Best Arrowheads Poems
INDIAN INK
Indian Accent, form the whispers inside
Chanting from long ago
Echoes come and go
Losing time in a soft eternal glow
A beautiful and delicate autumn mountain scene
Dry blue eyes enchanting melodies!
Voices fall from the sky, rising hymns release
ancient demons CLINGING to the SOUL!
Darkness dwells under - gentle moonlight
Ancestors of the Spirit World!
Weaving Native smoke into the barren air
Indian spirits haunt the muddy Earth
Moccasin makers rise from underneath,
While guardians of dream catchers - print the Universe
Smooth thread from the outer world.
Arrowheads, Ivory gems, feathers, and illusions
I stumble upon a florid kiss....... My veins!
Run cold, like ice through a desert night.
Winds of enchanted drums - cry out for rain
Hollow chimes mesmerize, my ties, my eyes
An ancient rage begins to flare --- MADNESS!
takes place among the sanity of who I am
The spear of perfumed buffalo scrapes my skin
I remove the veil that covers my eyes
The hands that cover my ears
Drying the scalp that bleeds on my face
KINDRED IN EVERY WAY!
Raven silk braids and feathers on my hair
Dancing in a horrid hallucination of Peyote,
Waking up from the “American Dream.”
Holding out my arms, I am free, I can fly,
I AM A BIRD!
I filled a small trench that yielded fresh water.
Built as a serpentine and with a sharp corner.
A small waterfall sang a melodious sound,
A lulled sleepiness induced when it hit the ground.
On each side of the rill, fair, watery plants grew,
A great choice of Algae. Ferns, a lobelia blue.
Fitful arrowheads and water lilies adorn.
Cardinals and others begin their flight in the morn.
Already prepared was a slightly large pond,
Well covered with cement mixed with soil beyond,
I planted some hyacinths and water lilies.
Soon, dragonflies waltz around like sillies.
My final job was planting a dwarf willow.
Don't be surprised, robins made it their pillow.
Comes silently
on sorrel moccasins
roosted on tortoiseshell
of root cellar
singing, stumbling
in numb imaginings
lit with half-light
vegetables
squeezed in jars
of russet and avocado
above
a cornice of sky
split with laughter
searching
for broken arrowheads
gold and silver among leaves
air billowed white
from lips
soft frail bones
of snowflakes
magically appear
scattering in breath
taken away
into apple night
As a kid, I loved to find any unusual shells and rocks; I do to this day. I used to walk the piney woods of Georgia, with my favorite uncle. He made up the neatest stories to tell me about each stone or arrowhead that I found; visiting him was always loads of fun. Like him, I’m a story teller, entertaining others. I loved those woods and the great finds there; so many great woodland memories.
piney woods
shed upon sacred ground-
bedding
nature’s trinkets
abound in the woodlands-
arrowheads
4-20-2021
ALL YOURS (Apr 20) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
Have you ever written anything without sub combing to tears ?
My Family portrait in my mind , 2 older sisters , 2 brothers
My Mother caring about all five in different ways
Just with Mom & Dad there having the best of Holidays
My sisters laying out on the deck of river bank for 4th of July ~
Listening to " Honkey Chateau " and all by Elton John.
music a great memory ~Disco , Donna summer , Grease ~ Jaws !
Dad's records to Tony Bennett , Hank W Sr. , Count Basie & Louis Armstrong.
The music takes me home in a wagon filled with children and a dog "Lucky "
My Older brother , athletic , always fishing & hunting.
My younger , my Rock , Swimming and netting for fish,
feeding our Fat cat Perch off the rocks patiently awaits her food
the yelling , slamming of doors , tempers Flare , passion
Our Parents , passionate love yet passionate Hate .
After being a Family of Seven , Divorcing their fate ..
Why did that show " Dallas " bring out the Divorce in all ?
Scottish ~ Irish ~ French Iroquois ~ Cherokee
No matter what the mix ..Our curse Alcohol ~
the Screaming , Drinking , this memory I wish to shut the door on .
Going to A & W or making Cheerleading ,The Bears of course~
Excited in Chicago ! seeing Elton John in the Summer of 1976 ~
Cubs , museum of Wax , Museum of science & History , Pizza !
Expeditions of discovery ,little brother & I finding arrowheads on the Shore.
Our Grandparents Faithful Celebrations ! Chiffon cake , Apple strudel `
Our Cousins on Holidays , going for ice cream cones ,
scent of wet rain on oak leaves ~Before Halloween was bought in stores.
~ That is the Family I Love ,
that is the Family I choose to miss ~
In the setting sun the Sioux Tepees look like vandalized pyramids,
the Tetons themselves appear as though angels raped
by the savagery of centuries yet noble in barbaric beauty and warrior ethos,
a Scalp Dance is begun, torches up high on the outside
a bonfire big and heavy be the center spirit,
the drums awaken from the caves of ancestral courage
and the voices of a thousand Mothers plead for the pride of their sons,
drumbeats raise the heartbeats into the heat of glory
as the rattles rake the mind with the cost of blood,
warriors enter the pit with bravery to prove and fate to appease
feet pound the earth and scalps shake on power rods
the currency of victories swing wide and thunder smacks the stars,
Afterwards, Chief Partisan presents us with squaws
pretty in young passion and fertile to the touch,
there is a custom of strength transfer through intercourse
they desire the seed of our spirit,
indulging in their spells of native kiss could leave us vulnerable
to capture or even assassination
we can't afford to be reckless in pleasure or mindless of morals,
I am unwilling to father a hybrid pioneer amongst a probable enemy,
embracing these temptresses gowned in scanty furs
could even politically bind us to the Teton against their traditional adversaries,
we must avoid inciting intertribal conflict at this juncture,
Morning has arrived with a think fast attitude
the messages between our nations is unequivocal
the Teton are intractable in their belief of invincible independence,
they have their arsenal, warriors, and horses,
feeling that they own the thunder and the fear of their neighbors,
the Chinese and New York fur markets
along with taxing river passage have to date guaranteed them wealth
and the British have armed them for profit,
however, the arrowheads of the United States are aimed to strike their arteries
and we won't stop until they bleed out into oblivion,
the Sioux shenanigans have resumed as we gather up and get ready to push off,
exasperated, we convince Black Buffalo that it behooves him
to persuade his people to let us leave without hostilities
and they do as we toss them some tobacco sticks,
once on Destiny, anchor up,
the southerly winds lift our vessels towards autumn's genesis,
J.A.B.
Delicately crafted Indian arrowheads,
razor-sharp flint projectile points,
primitive stone bullets,
hidden artifacts from long ago.
Eventually, they call out to our curiosity
on hot and steamy summer mornings,
inviting us to freshly plowed cornfields,
where they’ve patiently slept for millennia.
You know they’re out there,
hoping to remain buried secrets, yet
wishing to be found, revered, and held excitedly
in eager young boys’ sweaty palms.
We hunted them as faithfully as
the ancient “arrowhead” men,
who hunted prey with bows and spears
in long forgotten grasslands and forests.
Something powerful awakens inside you
in realizing you are the first person
to hold this cool, jagged-edged stone tool
since it was created 2,000 years ago.
Suddenly, you become aware that
nothing is really lost in our vast universe–
It is simply waiting for an inquisitive hand
to reach into the dark earth and bring it back to life.
Across the sky, like arrowheads,
from silhouettes against the red,
the call of wild geese swiftly fades
into the sun. And then sun bades
a sad farewell to one last strand of summer's thread
~~ ~~
For Nette's Contest: "Reflections of a Florette"
By Carrie Richards 9/4/14
It’s not my fault, he shouted that night
when rain speared the ground like stinging arrows
caged his bony figure with endless streaks
and dragged the guilt from his bloody hands.
I’m not to blame, he said that summer
when the sun was a sticky pool on his dark cap
that shaded the light and hid his eyes
and wrenched a secret pain on his weathered face.
You have no proof, he muttered that day
when the jeering world threw him clasps of metal
to chain about his scarred wrists and feed on
and circle the arrowheads lodged into his soul.
I will show no shame, he wept that night
when he lay poached in a box of darkness
that strangled him with leathery hands
and wrote upon his brow an inerasable damn.
Homecoming at evening for her and the birds.
They settle in, she watches them, white whorls
on green, wreathing tree tops, as is their wont, until
sentries spot storm clouds, sound an alarm, (word-
wings their e-for evolutionary mail,) telling wary
ones to take flight, find other asylum, though
where is that in open sky? Only the brave remain
to witness wind chimes gone ballistic on a piggy-
back ride without which they cannot reach their climax.
Only the courageous stay to mark wild thrashing
of leaves, needing a conductor for their language. Yes!
trees must have this choreography, this knowing baton
to tell their stories, and she who comes to translate
takes out her pen, calling for Eros, not Erato to arm-
wrestle words to paper. Would that Michelangelo's David
be prescient in all his sculptural splendor, rated A for
Anatomy, or Saint David, patron of poets, as pure as
a saint is obliged to be, converting revelation to writ.
As the recorder makes haste to capture syllables
in the wind, small turtles lift their black arrowheads
asking blessing from their bread-crumbs benefactor.
As to what the poet asks? Who is there? Who listens?
Hold close the moment. No one escapes their
darkness. Therein, a cautionary tale.
That day is etched in the back of my mind still
I was five yet I can still hear the screams and cries piercing in the clearing
My uncle Hodge was in the saddle on Babydoll
His best friend Wade was on a stud dealing with those problems
My uncle said " Timbo look theres Indians" then they both took off at a gallop
I look and at first I did'nt see nothing
I knew they was playing so I thought lets see if this pony can catch em
But wait now I can hear them
I look and I see women Indian and children running into the clearing
I was'nt scared they looked like innocent women and children
I figured I would see what they wanted
Then I heard the hooves beating into the earth
Then I knew their situation
I waited to see if I was mistaken
Then I seen a Soldier on horseback with a saber
cutting down a young warrior
I heard the cries of his mother
as she ran to her son who was slaughtered
I hallored at her
I told her not too
He waited till she got closer
He smiled his eyes lit up and he struck her
I was like if I had a gun I would help ya'll
But Im not a sheep to be slaughtered
I still go there, I have found arrowheads and pottery
I was baptized in the creek beyond the clearing
There I have made money
On Christmas I went to p[ay my respects
To that young brave warrior
I found a dead fox then
The cactus are black and dying
It is sacred ground
It is where I will face them
Where the eyes lost their sparkles
Through the prairies-shadow lie,
What is South Dakota
A collective of arrowheads,
Deers, or buffaloes' dried skin?
Is the great Sioux chief sleeping?....
Or watching us
With his racy soul?...
Or is he in the peaks
Tripping through the sky as a pine?...
Or in the front of the dangerous trail?
Or his pipe is still filled of ashes,
where the smoke gleaming cold like bubbles?
Or with the elegance of a horsemaster
Letting the wind to take all legendary away?
Not the uncertain is certain,
Long stream and grass-laden,
Nor the mourn shall cry with us --
against the Sitting rock
Of a legend --
the unseen Holy man
Watching the blooms
Of Paha-Sapa!
Where the eyes lost their sparkles
Through the prairies-shadow lie,
What is South Dakota
A collective of arrowheads,
Deers, or buffaloes' dried skin?
Is the great Sioux chief sleeping?....
Or watching us
With his racy soul?...
Or is he in the peaks
Tripping through the sky as a pine?...
Or in the front of the dangerous trail?
Or his pipe is still filled of ashes,
where the smoke gleaming cold like bubbles?
Or with the elegance of a horsemaster
Letting the wind to take all legendary away?
Not the uncertain is certain,
Long stream and grass-laden,
Nor the mourn shall cry with us --
against the Sitting rock
Of a legend --
the unseen Holy man
Watching the blooms
Of Paha-Sapa!
You always need to have the last word Eve,
what you fail to realize like a storm with no form
is that sometimes the first word has more meaning than the last,
as the first step begins the journey
where the last step achieves the applause,
you say I'm wrong about everything,
I say you're right about nothing,
Father warned me of your impervious innocence
being a defense for owning the backlash of judgement
the backdraft of your ego's firestorm has injured us both,
a whiplash that I feel in the arch of my wings,
you tell me, " I killed the Snake ",
a Princess of wrath, a child on the cusp of Lake Lonesome,
for love's sake woman pulverize your prize
with eyes enthussiastic for our future so fantastic,
I was always so fond of how you're perfectly prepared for battle,
no Poet Warrior would I choose over the war drums you use,
this nonsense of how, " I don't speak up " has got me angered up Luv,
I've got three arrowheads inked on my bicep
counting the foes flung to Father's fire for you,
but still you wanna fret for another rampage rep,
I wanted to take joy from watching you crunch the coward,
to not intercept you from winning your own war
prideful in knowin that you weren't rattled by the scream of battle,
And don't preach to me about secrets in sullen seas,
I delivered my grief straight to your trophied floor,
your mansion has many doors, countless scores,
but you are no menace of mischief to me Eve,
rather, you are the only Angel I've ever adored
I would slay eagles just to have you write songs of our love's might,
I'm gonna go build a home for us
on that ridge called Heaven's Bridge,
go and make us some clothes
from our captured game, and ponder the roots of our argument's throes,
I love you more now than ever before -
By Poet - Adam/J.A.B.
Misshapen limbs of the Palo Verde trees add an artistic touch to the landscape. While
Honeysuckle twine about the old rail fence and the spiny Ocotillo flash scarlet plumes.
Mesquite trees, older than the homestead, reach out and cast much appreciated shade.
Saguaro's flank the hard packed drive. Desert poppies lead the way to the home.
Built of stone. Hand laid by calloused hands. Topped with thick rough hewned timbers
and clay tiles. The home welcomes all.
Windows sparkle in the late afternoon sun. Reflecting brilliance that hurts the eye.
Once inside, a coolness calms and refreshes. The native stone keeping the desert heat
at bay.
Beams hewn from the Mesquite adorn the ceiling. Stucco interior walls add a softness
and Spanish flavor.
Arched doorways lead to halls and bedrooms. Each with it's own distinctive fashion.
Soft beds with hand woven blankets. Each depicting a different Indian Spirit. Deep set
windows to let in the cool breeze of spring and fall. Thick draperies to block out the
summer heat and winter cold.
The kitchen, sparse and utilitarian. A soap stone sink, slate counters and open faced
cabinets. dried herbs, onions and peppers hang from hand forged hooks. As do the
pots and pans used to cook simple fare that fills the belly and warms the soul.
A blue speckled coffee pot with a chipped spout is always on the newfangled gas stove.
The old woodburner sit as before. Used in winter to warm the kitchen and bake the
daily bread.
A place of gathering, is the plank top table. With it's brightly colored cover and always
full cookie jar.
back in the main room is a beehive fireplace in the corner. It's bulbous form giving
character to the otherwise plain room. More exposed beams extol the strength and
longevity of the home. While wood and leather furniture offer comfort and rest.
Beautiful hand crafted wood cabinets and shelves hold antiques found on travels.
Shadow boxes hold arrowheads found on desert hikes. Pottery from the local tribes
finish out the decor.
Homes like this are becoming extinct. To find souls who appreciate it's honest design
and accept the happiness that simplicity can bring, is becoming rare. I am one of those
souls. My search is on going to find my place in The Valley Of The Sun.
DAWN
Night dark as a mute strangers gaze
By the minute, appears to pale;
A clear sky of pristine light blue
Morning glistens with pearly dew
Gold edged arrowheads shoot at earth
Their glow warm as a mother's hug
Far, a sphere of reddish bright hue
Seems to clandestinely peep through.
A gleeful horizon beckons
Come forth, bask in the feisty sun
Lazy life rubs its sleepy eyes
Enthused to join the wicked fun
Dumps all worries out of its sight
All agog for recreation!
Chirpy birds giggling playful songs
Usher in an inspiring dawn.
DateNov22 2016
Contest any form any theme max 16 lines