Best Butte Poems
The Black Hills wept for Thee
East of the Black Hills of South Dakota,
On the Pine Ridge Reservation,
Live a proud tribe of Oglala Lakota,
Part of the Great Sioux Nation.
On saddled chargers rode half the Regiment,
of the Seventh Cavalry.
A tune they played on behalf of the GarryOwen,
was such a sight to see.
While climbing through Prickly pines, they spied,
near the summit of Porcupine Butte.
Spotted Elk with Hunkpapa Lakota tribe,
the chief of the Minneconjou.
Five miles West through the cold day they walked,
the Lakota and soldiers of the Seventh,
Where Wounded Knee creek's icy waters balked,
between hell and heaven.
The Colonel ordered all of the tribe's rifles confiscated,
while the braves danced the ghost dance.
For rumor had spread of a new religion, long awaited,
that would turn the tide of chance.
Then suddenly came the report of rifles fired,
as the women and children fled to a ravine.
From the heights the thunder of cannon, now inspired,
close quarter fighting and lead, now convened.
Who knows where Providence went,
on that cold December morning.
Both guilty and innocent, now spent,
lay dead with little warning.
Bodies of the fallen now sprawled across the snowy plains,
with faces frozen in a moment of violence.
One mass grave with all, is all that remains,
of tears and laughter forever silenced.
In the days that followed medals were pinned to chests,
who proclaimed victoriously.
Though God only knows why, ignoble and divest,
life taken in vain, ingloriously.
In the shadow of the land of Sitting Bull,
was now told the tragic story.
Passed down from Mother to Daughter were recounted,
days of lost glory.
“Let us put our minds together to see what life we can make for our children.”
-Sitting Bull
After Vietnam he came right back
To a three bedroom house on a cul de sac
He worked hard to provide for his family
And now it all seems like insanity
After thirty years, his wife is gone
He can't figure out just what went wrong
His sweet little girl went to live in Butte
Drugs and booze made her a prostitute
On the cul de sac
Sits a Caddilac
He hasn't driven
since his heart attack
His son paid for college with a tour in Iraq
He won't be coming back to the cul de sac
A suicide bomber made sure of that
Late one night in a sneak attack
He can't really understand that
But it's too quiet now on the cul de sac
He tries so hard not to look back
or think about the war in Iraq
Nothing makes much sense anymore
At least not the way it did before
When laughter rang out on the cul de sac
And he knew what was fiction and what was fact
In tight and busy parking lots
You can easily get perturbed
Should I back out; take the long way,
Or should I just jump the curb?
Jeeportunity!
The well-worn road around the butte
Will take ten minutes more
But a dusty two-track byway
Will save us some time -- I'm sure!
Jeeportunity!
This time the parking lot is full
‘cept a small space next to a hill
“No worries!” mumbling to no one,
“I’ll just drive it up there in Four-wheel.
Jeeportunity!
It”s time to buy a set of wheels,
Your spouse wants the blue mini-van.
There, on the end, what’s that you see?
A Rubi Wrangler! Yup, I’m a fan!
Jeeportunity!
Some cold day in my future life
I will climb the stairway to heaven,
In a golden Jeep with a mega lift
And the tires will be Thirty Sevens!
Jeeportunities!
We Are The Ghost Dance Poets
by David Lee Herring (The Powwow Poet)
We come together from near and far
Like wise men following the star
from the sweet Grass Hills, We come to be filled
with the Spirit from on high
Holy Great Spirit in the Sky
Calls us to come together now
He’s our grandfather, he’ll teach us how
Peace and Love will prevail
For we are the Ghost Dance Poets
Summoned together by Great Spirit
Fighting this battle with pen instead of arrow
Taking the path that is the most narrow
Calling all humanity
to come together in unity
We paddle down the Zuni River
As through rusty red silt she slivers
On this quest to quench the thirst of our souls
we surrender all control
to the guidance of Great Spirit
We answer his Call as we hear it
With the rattle of the Gourd and the beat of the drum
We all come together as one
For we are the Ghost Dance Poets
Summoned together by Great Spirit
Fighting this battle with pen instead of arrow
Taking the path that is the most narrow
Calling all humanity
to come together in unity
Some begin their journey at Bear Butte
Others start their passage at Pahuk
All from different nations and tribes
For We are Great Spirit's Scribes
His poems pour forth from our tongues
We sing songs like our Fathers have sung
Prophetic rhymes of warning to mankind
earth is your mother, respect and love her
We all sprang up from her soil
Now we must all join in and toil
Gather and labor together to save her
For we are the Ghost Dance Poets
Summoned together by Great Spirit
Fighting this battle with pen instead of arrow
Taking the path that is the most narrow
Calling all humanity
to come together in unity
See, Wounded Knee could not stop the poets
Over a hundred years ago and We still hear it
The sound of the drum calling us to come
and all join together in the circle
And once again there'll be miracles
Bringing healing to our bodies and souls
As from all tribes together we dance
For Dance is a form of romance
It's Intimacy with the Holy One
As all of his daughters and sons
Worship the Father together as one
For that is how true healing comes
For we are the Ghost Dance Poets
Summoned together by Great Spirit
Fighting this battle with pen instead of arrow
Taking the path that is the most narrow
Calling all humanity
to come together in unity
A barn southwest of Central Butte
Could be seen for miles around
Upon a hill, and that was how
The Mattus place was found
A big and very well used barn
With lots of stock and feed
Pride of the Prairie West Winds Farms
A sentinel indeed
In the big bad wind of seventy-six
The Mattus place was rocked
Left Jean and Joan without a home
With John and Loretta shocked
And so the plans for their new shop
Became a barn instead
A stately straight white structure
Instead of plain old red
The big new barn soon came to know
The routine of the old
With dances held up on the loft
More shelter from the cold
An insulated calving room
New tack room ‘neath the stairs
With many new adjusting pens
Real forward thinking there
The new barn has served for many years
Just like the old one had
Still in the Mattus family
With Sheldon, Ron’s first lad
While other barns are leaning now
And threaten to fall down
The Mattus barn is straight and tall
The sturdiest around
That barn southwest of Central Butte
Can be seen for miles around
Upon a hill, it still is how
The Mattus place is found
Written by Jan Berger adapted for music by Mike Martin
My Pen
© Ben Burton 1-08-2015
She was young and beautiful
I was hung and comical
Hung with humor found a way to beauty's heart
Though I was never lyrical
That undisputed miracle
Inspired my pen to challenge Shelley's art
Life with her was glorious
Straight out of a storybook
Where forever would not be half long enough
Rode the waves at Malibu
Skied the slopes of Crested Butte
Stayed at home for days on end just making love
For six years I have known such pain and sorrow
Since the final, sad "Goodbye" I gave my wife
Now these tears you see me shedding are all borrowed
From the deep well where my heart was drowned that night
Though I'm still a youthful man
I will never love again
The only poems left in my pen
Are filled with anger, grief and spite
I'm on my way to Butte Montana,
where the mountains reach the sky,
and the eagles soar way up high,
folks are friendly and give you a smile,
it's the Montana way of saying stay awhile.
I'm on my way to Butte Montana,
need a change of scenery,
where the forests are full of greenery,
ranches spread throughout the land,
cowboys on horses roping calves to brand.
I'm on my way to Butte Montana,
it is where I am bound,
praying a job will be found,
my lonely saddle needs a horse to ride
so I can rope cattle with some pride.
I'm on my way to Butte Montana,
with shiny boots and a new ten-gallon hat,
making me feel like a big fat cat,
as I act like a polite and handsome dude
so all the ladies will not find me rude.
I'm on my way to Butte Montana,
staying a night at a KOA Campground
with folks who are from all around,
sharing a campfire with sparkling and glowing heat,
knowing this is the life that cannot be beat.
Lord, you know that I’m one small seed
Blown across the fields of this world—
You could lose me in a moment
By the power you have unfurled.
But when I need to talk to you,
I know you’ll hear me and stand mute—
Then bless me with your vast knowledge
In green valley or lonely butte.
Yes, I’ve strayed down many wrong paths,
And it’s all my own fault, of course—
But now I just ask your blessing
When I’m too frail to ride my horse.
And though it seems I ask often,
It is not always just for me—
I can only gain forgiveness
In the eyes of eternity.
Lift me to your silver saddle
And we’ll ride that ivory cloud—
As I dally the light’s wisdom,
And make the big trail boss real proud.
On this peaceful land where we live comfortably
with the neighboring villagers sharing the sun and moon,
stars and clouds, winds and waters, rains and snows;
we sow the seeds on the field, wander in the wilderness
to spot the games to hunt in the changing colors of the flowers
in the time of bloom and fruit and revolving seasons
One day, from the east, crossing over the great sea,
the white feathered gluttonous bird flew into this peaceful land
and took our land by force; the bird cruelly pecked us with his avaricious beak, cold-heartedly tore us with his sharp talons, kept pushing and shoving us eastward, and this vicious cycle drove us into tribal wars and at last, Illini
to extinct.
And this moaning butte throwing its shadow on the water
atop of encircling cliffs is the Starved Rock, the site where
the great tragedy took place, all Illini tribesmen lost their lives.
The water of the Illinois River mixed with the tears of the people
who lost everything in the east via this legion for further west,
now moans to ease the spirit of Illini wandering around
the Staved Rock, which is still hungry, in the evening glow
as a soundless requiem.
The water flows embracing sorrowful Rock where:
the mother jumped into the water holding her beloved child,
the village elders who collapsed while upholding tribal pride
followed by the war cry of the warriors who grabbed tomahawk and fought but, alas, fell to enemy’s hand, now is telling the story of their last day
it becomes whirlpool in the very middle of the water.
When the streams small and large come together the following paths
meet and form a pool on the top of this lonely butte on the other side of the river, and dashes into the basin of the waterfall;
some of them fall rapidly into the steep ravine with heartrending cries
some of them drift like slow moving time in deep sorrow
some of them descend to the rocks of level stratum one by one
singing a funeral dirge.
The spirit of Illini drifting along the river
carrying so many sad stories touches the tourists’
heart; stepping on the site of the tragedy
makes tears stand to casual sightseers;
the grief-stricken stories raise the ripples in the river
and leaves a lingering imagery in the eyes and ears of the travelers
TOP TEN MOST BEAUTIFUL SIGHTS I HAVE SEEN
Photo of my wife holding a rose
Some years ago in a hotel in Tallinn, Estonia. . . . .
My newborn children all red and bright-eyed.. . . . .
My 12 year old daughter present-hunting
In her robe early on Christmas morning.. . . . .
My two small sons and the cat all fast asleep in one bed
And three noses just poking out of the blankets.. . . . .
Actress Elizabeth Taylor playing
The role of Rebecca in movie “ Ivanhoe”.. . . . . .
Fiery colors in autumn forests in Montana near Butte.. . . . . .
Early spring on the still-snowy Banff-Jasper Parkway, Alberta.. . . . .
The Northern Lights seen from high up the Canadian Rockies.. . . . . .
Winnipeg at night seen from 30 000 feet in an aircraft.. . . . . .
Saturn in a telescope, all silent, still and majestic.. . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Adeleke Adeite's Contest "Top Ten"
TalLinda and ShorTony
lived on pretzels and baloney.
stayed in northern Minnesota,
drove around a pink Toyota,
had two children named Miranda,
Fed them on the back veranda,
overlooking yesterday,
where they loved to dance and sing
Christmas carols in the Spring,
We took thirty seven cents,
bought a cat and paid the rent,
Took off in a mini van,
to try and make them understand
that life is great in Butte Montana,
or in Memphis or Savannah,
But not in Yesterday at all.
We won't be back until the Fall
of parasols and red balloons,
at twelve o'clock
or maybe noon.
So call me up and let me down,
we'll be back somewhere out of town.
< sphinx ~ head
who ~ said
roman ~ God
without ~ bod
shadow ~ illusion
causing ~ confussion
butte ~ mesa
I ~ guess ~ a
transition ~ zone
with-out ~ phone
oh ~ my ~ cydonia
don't ~ all ~ just ~ wanna ~ ya
Entry For
Carolyn Devonshire's
Sphinx Head On Mars Contest
G.L. All
A grandmother often plays one of the most important roles in a child's life.
My grandma was born way out in the Northumberland Strait.
Born and raised in a place called Pictou Island; just part of the vast Canadian lands.
She had a large family full of love & laughter, sometimes heartache.
Grandma's my special friend that I see each day.
Sometimes we like to sit and talk about life.
She always takes the time to show me that she loves me.
I sure am glad that God gave me my Grandma!
I love her so!
She's been showing me how to be lady like and all that proper junk.
Round 'bout nine years now, I've been learning table manners & how to be a lady.
Grandma really is special; don't know how I'd live without her.
She bails my butte out when I can't cook lunch or when I rip my clothes.
Though, Grandma tries to tan my hide when I act like I live on tobacco road; wearing my ripped clothes & cussing like an old cur dog.
She has a way to chase my blues away and make the sunshine come again.
Sometimes, I get crazy & act like a hyena, she's always there to calm me right down.
Grandma is heaven sent and an absolute angel.
Yep, God couldn't be everywhere at once so he created Grandmother's.
RIP Grandma Pinski (1/2008)
Elephant Butte Lake,
You see Rattlesnake Island,
Can you swim that far?
You swim as far as you can,
Out to the island and back!
~For Brian's High Fives Contest~
Sitting on a butte, howling at the moon… I fell off and landed on my head.
My Trolls found me, and picked me up, and hauled me all the way home.
They set me at the computer, all cozy, wrapped up, and wouldn’t let me go.
Said they wanted to hear some more, great stories, about themselves, of course.
Life just seems more fun with them, as those marauders wander, all over the place.
But that grumpy dragon, whose been pooping on my flowers, each and every day…
He’s simply, has got to go! It wouldn’t be so bad, if he didn’t bury them, so deep.
And I think he’s only doing it, cause he wants to make me, freaking, crazy, insane!
He’s become jealous of the others’ stories, and he wants to be the very first, in line.
Leave it to a dragon, to do ANY THING, to try to hog, the very essence of my page.
For he knows that even the most serious poets, are prone to sneak a peak, at times.
Their comments are just, so much fun to read, as they comment on, the ensuing fun.
It seems if I write sonnets about my self, I tend to lose that steady stream, that’s mine.
You see, it’s not as much fun, to hear… how I’m blessed… again… and again, again.
And those wild Trolls do so many crazy stunts, till I simply, can’t leave them alone.
Of course, they’re patterned after my sons, who cringe, run, and hide, when I am near.
But, embarrassing my children, can be seriously, so much fun, with, my Hubby near.
But I’m beginning to wander, again, I think, as my friends start lining up at, my door.
But now I wonder: have my poems become me? Or have I become a part of them?
Its getting harder to tell, now-a- days… But I don’t really care… as long as …
You read and make comments on what I write… and laugh, a little, along the way.