frost like hot rain.

     And what of the magic Ghost Shirts?
     - Back to buffalo hides; the Great God had changed sides again.

The Shades of the Ancestors stood by in silence
Robbed of Faith's power
As the dying stared into the slate sky
That heralded a coming blizzard on its descending breath.
It was the End, All knew it was so.

In madness' aftermath
Pony soldiers collected the wounded,
Piled them on open carts like cordwood,
And rode on back to Pine Ridge.

Their caravan arrived in the velvet darkness.

Their dead lay where they fell,
Contorting into strange frozen shapes
Beneath the snow that fell all night to bury them,
Holding a great Counsel with the Ancestors
Full of such questions and answers as only the Gone-Before conceive.

The Pine Ridge barracks were full,
So the wounded were left out in the bite of the wind
While other accommodation was sought.
At last the Episcopal Mission was opened,
And the broken and bleeding brought in and lain on hay.

     'Twas 4 days past Christmas,
     Year of the Christ, 1890.
     Festive greenery yet hung about,
     And by candlelight those mothers who could read,
     As they lay groaning in this rough Nativity
     Could scan the words writ large
     On a banner above the pulpit:
     PEACE ON EARTH, GOOD WILL TO MEN.

"Why, oh Why," they must have thought,
"Fathers, were we yet forsaken again?
Was it too little Faith, or too much?

Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Kody Walters | Details |

Reservation Blues

Reservation Blues
5.2 million Native Americans in the United States
And many live in conditions equal to that of third world countries
Removed and relocated from the land they loved
Discarded like yesterday’s garbage
Picked up and dropped off in land fields Uncle Sam called reservations
But for Indians, having your land stolen is just the same ol’ news
Another track on the reservation blues

The government realized the only thing strong enough to destroy an Indian’s native pride
Was that fire water, which they used to both burn and drown that pride
The main reason for their 82% rate of suicide
Death and blood from 4000 + broken, beaten, blistered feet of the Cherokees
Seeped so far in to the ground that it turned clay to the dried blood rust color it is today
What was once war paint is now a streaked mess
As tears flow freely from a mother and father as another one of their infants dies
Two redskin baby caskets are built for every one Caucasian
But Native Americans and dying is just the same ol’ news
Another track on the reservation blues

Victims of the first use of biological warfare
Europeans wiped out masses with small pox
And the fact they did it on purpose proved they didn’t care
Still victims of the police, Indians are only 1% of the U.S. population
But yet, twice as many lose their lives at the hands of those pigs
Like a single mother of 4 with no choice but to work on the pole
The government is still steadily stripping land from the tribes
But Native Americans being victims is just the same ol’ news
Another track on the reservation blues
Forced to be uneducated and remedial
Living below the poverty line means not keeping up with the times
Can’t even say that when it comes to technology that they are behind
They don’t have anything, not even able to step up to the starting line
IPhones, Androids, not even Tracfones phones exist there
No reason when there aren’t any telephone lines there
The only Facebook they know 
Is the one that contains the mugshots of their loved ones
90% without internet results in the cardboard sign
# No internet therefore I can’t tweet
Three generations under one roof
Living their life like half of all Indians on the reservation
No sewer so their forced to use an outhouse
But when a dozen people all share the same home and you only have one outhouse 
You have to make a reservation on the reservation just to take a crap
For Indians though, living a life beyond disadvantaged is just the same ol’ news
Another track on the reservation blues

The government felt the Navajo language was important enough to use in the World War
Yet, you never see any tribal dialect offered as a foreign language choice in school
As all these dialects become extinct
Uncle Sam’s smile only widens
For with the loss of these dialects the history of so many wrongdoings also vanish away
But being silenced and outcast for the Indians is just the same ol’ news
Another track on the reservation blues

A race that went from owning a country
To being forced to live in lands that even people in ghettos crack jokes about 
The U.S. government has become a Hitler Clone
Placing a curtain over everyone’s’ eyes 
As they perform a disappearing act
One that results in the annihilation of all the different tribes
A term known throughout the world as genocide
But fighting to stay alive for Indians is just the same ol’ news
Another track on the reservation blues

Copyright © Kody Walters | Year Posted 2016

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.

Copyright © Travis Lone Hill | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by cherl dunn | Details |

THE SACRED TOTUM

Hear the screeching of the Nighthawk, as its talons grapple
At the tail ends of the moon's rising, dragging it ever upwards, unto
The center of the blackened shroud, of the universe.
This celestial light casts illusion's rays upon the sacred totem,
Transforming wooden carvings, bringing these honored beings to life,
Wood yields unto flesh and bones desire to enter our realm of reality.
Nay the tribal medicine man, bows and grovels low unto them,
These spiritual sacred brethren of the earth and sky, chanting
In native tongue, welcoming them once more unto the land of the living.
By tooth and claw, taking winged flight, may the elemental essence,
Bless thee, and nature itself give strength to sustain thee, so does the
Tribal elder chant, on the whispering winds, that echo from the
Highest Mountains.
Even do these rock giants, seam to bow, unto these deities of the
Supernatural realm, one by one, that come forth, the great eagle to soar,
The mighty bear to guard and defend, the alone wolf to watch over
His tribal flock and the Wiley coyote with his cunning, and stealth.
Then last but not least the wisest of them all, the ancient being the owl,
Whom listens in the night, hearing all secrets, but when asked his eyes
Do so flash, answering only one word's echoing, who.
Running free amongst the living, these sacred beings reveled in
Such wonderful freedom, to feel the warmth of the earth beneath their
Paws once more, to feel the winds currents beneath their wings,
What proud creatures of the neither realm, to join again
To live once more amongst the world of men.
But at dawn's rising a maiden dressed in sacred white skins did
Appear, calling unto them to return therein, to the totem once more.
All came willingly, except for the Wiley Coyote, for a spirit
Of trickery, is he, nay did he refuse to go.
At this response she the maiden dressed in white skins, placed
Her hands in the air, and began a sacred incantation's chant,
And low did appear within her hands grasping, but a glowing dream
Catcher that seemed to burn with an ethereal fire.
Made of vaporous mists, it shimmered and hissed, as if it were
A rattle snake poised to strike, the coyote back into a thicket of wild
Sharpened thorns, daring it to try and take him.
Again she beckoned him return unto for which you came,
Back into thy sacred totem.
But the Wiley coyote would not listen, the maiden
Spoke with venomous malice, then shaking the dream
Catcher, she spoke fetch him.
Hissing, again the dream catcher, grabbed at him,
Dragging him back within the sacred totem, now thee
Shall stay always my Wiley friend, all the others may
Run free unto the next mornings dawning,
Then all was still, and silent as the sun
Rose on the distant horizon.
The maiden vanished; the people were at peace once again,
But the Wiley coyote cries from within the sacred totem, never
To be released from his wooden prison.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Ian Howard | Details |

Tribute to the Wolf

Tribute to the Wolf

I am of your nation (Cherokee)
I have travelled far to find my family
 (They are scattered across America)
Boundaries are now gone
I know you as you know me

My Mother taught me so
I know you, ” a ni wa ya” 
(Of The Wolf Clan)
You speak in our tongue
But the words are of another

I am of the, “a ni sa ho ni” people 
(Of The Bear Clan)
Yet I listen to you young one
Your clan has been spread
Many left by the wayside
 (1000 died in the great walk)
Yet you are still many 
(The trail of tears)

The largest arm of our Nation
You are our protectors
The First New Moon of Spring, 
(Festival of Spring held in March)
Has past and the seven did well. 
( Seven Clans)
I will keep food for you till 
(There is always a welcome to others )
Green Corn dances the days away,
 ( Mid Summer festival)

Of the Stomp, Feather and Buffalo. 
(Tribal Dances)
Not eating, playing games.
Then to be cleansed by the water
Holding our Sacred Prayers
Of seven and four we hold dear 
(Seven Clans, Four compass points)

Our seven that scattered to the four 
(The scattering of the Cherokee)
While three levels we retain. 
( The three levels of existence)
The Owl looks on as the Cougar screams. 
(The sacred creatures of the tribes)
Our balance is retained therein.

Secretive yet open in their ways
We will dance in a great circle 
(The great circle was paramount in their beliefs)
Then let the Long man take our dreams. 
(Running waters, Rivers & Streams)
The little people will come if called 
(Belief in little people that are in their image)
They are our Brothers though so small
Hair that sweeps the very chaff 
( The little ones have very long Hair)

Remember they live in all things.
 (They live everywhere and in everything)
Guides to lost children they are. 
( They look after lost children)
As children they play with us.
Bringing happiness to a sad child, 
(The little ones have healing powers)
Creating purpose to the befuddled.
Treat them with respect
 (The little ones must be treated properly)
Bother them not with silly ways,
Or silly ways will stick in your mind

Should you see them be blessed!
Let not a loose tongue talk of them 
(If you see one don’t talk of it for Seven years)
As the westerner and his broken mirror
Take seven years to talk of them
Never speak to them after sunset.

Beware of false cures in this life 
( Medicine men beware of them)
The Raven Mocker, may be in disguise
 ( Raven Mocker was bad Medicine man)
Seek only the pure to be cured of ills
Seek not a cure from one that ails
 (Choose a medicine man that is healthy)
They are a false being in our eyes

Mix today with yesterday to be safe 
(Use Modern and old medicines together)
Only smoke with the fit one
Then drink the waters they give to you
May your ways with the Wolf be many
(Just a farewell to the Wolf Man I was talking to)
I shall read of you in the dens of the Great Bear.

Copyright © Ian Howard | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by John Arribas | Details |

THE BUFFALO

THE BUFFALO
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS


THERE WAS A TIME I ROAMED THESE PLAINS
FAR BEYOND WHERE THE EYE CAN SEE
IF YOU LIVED ON THESE PLAINS 
YOU HAD TO DEPEND AND FOLLOW ME
IF YOU WANTED QUALITY MEAT TO EAT
GRASS FED AND IN GREAT QUANTITY


IF YOU WANTED FURS AND PELTS TO WEAR
TO KEEP THE COLD  FROM THEE
IF YOU WANTED FUEL FOR A COUNCIL FIRE 
OR TO WARM A SIMPLE TIPI
IF YOU WANTED A SOLID PEACE PIPE
TO GAIN A FRIEND FROM AN OLD ENEMY


IF YOU WANTED THE SPIRITS TO SMILE 
SPREAD BLESSINGS ON THE COMMUNITY
IF YOU WANTED BONES FOR TOOLS
YOU HAD TO DEPEND AND FOLLOW  ME
I WAS ALWAYS WILLING TO OFFER FEED
YOU ONLY TOOK TO MEET YOUR NEED


A BALANCED EXISTENCE FOR ALL TO SHARE
YET OMINOUS FORCES WERE IN THE AIR
THE WESTWARD MOVEMENT IN FULL GEAR
COULD NOT COEXIST WITH THE TRIBESMEN HERE
AN DIABOLICAL PLAN WAS PUT INTO ACTION
CORRAL AND CONTROL THE  INDIGENOUS FACTION


THE BUFFALO WAS THE MAIN SOURCE OF ALIMENTATION
ELIMINATE THE SOURCE CAUSE WIDESPREAD STARVATION
RAILROADS HIRED THE BEST SHOOTERS IN THE LAND
SLAUGHTER THE BUFFALOS WHERE EVER THEY STAND
BUFFALOS WERE SLAIN FROM A COWARDLY DISTANCE
THE  TRIBES FOUGHT AND OFFERED FIERCE RESISTENCE


BUFFALO(2)


FINALLY DOMINATED BY AN OVERWHELMING FORCE
THE TRIBES WERE COERCED TO A PEACEFUL DISCOURSE
DEPRIVED OF FOOD  AND MANY FACING STARVATION
TRIBES  AGREED TO STAY AND LIVE ON A  RESERVATION
THE RESERVATION SITES THE GOVERNMENT SELECTED
WERE HARSH AND BARREN THE TRIBES FULLY REJECTED


FOR NUMEROUS YEARS THE PLAINS LAY UNPROTECTED
BUT IN THE END THE TRIBES WERE SUBJECTED
THE SHAMANS INVOKED THE SPIRITS WANTING TO KNOW
IF THE TRIBES WOULD SEE A RETURN OF THE WHITE BUFFALO
THE BUFFALO WAS SACRED AND SPIRITUALLY POSSESSED
ITS VERY EXISTENCE KEPT THE VILLAGES BLESSED


THE BUFFALO VANISHED FROM THESE ENDLESS PLAINS
BUT AWAITING HIS RETURN IS THE HOPE THAT REMAINS
THERE WERE FIFTY MILLION BUFFALO NOT LONG AGO
AN IMMORAL SLAUGHTERING LEFT LESS A MILLION OR SO
THE TRIBESMEN AWAIT THE BIRTH OF THE WHITE CALF
TO BRIGHTEN THEIR LIVES CAUSE THE CHILDREN TO LAUGH


THE WHITE BUFFALO HAS RETURNED TO THE TRIBES OF THE EAST
THEIR LAND ONCE UNUSED IS A PLACE NOW WHERE MANY FEAST
MODERN STRUCTURES NOW OCCUPY TRIBAL LANDS
WHERE MILLIONS OF DOLLARS DAILY CHANGE HANDS
THE WHITE BUFFALO HAS RETURNED AS A GOLDEN PALOMINO
ENRICHING THE TRIBES WITH A GOLD MINE CASINO


THE TRIBES OF THE PLAINS WHERE THE BUFFALO ONCE ROAMED
MOST LIVE IN ABJECT POVERTY,  THE SLAUGHTER HAD SOWN
ON THE PLAINS THE WINDS ARE SIGNALING  UNREST
THE RETURN OF THE HERDS IS THE SIMPLE REQUEST
THOSE HERDS ARE GONE NEVER MORE TO OCCUPY THE LAND
THE HOUR GLASS IS EMPTY THERE IS NO MORE SAND































Copyright © John Arribas | Year Posted 2015

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….

Copyright © Travis Lone Hill | Year Posted 2012

Long Poems