Best Chieftains Poems
chieftains trade their loyalty behind the clouds
high mountain king Carrantouhil commanding his Macgillycuddy Reeks
men of begotten rank, scheming skulduggery
secrets hide out of sight, Comeragh mystery shrouds Coumshingaun
flighty earls flee from the Lough Swilly shore
priests conspire, a king, a queen, a lord-protectorate exact revenge
imported evil stalks the land and soul of Ireland
near-on half give way, massacre, starvation, transportation and slavery
annexation by stealth, abomination
exposed Shannon artery, remorseless draining through lakes of tears
solidified karst corpses dissolving
into central mireland, ringed by coastal ramparts and remnant towers
turloughs disappear where the ground is leaking
playboys drink from black frothy pools of humour where the craic is good
where sad refrain gives way to rhythmic distraction
where song, stories, poetry, plays and dance merge in murky island brews
native chiefs are stripped of their Ulster lands
to control, anglicise and civilise a rebellious region
the area most resistant to English rule
official and private plantation, top to bottom colonisation
Gaelic hands across the channel disrupted
Scottish and English incomers, presbyterian and church of England
town and country, protestant domination
Irishmen uniting for briefest moments on higher ground
descent into cold depths of history
the Cliffs of Moher plunging from The Burren's bald barren bleakness
disfigured fingers pointing blame, shame and guilt
like the peninsular lands, Beara to Iveragh, Mizen to Dingle
stretching out to a new land of migrating hope
escaping abuse and clutches of long-robed men and women
the stifling heavy hand of implanted culture
two main layers of tradition now overlaying an unfathomable past
This is about family.......
Your Blue eyes are the product of centuries.....
Prussians banner of royalty
Are blue....
Since time began....
It was the Vikings and warriors....
Who left their sign behind......
Your family had a mother
Who tamed a warrior...
In days beyond history so long ago
With her smile and love...
She tamed him......
He gave her his protection...
She gave him a daughter
Her blue eyes....
He so loved her...His daughter.....
But more than that
She gave her her smile
No matter how much
The sorrow to come...
Deep within this child
Held a truth....long held
By Chieftains and Pagans....
That love.....and tenderness
Is a gift passed on....forever.
From your mother
To her mother...from her
Son....to his mother...
And to you.....
Centuries don't measure time.....
And why should you....
Your Blue eyes and smile
And sweet heart.....
Come from a time
When nothing else mattered
With out love....life
Did not matter....
Now it is today...
and Rhiannon is our joy.....
Her blue eyes...
Where have all my people gone, the Navaho, Lakota,
And the Sioux,
Choking for a breath of life's sustaining air,
Smothered beneath the white man's blanket.
The beating heart of native drums, are stilled, frozen
In the middle of it's rhythmic thumping, no pauses echo,
Can be heard on the open plain.
The weeping woman kneels, on sacred ground, she sheds
A river of bleeding tears, burning a permanent mark, across
A baron landscape.
Death's black raven shields itself, under it's crimson soaked wing,
Against shames moral injustice, humanity's inhumanity, towards it's
Own kindred.
The final verdict of the white man's justice, based on nothing more,
Than skin color, difference of beliefs, and sheer ignorance.
Extermination, nay a holocaust, greed fever, drives the white demons.
How much blood can mother earth be forced to drink, before
She drowns herself, or spats up everything, with sheer
Disdane, and hatreds malice.
Treaties written in vanishing ink, promises disappear in thin air,
Revealing a liars sharpened tongue.
The odds have always been stacked against those believing
In fairness.
Flights appendages are clipped, on the dove of peace, leaving it
Unable to soar above it's own habitat.
Wreckage’s refugees stumble, in the ruins after math,
Rapes victims of civilizations civilized,
Are left devoid of their heritages legacy.
Elders chieftains representatives of a once great nation,
Smoke peace pipes in the white mans hunting lodge, in Washington,
As human beings are hauled like cattle's cargo,
Taken to reservations burial grounds.
Ancient ancestral beings, lit up heaven's vast expanse, by torches flame,
To guide the souls of the dead, unto their great spiritual plain beyond.
The pale horse gallops forward, without a rider,
And the red people become a phantom tribe, vanishing
Upon the winds shifting tides.
Giving one last final battle war cry,
Why my father but the great spirit answers not.
Behold America's legacy, a world trampled beneath
It's heavy feet, all in the name of progress, or for the cause
Of Manifest destiny.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Hear the lonesome whistle blow, it echoes across the vast
Continental divide, connecting the Pacific and Atlantic
Coastal shores, by the steel rails iron horse.
It raged in blazing thunder, leaving a storm cloud of white
Smoke in it's wake.
Lightning's hell speed, drives this devil's steed, with flames
Fire, feeding it's belly, by coal and sinews muscled sweat.
The wrought iron beast emerges, from the black pitch of night,
It's sharpen wheels of harden metal, cut, slicing through the
Raw flesh of mother earth, leaving her bleeding crimson red.
Bound and shackled, is this monstrous man-made beast,
Held captive, by the leg irons of progress.
Men covered in soot and ash, tend to the heart and hearth,
Of this demon bringing forth greed's prosperity.
Greased and oiled, pistons push gears, driving this seemingly
Living creation, of mechanical engineering, lit are it's eyes of
Fire, burning through the blackness of night.
The engineer holding the throttle to the floor,
Praying to God, he'll see the sun's dawning
Once more.
Tribal chieftains stand tall on a grassy knoll,
Observing the iron horse below, as the eagle
Soars above, shedding it's feathers in mid airs flight.
As the weeping woman cries, for her people,
For she alone, realizes what is it come.
The mighty buffalo, roam freedoms open
Tundra, as a herd of millions, soon to be
Nothing but dust shadows, phantom ghosts
Legendary beasts hunted by the native braves.
Around the sacred camp fires of old these
Ancient story's of the courageous hunters, shall
Be retold to generation to come.
The mighty Buffalo are brought to the brink of
Extinction by the long rifles of the white mans gun.
Yet these white devils still come, like a tidal wave,
Washing the prairies beauty away.
Hear the lonesome whistle blow, it
Echoes across the vast continental divides,
Connecting the Atlantic and Pacific coastal
Shores, by the steel rails iron horse.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
In the bitterest of the cold polar north shadows of illusions dwell,
Reflections of light on ice, maybe so or is there more to these
Optical delusions, the natives say creatures hide amongst these
Rocky snow covered hills, and they call forth the power of the
Alpine peaks for protection!
These mountainous summits of elevation known as the
Thundering mountains, many men have gone missing here,
Without explanation or reason, without any evidences trace
Ever being found, as if just vaporizing within the alpine mists?
But legends say by the tribal chieftains, they were taken by the
Snow beasts the Yeti’s, the abominable demons for
Trespassing on their sacred icy lands!
These outlander's whom should have known better,
Warned were they not, to climb at this inaccessible remote
Elevations for this is the forbidden territory belonging to
The creatures of the rocks!
Many men go there and are swallowed whole by the mighty
Avalanches, called forth by the screaming howling of the
Mountain guardians, weaving through these ice and spray
Waves as if they were made of winter wisps’ of air, the creatures
Take these hikers, or skiers unware, than devour
Them later at their leisure’s pleasure afterwards!
These avalanche waves have another name given to
Them eons ago, the claws of the tiger, sweeping
Within their mighty claws, everything living or none,
Beneath their talons of devastation!
But what if there were more to this myths story,
What if these two legends were working together?
In a tandems precisions epic motion, beast and
Mountains, both struggling to survive, against
The onslaught of humanities approach!
Endurances basic instinct of survival, natural law
Prevails, that only the strongest of the species is allowed
To continue, but what if these two natural raw forces
Combine, to do whatever it takes to achieve
This final climatic extraction, brawn concurring
Intelligence, or maybe it’s the other way
Around!
In this wilderness only the whispering winds
Knows the answers to these questions of inquiry,
And there left unheard by the deafening ears of
Progress and mankind until it is too late!
But the native people know, and warn them
To stay away for this land belongs to the Yeti’s
And the mountain protect them beneath the
Claws of the white tiger, the mighty avalanche!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
As the moon and sun share the fabric of a fading song of ancient blues
a ceremony of torch light identity ensues
chieftains in regalia of royal feather headdresses and mantles of warrior mania
approach the flagstaff that Clark and I stand under with a procession
of musicians clad in the symbols of their souls
playing instruments that speak the language of their knowledge,
after being bedazzled by the brute majesty of the music and pomp
our men give gifts of tobacco carrots, knives, beads and small bells,
chiefs Wueche and Arcawechar tap both of my shoulders
with their ceremonial spears, a gesture of friendship and blessing
after which we toast to the fortune of patient eyes with a dram of whiskey,
my elocution of America's intentions and jurisdiction
is delivered with sincerity and alacrity just as an eagle protects it's range
and with the wit and instincts of a wolf Chief Wueche
agrees with the terms of allegiance but also admonishes us
not only of the pirates of the Plains,
but that supremacy is the child of wrath for the natives
especially for the dominant tribe of the Sioux Nation, the Teton,
he seems to somberly realize that his Yankton people
must either become a weapon of America's war machine, or be destroyed by it,
J.A.B.
THE LAST STAND
Where have all my people gone, the Navaho, Lakota, and the Sue,
Smothered beneath the white man's blanket,
Chocking for a breath of airs life's sustaining oxygen.
The beating heart of native drums, are stilled frozen,
In the middle of it's rhythmic thumping, no pulses echo,
Can be heard on the open plain.
The weeping women kneel on sacred ground, shedding
A river of bloods tears, burning a permanent scare across,
A baron landscape.
Death's black raven shields itself, under it's crimson soaked wing,
Against shames immoral injustice.
Greed's insatiable hunger for land and riches fuels lusts desire,
Behold exterminations holocaust of the native inhabitants,
Nothing remains alive except ignorance blackened shadow.
How much blood can mother earth be forced to drink before,
She drowns herself or spits up everything undigested,
With sheer disdain and hatreds malice intent.
On a black and white chess board the winners takes it all,
Strategies grand masters playing with living pawns.
Treaties written in vanishing ink, promises disappear in thin air,
Revealing a liars sharpened tongue.
The odds have always been stacked against those believing in fairness.
A rogue tidal wave of humanity has wiped out a nation,
And it's culture within the blink of an eye.
Flights appendages are clipped on the dove of peace, leaving it
Unable to soar above it's own habitat.
Wreckage’s refugees stumble in the ruins after math,
Rapes victims of civilizations civilized,
Are left devoid of their heritages lineage and legacy.
Elders chieftains representatives of a great nation,
Smoke peace pipes in the white mans hunting lodge
In Washington.
As human beings are hauled like cattle's cargo,
Taken to reservations burial grounds.
Ancient ancestors lit up the heaven's vast expanse,
By torches flame,
To guide the souls of the dead unto their great spiritual
Plain beyond.
The pale horse gallops forward without a rider,
And the red people become a phantom tribe vanishing
Upon the winds shifting tides.
Giving one last final tribal battle war cry,
Why my father but the great spirit answers not.
Behold America's legacy, a world trampled beneath
It's heavy iron fist, all in the name of progress or for the cause
Of Manifest destiny.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
As we wait for Cruzzatte to anchor the boats
and bring along the men with pull sleds for the carcasses
a teenage Indian boy on a brown pony painted with winged eyes
prances in and out of our slain buffalos, quiver and bow upon his back
the settling haze of violence ebbing around his undisturbed gallop
as if to see and sanction what we've done, completely unfrightened by us
his eyes fixed on me with a grin that says he knows the pleasure of the kill,
he be so errie in his handsome joy of this death scene,
through native sign language the poetry of hands in dance reveals the heart of a tribe,
Drouillard and I determine that his name is Young Wise
and is a member of the Yankton Sioux
I agree to let Drouillard return with Young Wise to the Yankton site
of 60 lodges 15 miles away, he will be a potential hostage
but he has accepted the risk like a family man
and if they harm him we will burn them,
their leadership will recognize the importance of our favor
and arrive at the Corp's camp with chieftains, curiosity and Drouillard by dusk I'm sure,
our respective nations must learn the path to mutual prosperity,
J.A.B.
THE GREAT BATTLESHIP
Once sailed as the lumbering hulks of the high seas
Fierce winds accompanied most of its expedition
Woozy and exhausted crews grappled the oars and crosstrees
With smoothbore and muzzle-loading guns geared up for a mission
The tall vertical spar supporting aloft the white canvas
Stretched out to catch the invisible strength of the wind
The ship’s keel watching the seabed at its vast
Emerged gradually from the water to meet the enemy lines
Whizzing salvo of the battle began off the island
Ships clashed, and soldiers engaged in a fight
Dead bodies slammed and the injured crossed to near land
Hear leaves without figs crushed to the ground
Ship ahoy! Shouted by villagers as they waited eagerly
Slowly ship emerged with the image of heavy wreckage
Wounded and exhausted crews embraced their family
Another saga of brave men printed on book’s page
The plaintive music now played on air
Tattoo beats called soldiers back to barracks
From bow to stern, ships respite from war
A short-lived fashion from majestic into rugs
For chieftains, captains, and crews laid beneath the ocean
Their remains rested in their sunken ship as their grave
Great battleships are now history and ordain
Shipwrecks underneath the sea were untouched and remained a treasure
Let in children’s cry slowly clear the fogs of war
And hail farewell to brave men who once sailed with the great battleship of all times
Posted also in voicesnet.com Poetry Site on 28 September 2009
Note: Other poetrysite have posted this under another name which is a clear plagiarism.
You may check this site: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-great-battleship/
and you may search also your poem title there, maybe they have posted also your poem without your consent.
Once i lived with an uncle in a sleepy coastal town
who had a very beautiful house help from upcountry
now my male cousin Kiki desired to have a relationship
with our beautiful house help who was very lovely
One day Kiki arrives home alone he tries his advances
she flatly rejects him he then tries harder than its allowed
with no success.. later that night he is summoned by my uncle
Kiki tries best to defend himself....but is severely reprimanded
Now my Chieftain uncle is given to punishment and for Kiki
our Kiki is ordered to spend the night in the Chicken house..
not the European pet chickens these are real African chicken
complete with a rooster who scratches Kiki mercilessly
Come morning Kiki is full of scratches but he has learnt his lesson
he apologizes like his life depends on it and high tails out of the house
Safari my chieftains uncle we all love him but is know to be really hard
when it comes to meting out punishment and our Kiki had it coming
Lewis Nyaga
mambo ya pwani
VI
Deeds
Patrick traveled lightly,
He carried but his needed load
And made himself as useful
As he could along the road.
He aided all who asked him,
Offering a hand where'er he went
And they, pagan or not, knew in his form
A blessing had been sent.
He made it, at last, to Ireland
And saw that he was needed there,
For, by the tribal rulers,
Hope in life had been made bare;
In his Creator's will for him,
Patrick was most sure--
That in his steadfast faith in God
Would lay any problem's cure.
Patrick was a foreigner,
He had no wordly protection
As he wandered through the Counties,
Which were then tribal sections.
Gifts and money, Patrick refused,
For conversion God did send
Him among the tribes and chieftains,
this rarely made a friend.
(Patrick never knew
That by the Druids long before
A vision had been prophesied,
A piece of their fathers' lore
About a harsh reformer,
From whose table would fly impiety
And those, who chose to follow him,
In blindness would agree.)
Patrick preached the gospel,
Forgiveness and mercy
And taught the Irish people
Of the soul lasting eternity,
Though some would not hear or objected,
Some could not resist-
There were so many converts
With no need to insist.
The people told that Patrick
Truly loved to teach
And time flew from his awareness
When he started to preach,
(He carried a gnarled staff of Ash
Where ever he went)
One night he preached so long,
The stick, roots into the ground, had sent!
Once Patrick lit a fire
Upon Slane hill in County Meath.
Billows of smoke filled the air
And rose above the heath,
He did this in defiance
Of Leoghary, who was king
And through Patricks brave resistance,
Christ's teachings, through, did ring:
Many pagans hauled up buckets,
The whole hillside they drenched,
But Patrick's Paschal fire
But by him could be quenched.
It was upon this hillside
Patrick dispelled pagan divinity
By plucking the trefoil shamrock
To illustrate the Trinity.
Form:
“We learn from history that we learn nothing from history.”
George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950) Nobel Prize
Part One
Blue blood gushes when heroes die
From gory wounds on battlefields
Not in castle intrigues when for a lie
Crowns use commoners as shields.
A royal house does not construct itself
After centuries have broken tradition
Or on formal rules on how to name itself
Nor on who should follow in succession.
A true prince re-possesses the land first
Takes for his witnesses native-born citizens
Bids them follow his will out of dire thirst
Not as the self-crowned leader of denizens.
To be born a Kshastriya is not a privilege,
The birthright is even an act of sacrilege
If he who dons the crown scorns the people;
A spurned poem in the culled florilege.
In the blown sliver of land at Great Bharat’s feet
No one knows what Tamil line came to greet
Found refuge and took throne to announce a reign
Nor helas to make much of a glorious feat.
Kings are not born to hoist the castial banner,
Rather had they earlier scaled the social ladder
Through heroic deeds by protecting the masses;
Chieftains peer-elected to top the social order.
(...continued in Part Two)
It is the witching hour.
There are no breezes in a windowless house.
There are no shadows in a cave devoid of light.
There are no dreams in a sleepless night.
It is the witching hour.
When our endangered psyche roams.
When we are captured by pernicious spells.
When we are easy prey for rogue chieftains.
It is the witching hour.
When warlords game the system.
When sorcerers gaslight the faithful.
When conspiracy conquers fact.
Only the crestfallen sense the seamless
interval of peril.
Only the dejected resist the wizardry
of the despot.
Only the discouraged view the counterfeit
wallpaper of rot.
Only the discontented shout the truth
against the cacophony of sophistry.
But Stonehenge, the domain of the dead,
will always know first light,
will always vanquish the ruse of our sanctity,
will always sweep away the opiate specters
of tyranny.
The witching hour no more.
Light, the detox to our Stockholm syndrome.
The witching hour no more.
Democracy survives
to live another day.
The Sixty-Four Rulers of the Yi Jing
When chieftains uncrowned yearn to be enthroned
They either give their daughters to princes
Or invite other chieftains and have them poisoned
Some choose the war-path without hindrances
And lose their lives wives their land masses
In days of yore we call smirk as dark ages
Today’s chieftains also own land masses
Stars with stripes pedigree business managers
Lawmen who make millions helped by judges
Generals in command of battalions
Through coup d’Etat fulfil ill-nursed grudges
All scions sired by pur sang stallions
Who won elections with money from banks
Or the pennies dropped by party members
All paths leaders take to the top while thanks
They give not to those who toiled to hoist masters
What may the difference be with then and now
One man still decides the fate of one’s country
No man can encompass all the know-how
Any man can lose cool and berserk thrash free
When the going gets tough under pressure
When vested interests pull tout azimuth
Is divine right a blessing rained down treasure
Or the servile mind’s habit of staying put
If sixty-four wise men ran a country
According to the dictates of the Yi Jing
The world will neither know war nor treaty
The future will be assured for every being
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
Brutus Iulius Trois Page 06
The defeated Pandrasus spoke out
his weary words weighted with wisdom.
Linus is as Greek as I am Greek and as a Greek
let him inherit the crown, I'll name no other heir.
take for yourself as bride my Imogen, my daughter
many fine ships shall be her portion
and peace shall be proud Imogen's price
Set sail Brutus, leave all that is Greek behind
take those who would be Trojans home to Troy
Grey bearded Membyr rapped his cane for silence.
Fools with hands still bloody from fighting!
What peace can live with the families of the slain?
Linus will wait for a crown he won't live to wear.
Brutus accept the kings tribute and let us depart.
light heart-ed Brutus danced long at his wedding
Ere he left Chanoia to sail home, home to Troy
happy Brutus was with his bride fair Helen's image
youthful Imogen, old Pandrasus's proud daughter
with his new ships Brutus went sailing , keeping to the coastlines
through the archipelagos, around the Greek peninsula
at every anchorage being joined by freedmen and escaped bonds men
at every anchorage being provisioned by small kings and unhappy chieftains
who hastily sent away this army of would be Trojans back to Troy
An unwilling wife was Imogen who wept for her homeland
her eyes turned to the shore while it was in sight
Imogen wept for her mother, her father, her fate
Imogen wept for her spinning wheel and wept for her loom
Imogen wept for her gardens, her gowns and her goats
Imogen wept for all that was hers, which was left behind.
Brutus soothed and kissed her holding her tightly
until weary with weeping Imogen slept.
At Sounion, Brutus climbed the cliff to Neptune's temple,
offering a spotted bull with passionate prayers for a safe voyage
As the sun set on the Aegean, a citizen came from Athens.
Philaeus, son of Eurysaces, the last king of Salamis.
An oracle of Apollo had demanded he renounce his rights to rule
and have Neptune's lost sacrifice returned to its altar
So he gave away his kingship, and came here carrying Hesione's ashes
Hesione, the stolen sister of Priam. The late payment of Laomedon's debt.
As Laomedon's heir, Brutus accepted the task
taking the veil covered amphora, he gave it great honor
placing it upon his own ship, fastened securely behind the prow