Best Algonquin Poems
OUT OF THE BELLY
Highway sixty pours into the Ottawa Valley the same way sunlight rips through the drapes of my darkened motel room. Every Monday I knife my way through the darkness and Algonquin Park to toil in the trade that chose me and rip at the bowels of duty and then every Friday I head back in the opposite direction yet into another abyss. The darkness has impregnated the Darkness. Emerging from the womb I am welcomed in Petawawa (is that Dante drinking coffee at Tim’s?) by the Time Traveler who transports me into the 18th century and my French voyageur past. The timeless river calls…
Ottawa Valley
Reborn, out of the belly,
Darkness…Orion
Waves as he fades into the
Light. Work is an hour away.
I entered a village in Algonquin park
as dusk approached the tattered edges of dark.
And fell in love with the bucolic setting
all except for the mosquito’s blood letting.
The pine smell was redolent riding each breeze
carrying halcyon memories of trees.
And for a fugacious moment I felt lost
amidst the penumbra where I weighed the cost.
I could find a safe inglenook or camp out
a vestigial whiff of pie gave me doubt.
And taking that as a harbinger of treats
to come I headed to a lodge with grass streets.
My ephemeral connection with the Earth
somehow gave my sempiternal soul rebirth.
For I felt rejuvenated young at heart
and with each footstep felt my tensions depart.
sterile white snowflakes
coldness covers the still night ~
snow wolf fluffs its tail
(January Full Moon – Algonquin)
Native Speaks Truths
She's not your princess or your squaw;
She is respected clan mother of the Chippewa.
He's not your chief, buck, or redskin:
He is a proud warrior of the Algonquin.
We're not your fashion trend or mascot;
We are the original peoples, have you forgot?
Racism comes to us in many ways;
Often disguised with passive aggressive praise.
You demand that we forgive and forget;
And with your good book you preach and beset.
You say to stop living in the past;
But continue to treat us as social outcasts.
You claim that you've learned from what your ancestors did;
Yet you repeat it world wide and the truths forbid.
You judge my frustration and anger with ease;
But continue selfish ways and to do as you please.
You celebrate men who massacred my tribe;
Your holidays confirm your need to inscribe.
You cry that you are the current day victim;
That reversed racism is your affliction.
You moan that we don't understand what it's like;
But your greed has caused the mistrust and dislike.
All the while you refuse to admit;
That what you ignore is what you permit.
Are you so different than those that turned away;
While my people were the cavalry's prey?
How much have you really changed;
When history repeats and so much is still the same?
Perhaps you only wish to silence my voice;
Because guilt today can be a weapon of choice.
Does white privilege still exist today;
Do you still want us to assimilate and obey?
If I am bitter it is with good cause;
It is because you continue with hypocrisy and faux pas.
Should one day you learn that all lives truly matter;
I will consider forgiving the lives you have shattered.
When you can learn to love the brown, black, yellow, and red;
I will then forget the broken promises and the massacres you've led.
Until that day do not patronize me with lies;
I will only believe what I see with my own eyes.
When colonization is no longer forced upon;
We can then let bygones be bygones.
By: Darlene Doll Smith
I would like to pay tribute to those who died
While introducing you to our native pride
We are Cherokee, Iroquois, and Lakota
We are Navajo, Algonquin, and Dakota
Our lands were open and free to roam
But when the pilgrims came, we lost our home
We are Omaha, Sioux, and Pawnee
We are Mohegan, Crow, and Shawnee
Our people were brave, our tribes were strong
What was done to them was very wrong
We are Hopi, Ottawa, and Comanche
We are Pueblo, Cree, and Apache
Now my friends, let the truth be told
Our people were killed, beaten and sold
To this day we get no respect
The word used to describe us, we must reject
A football team even bears the name
Which brings us dishonor, grief and shame
So tell me the truth, what would you say
For us, is it a Thanksgiving Day?
Form:
I am White Cloud, chief of an Algonquin tribe in Maine
This is a dedication to my pup “Keeitai” memories I retain
I forward myself, I shall speak of the meeting of Keeitai
As a young brave, striving manhood, I was sent to the forest alone
With bow in hand I could be a man with-in my fathers’ eye
Mother Grizzly protecting her young, kills mama wounds dad
A timber wolf cries to the sky, howling my wife has died
I follow as he leads me to his den; the beginning of the end
The fresh earth smells of death,4 baby pups given to the Spirit
The whimper in the blackness of death a pup had survived Keeitai
Never before had I heard such sorrowful baying, as his father died.
To be Continued
Dedicated to Au Poivre my Shepherd, my Puppy for 17 years
They once lived here on Hudson River banks-
Lenape Indians of long ago.
Beneath our home may lie the underworld
of spirits that we know to come and go.
Our kids and friends held campfires down the hill,
and from the woods heard chants clear as can be.
An arrowhead was found and brought inside,
and from that day the spirits seemed most free.
For years we've seen the shadows down our hall
and darting figures rushing by each door;
a fan that starts to whirl with no switch turned;
lamp lights that dim at will on every floor.
Much time has passed since we had built our home-
the coffee maker still turns on at will.
The touch lamps glow and fade all by themselves;
computer icons move, do not stay still.
So many mornings, our computer screens
are fixed on 'guest' and not our email names,
just like some ghosts signed on and off all night-
these spirits are intent on playing games.
No harm has come to us, just puzzling times,
in never knowing why this came to be.
Perhaps a tribe once lived here long ago;
their roaming spirits, still alive and free.
September 12, 2016
~7th Place~
Contest Name: Give Me Goosebumps
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Judged: 12/21/2018
True story- based on the myths about these Indian spirits still roaming.
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"Newburgh, NY, is located on the west shore of the Hudson River on the lands of the Waoranek peoples described by the Europeans who first encountered them as a close-knit, loving, and peaceable group. The Waoranek was part of the Lenape tribe of the Algonquin nation. Around them, in the bay, were other related bands also part of the greater Lenape-Algonquin peoples."
Fears ensnared within the winter drifts along the harden ground
One lone ember stares off yearning for heaven brothers
As I watch its simple battle for survival from dust of ashes gray
To tombs that lie stone in forever twilight slumbers
In my sleepy hollow head like a saddened tune on flute play
I hear further, farther days ahead and think them some great enemy
But, louder are the years which shall follow as if it’s greater dread
So I return to thoughts outward of the plains lullaby instead
Outside the winds lost are moaning singing a sacred song
Warning, crawling like shadows long, carry astral visions rolling in
Caught like prey dancing in the trees by guardian dream catchers
Shamans of the din, their medicine cleansing, sweeping away village sin
The ember grows brighter as I feel the warmth on my Ojibwe people all around
Sounds of the old man elder still breathing, rhythms of the ceremonial drum
Hearst beating over silence of the coming whites waiting to steal away the clouds
And their cold tracks of steel lying like death dividing up the rivers run
Still I listen, to the plains that speak in nightless lullabies
So the cricket’s lie dormant the buffalo’s wintry song is a bolder snore
Like clouds upon the desert floor, beneath the watchful eye of the snowy goddess moon
Ghosts of warriors galloping across the plains looking for their home
So, I call out whispers to them “here we are” adding to the Algonquin tune
Smiling with eyes closing, I watch the ember stronger glowing hearth
Empowered by life, the gift of the Great Spirit, mountain coyote serenading love of light
And mother lays her hand across the plains tucking in all her children of this Earth
With this I sleep sounder for awhile longer
Although, knowing all things must end with death
But, the spirit will live on and on
Across the plains in its lullabying song, like the winter's breath
Askuwheteau meaning he keeps watch was a French speaking Indian who came
from the Algonquin tribe head aching from braids he lay down his long hair and sit
propped against a tree not far from the wigwams he lived in there he played his
flute to soothe his tired mind watching for any signs of harm to his people he had a
knack for spotting out shadows of other beings well before the figure came into
focus but this particular night was calm and peaceful knowing this he played with an
echo enticing the spirits to come and dance for this was a rare occasion where there
need be no worry of attackers to pleage them his people not far hearing the joyous
celebration skipped across the woods to join him song turned to feast and feast
turned to stories being told around a new built fire feeling eased and secure no
need for shelter they soon fell into a heavenly slumber
Contest : Tell His Story
By: Virginia Frayer
At last the shivering stops
as the sleeping bag, air mattress
and tent warm from body heat.
Later I stumble from the dark tent
into a full moon, coldly glowing
over a forest of silhouette trees and
a deafening silence broken only
by the call of a distant Barred Owl.
The silver stream of piss steams as
it splatters on the ground; a quick shake,
then bag to a warm bag to sleep till dawn
which brings blue sky and a south wind
to fan a reluctant campfire and heat
a soon to boil kettle of coffee water.
A pair of loons surface, close enough
to see the bars of their necklaces, before
they disappear under the dark water.
As the sun crests the eastern hill, I move to
the shore to greet it, basking in its warmth
slowly spinning like a Crookes’ sun mill.
a tender voice recites, muse’s lyrics flow
non-believers have poisoned Earth Mother's waterways
She unleashes winds blown hotter and dryer
perennial white blossoms swoon midst zephyrs
dangle from sterling chaste trees
twisted maple bark echo braids sacred hair unscathed
gold filters branches
thousand-year rooted Algonquin memories
elders and granddaughters amble amongst crackling twigs
streams pristine align to augur a promising path
within a bison pelt tepee awaits the knowledge keepers embrace
fire and smoke dense and opaque
evoking a bittersweet melancholy
broadleaves tremble breathe and sway
hymn chants of traditional wisdom expel
severed is the braid as is the child from the woman
her nascent efflorescence
transition is significant as we are wedded
and bound to nature’s perennial sentient
let the path before us grow wider and brighter for future generations
"I've been takin' on a new direction, but I have to say, I've been
thinkin' about my own protection, it scares me to feel this way."
From Tina Turner's song
What's Love Got To Do With It
Tina Turner, the singer, the legend, died on May 24, 2023
at her lakeshore home Chateau Algonquin, in Switzerland
on the Zurich Lake, it was her home for three decades
fans lay flowers, lit candles and left messages of love
at the cast-iron gates overcome with grief, she was 83
Tina's humble beginnings, her voice, and her strength
would make her beloved the world over and an inspiration
she had a swagger, a sexuality, an unstoppable energy
wild crazy hair, dancing legs and hips, and gravely voice
born, Anna Mae Bullock on November 26, 1939
a young girl who sang in the church choir and
then, as a teen went to nightclubs with her sister
watching Ike Turner she said would put her in a trance
one night she was given a microphone and sang
and sang all night with Ike and that was the beginning
Ike loved her voice and made her his lead singer
with his band the Kings of Rhythm and girl group, Ikettes
there were tours, albums, hit records, it all seemed wonderful
but behind the scene things were not good for Tina
Ike was violent, abusive, with an unpredictable temper
he hit Tina, raped her, belittled her, instilled fear and
never gave her any of the money that she earned
this went on until one night after a brutal fight
Tina ran with 36 cents in her pocket to a Ramada Hotel
she divorced Ike and began her amazing solo career
there would hit albums, number 1 hits, world tours,
Grammy's, movie roles, induction into the Hall of Fame
so much success it is hard to put it all in this poem
she lost two sons to death, fought various illnesses
for years, but did marry the love of her life, Irwin Bach
she had happiness, she had sorrow and she had strength
and that is how I will remember this incredible woman
a woman who fought to come back from hell and who
would inspire the world with her amazing talent,
rest in peace, Tina Turner
boisterous blooming
kaleidoscopic chaos ~
butterfly ballet
(May Full Moon – Algonquin)
(for America’s original true Veterans)
Government of Kings
where shall you bide?
Now that the
Great Horned Serpent
has appeared while
Thunderbirds screech
and lament in
desolate skies?
Oh great people of
Our Grandmother!
Amass your island
conjure the Turtle
retreat upon the seas
of your origination.
Oh Yakwawi!
Hairless Bear Monster
safeguard them
as they retreat from
their once
inviolable ground!
Shield and embrace them
prevent their ruination.
The pelts of the
Exalted Buffalo
could never thwart
the wicked deeds
Execution
Destruction
Subjugation
of your great peoples.
Vomit the rancid taste
of Poisoned Treaties
onto alien mud!
Rise and follow
Great Tecumesh:
Chief Shooting Star
Warrior
as he defends your Tribe.
Oh the earthquake
that ravages you!
Disease and War
vanquishing you.
Kokumthena grieves
weeps over the
loss and dread…
the Wolf ever
undoing Her Eternal
Task.
Fear not, for you
will be swaddled in
Her Skeemotah
She will smite down
evil and wicked ones
you will come home
to her embrace.
Algonquin cries of
the razed and the raped
deafening
carried on the winds
of Sawage falling dead
as your bones
disintegrate and scatter
over once Holy Refuges.
Mishe Moneto saw
Cyclone Person cowered
Misignwa hid
in her forest of hope.
Dress and paint your
rotting decaying
putrid Warriors
whose eyes
vacant
stare coldly
to the West with longing.
Bodies opulent in dress
painted poignant hues.
Prepared tenderly
so to pass the glorious
Thunderbirds whose
lightning eyes illuminate
hallowed lands of Elders.
Oh testify with reverence
and adulation and devotion
of the Turkey and Turtle
Rounded-Feet and Horse
the Raccoon and Rabbit
Oh such imperial clans.
Oh Great Nomads!
Stomp your Great Dance
around Wikkums erected
from tree barks
and sap and brush
and cattails
strive to seek
to protect
to preserve what
Mishaami are left.
(click on the pic to preview my poetry book!)
consenting consort
a silvery fluorescence ~
liquid lightning flash
(November Full Moon – Algonquin)