Best Buckskin Poems
We Are One
Dear Ancient Sister
I hear your distant calls finding me on a gentle breeze
You have lived in my dreams for many seasons
My voice
Your voice
My soul
Your soul
And our Coming of Age
I have always known you...
I have heard your
Quiet whispers echoing in
The night coming close to me
I call to you ...
Let me be a part of your breath
I have always known your wounds and sorrow
I see the light and magic in your eyes...
The pain you carry so eloquently
I see your reflection in the clouds above
Carrying your soul wound on your sleeve
I see the deep crevasses and lines
In your grandmother’s hands
I hear the secrets beneath the earth of
Your grandfather’s footsteps
I see your reflection in the twilight
Of the evening... against pink watermelon hills
Your voice beckoning me onward closer to you
I see you in the moon and stars
Your buckskin dress adorned with
Ceremonial beads
Abalone shell against your forehead
The dirt beneath your moccasins
Grateful for the kiss of your dancing feet
I hear the echo in the distance of songs
The Elders sang...
During their passage here
You are born into a woman
Before my eyes and heart
Before your tribe
Before nature
A wise new feline
A mystical power with endless allure
A force that lifts and unites us all
As one
Your rays blessing us and leaving
A welcome imprint on our hearts
My Ancient sister
I drink in your wisdom and grace
I fly on your wings
You have shown me your world
Watching you dance
Becoming you for moments in time
Your silhouette etched by
The wild flames behind you
A glow radiating into
The night sky
The stories of your Ancestors
Filling the air with
Words and lessons and song
Notes sung into clenched fists
With bloodstained hands
The children and animals
Sensing all that was
And all that will ever be...
The call of a distant bird
The thumping of your cane on
The hungry earth
Keeping time with
The movements of your body
You will look back on this
Day as you walk with the
Same cane down the path of
Old Age...
Your wisdom
Cupping your heart gently
Ancient Sister of mine
I am in gratitude for
Your strength and courage
The kiss of your words and
The teardrops of your loss
Susan Lawrence
Copyright 2020
Original Artwork
Susan Lawrence
Sat on top of High Lonesome Hill
It would scream, cry, lacked grease and oil
The lonely sound as the mountain wind would blow
Pumped ice cold water, thirsty cows would drink their fill
In the summer time, the Sun would boil
Still pumping even in the snow
Built out of oak timber
Many years ago, strong as the day was long
Storms come and go, still standing tall
Never missed a day of work since I can remember
And singing it's mournful song
For a bunch of thirsty cows, it was "Cattle Call"
The road there was an old dry creek bed
In the oak trees, the deer would hide
I would ride there on a buckskin bay
For hours of dreaming and resting my head
All that was yesterday
Windmill spin as you pump the cowboy's gold
With a piece of beef jerky, a no finer meal
If that could only happen again
Like the memory that only a cowboy can hold
That old spinning windmill wheel
It was Heaven without any sin
The sun receded quietly on a relaxing siesta, as
Calm clouds of the mid-afternoon smiled henced,
The beat of the drums provideth dancing rhythm
As she moved in pure elegance with harmony, to
A style of danced buoyantly bouncing in melody.
Crafted beadworks accented her warmth charm,
Under her delicately brown-jeweled moccasins
The grass provideth such a natural cushion,
As Angular unique flexings of her gentle knees
Resonated like an eagle’s stealthy landing
Quietly in its nests with an eye on a nice prize.
She tingled as the sound of bells jingled
Sending pure melodic rhythm to ears—many!
Whilst she turned in an elegantly slow motion
Fringes from her shawl swayed air of warmth.
The balls of her feet moved in slight degrees as
Her heels touched Mother Earth softly in harmony,
She smiled as the judges watched intently. Like
A graceful dove she floated with precision—uniquely!
Her buckskin regalia trimmings—so singed softly!
As she danced in the sunset evening's twilight;
She created an energetic circle of life’s fire
Yet, never raised her ceremonial feathered fan,
Whilst in clear focus emerged from the dance
Regal styles of proud cultural Native heritage
A contrastingly exquisite fine female figure
Arousing sights in the soft evening’s twilight,
Dispelling the uncertainly to even look twice,
Elegantly noble and much marvelously nice:
She was naturally—First Woman!
~~~~~~~~~**********~~*~~~~~~~~~
Written During Oneida Nation Annual 2010
Independence Weekend Pow-wow Celebration
Host Drummers – Bear Creek
Oneida, Wisconsin, Bordering Green Bay
~~~~~~~~~**~~*********~~~~~~~~~
Won Honorable Mentioned Prize
Images Contest
Sponsored by Frank Herrera
7/15/10
~~~~~~~~~**~~*********~~~~~~~~~
For all in this old world I've missed
this latter half is the sweetest I insist
For all I lost I gained the more
a family that's precious
beyond asking for
My step daughter she opens a kindest heart
her soul she gives as a work of art
her precious daughters
new grand-babies to spoil
beautiful, genuine with laughter truly joyful
Every day I'm living a dream
so perfect for me perhaps I'm asleep
I always wondered what this would be like
here in the latter half of life
A glassy lake on independence morn
the men frying fish we caught the night before
riding my buckskin on Pacific Crest Trail
with the family in tow tail to tail
Love and sweet adoration
fills the air of day
gone is the smell of bottle rockets
marking when independence came
Stars and Stripes
our freedom rings
in this heart and this life
Can you believe...? I finally grew wings
Ah the wonder and twists of fate
when you think your too old and it's much too late
when you wonder if God has turned his back
only to find he saved the best for last
Even if I had to do it all again
lovers lost and the loss of friends
painful as it was and sometimes still is
it was all worth the happy I'm starting to live
Never stop believing
your dreams will come true
though the search leaves your soul
battered and bruised
You never know what joy may come
though you hum to the beat of a solitary drum
not really knowing why something's wrong
but knowing when it's right come the dawn
There is no Sunday west of St. Louis
And no God that’s west of Ft. Smith—
So says the frontier adage that’s truest
And confirms the last Old West myth.
Wild Bill Hickok had him a dead man’s hand—
They found John Ringo ‘neath a tree.
Billy the Kid was shot where he did stand—
They never found Butch Cassidy.
Jesse was shot unarmed by a young creep,
Belle Starr was shot-gunned in the back—
Wyatt Earp died years later in his sleep
And the Dalton boys all got whacked.
Dirty Dave Rutabaugh did lose his head,
Doc Holliday died of TB—
And Wyatt Earp shot Curly Bill stone dead,
But what became of “Buckskin” Leslie?
John Wesley Hardin was shot in a bar—
Frank James lived to a ripe old age.
Cole Younger wrote down most of his memoir,
Buffalo Bill soon was the range.
Now west of St. Louis Sundays do thrive
And west of Ft. Smith they’ve found God—
But the frontier is no longer alive
And the Old West is a smile and a nod.
The poker game wuz progressin' purty well 'til Iron Mike started a ruckus!
Seems he had some spare aces up his sleeve, that dirty, sneaky cuss!
One-Eyed Pete didn't cotton to them shenanigans and drew his forty-four!
Iron Mike jumped up, toppled chairs and tables a-skedaddlin' fer the door!
That started the biggest brawl that the town uv Buckskin Joe had ever seen!
The mob wuz yellin' fer Iron Mike's head but he had prudently fled the scene!
One-Eared Earl, the barkeep, fired his rods a-tryin' to restore some order.
Meanwhile, Iron Mike wuz racin' on a stolen hoss fer the Mexican border!
The pianner player kept playin', "A Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight!"
('Twas Three-Fingered Clyde who tickled the keys fer free booze ever' night!)
Big Nell, who belted out bawdy songs each night, wuz involved, fists a-flyin'!
She busted some noses and shattered some teeth, and I ain't a-lyin'!
A dozen er so uv Madam Rosita's soiled doves joined in the fray as well,
A-kickin' and a-scratchin' and pullin' hair and generally raisin' 'ell!
There wuz so many shots fired that night, it seemed like war had started.
Many drunks awoke the next day to find that thar hair had been parted!
Studs Flanigan, the bouncer, wuz trampled as the fight spilled out on the street.
This sensitive affair caused a deeper rift between the rabble and the town's elite!
So as not to hear the fussin' and cussin', moms covered their kids tender ears.
Old-timers claimed they hadn't enjoyed sech a show in Buckskin Joe fer years!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Way back in the nineteen thirties,
they where mighty hard to beat.
The Hockey team from Alkali Lake,
Who would not accept defeat.
You know there wasn't very many of them ,
so they could not often change their line,
The other teams had about twenty guys,
Alkali just nine.
Mathew Dick , he was the goalie,
Clemine and Johnson played defense,
Sylista was their center,
and man he was intense.
Pat Chelsea and Alfred Sandy ,
Where Sylista's two main wingers
Joe Dan, Gaby Jack and Sqinahan
where back up the second Stringers.
They went by team and wagon,
gone at least three days for every game.
No matter who they played that year,
it ended up the same.
In ragged wore out uniforms,
and old skates with buckskin laced.
They where the Champions of the Cariboo
and whipped every team they faced!
They even went down the coast,
and played against the best.
and lost that series by just one goal,
against the All Stars of the West!
Just nine young Indian Cowboys,
Who came from Alkali,
But boy, they could play hockey,
Put on them skates and Fly.
The New York Rangers, tried to hire Sylista,
But their deal he wouldn't take,
He said "Might be, I already got a job,
I cowboy for Alkali Lake."
His the archer’s bow, straight his arrowhead
on foot and trail swift as the running deer,
and long his hair the eagle feathers spread
in the buckskin war bonnet he does wear.
My boy the dreamcatcher, the hunter brave
in buffalo horn and porcupine quills -
ghost of the warrior chief in the grave
whose heart lies on the plains and in the hills.
Where beats a drum and burns a campfire -
a child of the Great Spirit in the sky,
like the roebuck leaping farther, higher,
chasing a dream in the wind and the rye.
You are the Indian bark, the sacred tree,
a totem from the depth and breadth of me.
Written: March 2013
If I were a painter, no not that kind
But I am kind as I let you crack into a crevice in my warm-blooded heart,
I would pick up those brushes and paint your flesh as a buckskin colt,
and analogy would float
through the chemicals in my mind-- those neurotransmitters, dopamine especially--erecting new memories hard-wiring images of experience-- of a boy who seems to run like like a colt
I see it now dessert sands in a blur off in the distance
I see the the sands billow in storms at the hooves and the scintillating sun outlines the penumbral essence of your radiant form
creating a motion picture of beauty so great, great enough to burst my heart and set fire to the sky
And my temperance will go challenged as I swim in your beauty.
Undocumented Warrior
By George W. Clever-----2002
I sneaked into this country on moccasin feet
No one knew I was here
Till one day someone asked
Where is your C.D.I.B. card?
Putting on my best stoic mask I said
Do I need one to buy my beer?
Smart ass!
“You need one to prove you are a “skin”
A “red man”, “Indian ”, “Chief”
Feds will decide if you are a blanket man
You do look a little tan
Perhaps as an Italian, Porto Rican, Chicano
You could pass.”
My Grandmother said that too
Will I need a card to paint my face?
Straight dance with some grace
Or two step and stomp dance
In my buckskin pants
“B.I.A. will approve your case
Just send the documents of your worth
Ancestors listed on the Dawes rolls
DNA, Bible lists, Parent’s place of birth.”
I think Lenape people in the past
Never wrote on things that last
School told us they could neither read nor write
X marks on the treaties lead to many a fight
Sign your name or make a mark
Sold our land your birth right for a start
No vote for you
No office holder
No property deed
Land thieves got bolder and bolder
The PA “Stay Behinds” got together
Declared an Eastern Lenape Nation
Used their sovereign right
Approve my application
Now my card says EDN Lenape man #3405
Do you think the Feds with DNA tests and C.D.I.B. cards will tattoo us like the Jews?
Lord, I've come a long ways today
Got further yet to go
I know You're ridin' with me now
Somehow I know it's so
I like to think I see Your face
In every water hole
An' feel Your arms on my shoulder
When that north wind blows cold
I pray that You will keep me safe
From danger tomorrow
Keep my loved ones in Your embrace
Spare us all from sorrow
Lord I sensed You were tired today
Ride the Paint in the morn
Don't choose that knucklehead Buckskin
He'll throw You in the thorn
August 17, 2016
For Contest "Prayer"
She bares the marks of a life lived hard, her face the giveaway. Faint scar above her brow, chipped tooth, deep furrows that should be gentle crow feet to compliment her gorgeous eyes. She used to be pretty, now a concrete blonde of fading beauty. Named Roberta as a baby, but the few, privy to this information have since taken it to the grave, to all who ebb and flow from her life, simply Bobby.
Bobby wandered into town, who knows when. Her faded blue jeans slid forward on the weathered wooden bench outside the general store. From the recesses of her mind, she could recall only one occasion from her childhood when a dress draped her lanky frame. She hated it so much it was unceremoniously discarded, playing outside in her nickers at a 10th birthday party. From that day forward, only jeans. She never wore jewellery, her only adornment was a tarnished belt buckle sitting over the top of her Buckskin shirt. Bobby’s battered hat sat propped over her knee, she held a Coke as she waited on the bench.
It had been more than half a century since he saw Bobby. The pained, memory of her hair swaying, catching the golden sunlight on her back as he watched her walk away. Now, as he climbed the veranda, he knew it was her, faded, like his memories, but the, ever young, eyes, danced with life and he was drawn to them once again. Neither spoke as he eased his body onto the bench, their legs pinched together. A light breeze filtered through the thoroughfare, causing the rusty sandwich sign to creak and grown. He pulled his blues harp from the top pocket of his shirt and his breath eased across the chords. Bobby chuckled before she sang.
His lips stopped moving, he smiled with the realisation that at 78 years, he was trading what was left of his tomorrows for this moment in time. He slid his hand over Bobby’s and went still. Bobby held him for a long time, she sobbed. Tears flowed for a misspent life, sobbed for what could have been, sobbed at the cost of her freedom as it dawned on her that It wasn’t just another word for nothing else to lose. The floodgates opened as she truly lost.
Bobby stood on the highway, thumb out. The horizon held the ominous sign of approaching rain. An old diesel truck pulled up and she climbed aboard, she lifted the harmonica and said, “Do you want me to play?”
Ain't You Demure....Challenge
She rode in on a buckskin mare,
Tied up at Cote D'Zur
She sat down by a young cowboy -
He said "Ain't you demure."
She said,"My husband says 'lissome'-
And I prefer that tone."
He said," You're prob'ly cenosure,
But now you're all alone."
"I know you're tryin' for glamour -
You was an ingenue -
But there ain't no panacea
Just say what you can say."
Well, this went on for 'bout an hour -
Could be sempiternal.
The buckskin mare was gettin' bored
The heat was infernal.
The lather on the horses coat
Changed the buckskin's tone
It was downright chatoyant
As if some rare gemstone
And just then the husband walked in
As angry as he looked
What he did was ineffable
That cowboy's goose was cooked.
Well, she cooed and purred to calm him down
And whispered in his ear.
Her voice was downright mellifluous,
"Please let's get out of here."
May 12, 2016
The Silent One's Challenge
Iron Onan
Beat ,
skip,
beat tremolo skip
beat ship tremolo skip
‘jack skip
Mr.. b .
Skip me.
skip skip skip.
Ruth was a string student
Onan an iron grant .
Sposed to be in college
but on Bahama camp
tattoo for pence papa .
Pear corps,. gap tooth smile
tooth from back buy cannonball
rolling my way .
While driving midnight station wagon
up mud hill of ego high-school .
(Flattest roadway, buckskin rabbit, hiway,
passing shoulders midway
myway).
Tonight is for reflection.
Not the kind found in a mirror.
Which of course I have none. Mores the pity. I would love to see how splendid I look
in my new shirt with French lace and ruffles. Under my sapphire blue waist coat and
buckskin riding breeches. All I can clearly see full of, would be my boots. The softest
leather and a shine to see ones reflection in. Sigh, But not mine.
Where was I.. Ah yes, I was waxing philosophical.
One can never be too busy to better ones self. Thus
my new clothes.
Let's see...reflection.
While looking back upon my long lived life as the Prince Of Darkness. I realize, I have
been selfish. Not
once have I invited others to my humble home. Not once have I hosted a party. Not
once have I allowed others to witness my grandeur.
Tonight, I vow to remedy that. I will have a party. One to outdo all the others which I
have had the privilege to crash.
Hmm. Perhaps I should start a bit smaller.
A dinner party!
For the intimates of intimates.
Let me see. Who to invite?
Reginald Wadsworth! He's a jolly chap. No. He was a late night snack a few days ago.
Hortense Mayweather! She is always in good humor and a fair conversationalist. No.
She had the misfortune of crossing my path last month while I was woozy from battle
blood loss. A fight with a tresspasser left me a bit worse for wear. But Hortence fixed
me right up.
I've got it! General Clayston! He makes for such a fun curmudgeon. Oh, He died of
old age.
Hmm........
Oh look! The Carlstayton's are hosting a party tonight.
Looks like I will be dining out.
~Lord Kellington