Best Chinook Poems | Poetry
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Chinook
by Rodgers, D.W.
Chinook Wind
by McCall, Cheryl
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The Best Chinook Poems
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Chinook Poem
|
I walk an already trodden path...
Uncertain, of future lives that lie ahead
But, in faith I close these earthly Ojibwa eyes
In trill, thus, I hear the old ways in your presence amidst Chinook winds
As harmonic they play across the plains, from sacred astral pipes
Mimicking cricket songs that echo abstract out of the season's last autumn mist
I also hear your fifes in the rustle of the leaves, rising into writhe
And almost see your spirit aura as it accompanies the Algonquian breeze
Ancient ghost of proud, but now lost upon a dying nation tribe
Your music from beyond is narrations of a mystical language nature speaks
Sweeping thrush calls, chirps through weeping willow weeps,
Unto past September sounds, beating down on war drum clouds, of thundering maelstrom claps
And babbling brooks going on and on until narrowing creaky creeks
Alas, whooper wills warning and morning loons mourning, hidden amidst the swaying grass
When I see you, I imagine spectral legends majestic high across horizon's sky
Snowy silhouettes in headdress, drifting in flowing rainbow crowns
And with the night, I see you in my mind dance as the "Will-Ó-the-wisp" just might
Then, my body shivers from the distance, where your flute imitates the cry of the lone coyote's sound
As for all of your Mishomis (grandfather) traditions, I accept there is a greater essence
Kindred I am, son to your spirit and without partition from an Ojibwa eye
And I stand here staunch in cattail marshes, pondering my place in ancestral questions
Now, your answers again begin to play upon the wind, but this time traveling through the November... Whispers on needles of the pine
I walk an already trodden path...
But, each new step before me keeps this culture alive...
Written in honor of my Chippewa family ©2012 Michael G. Smith
Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2012
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Chinook Poem
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THAW AT CROWSNEST PASS
Huge mountains massed and cliffs sheer. It’s March
And endless blue sky cold is held back by the Chinook arch,
Snowy prairies rolling into their thousand-mile realm -
The landscape is gigantic, majestic, orchestrated to overwhelm.
But I stand and watch the lake-ice thaw,
Surprised by the tiny delicate music -
Descant ice - jingling, jangling, tinkling
In delicate accompaniment to the giant symphony.
Ice chunks tangled in slow waves with the wind
Tiny tintinnabulation before total ablation.
There is silence and harmony around the sound,
The small melody of the ice breaking into spring’s chorus.
Note: Crowsnest Pass is the southernmost way through the Rocky Mountains in Canada
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2010
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Chinook Poem
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Kananaskis is
four-fifths a line of haiku
Kananaskis is
With spring’s sudden warmth
serial avalanches thunder
one triggers the next
Winter’s snow melting
laughing, leaping, running to
valley far below
Green slopes banded red
dying lodgepole pine, memories
of last year’s Chinook
Golden larch quivers
as the first storm of winter
passes close tonight
As a boy, I came
to know this quiet valley
father's special place
Leaving highway to
where mountains reach to heaven
we drove the stone road
Fishing beaver ponds
dad came on bees, lost his specs
on return just bees
One night as we camp
a timberwolf comes to call
returns to dark night
On the upper lake
clouds mask the solar eclipse
but fish go crazy
One spring’s discovery
drawdown pools, teeming with trout
who won’t touch anything
A five pound rainbow
beached chasing Peter’s lure
red stripe - jealousy
Late autumn, Lake B
big browns cruise downwind beaches
only we know where
A ski resort appears
wonderland needs paved roads
we protest in vain
Twenty years later
returning with my children
to an unknown place
If you slow to look
irate traffic leans on horns
rushing to their lodge
My kids and I fish
a borrow pit now a“lake”
tourists' put and take
To a grizzly bear
roads are barriers wider
than flooding rivers
Kananaskis is
four-fifths a line of haiku
Kananaskis is
MM
Copyright © D.W. Rodgers | Year Posted 2014
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Chinook Poem
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so this is where butterflies go to die
atop this burning ochre beach
amidst the palomino stones
party streamers
chinook bones.
Chrysalis flutes swaying
beyond dunes, blue and gray
under a plush velvet shroud
they fold their powdery dreams
awaiting the pouty pallbearer tide
toting emerald caskets, silver lined
Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2013
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Chinook Poem
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It arises out over the Pacific, sweeping east over Vancouver Island, down the Strait and up the Coast Range. Cooling now releasing moisture, as it flows over the first summit before warming as it drops, sucking moisture from the dry interior. Up again, first the Selkirks, then the Rockies. Pausing at the divide poised for an instant, before falling, laughing, tumbling to the continent below. Warming now, dry now, it courses over the foothills – a fast warm sponge.
never can forget
the heat of that first smile nor
the light in your eyes
Arced across the western mountain , brilliant turquoise sky behind somber gray clouds. Temperatures rise twenty degrees in under an hour; a foot of snow vanishes overnight and lake ice heaves. Life quickens, buds are tricked from dormancy; animals emerge blinking from secure dens. But all too soon, the ephemeral wind passes and winter returns.
for a brief moment
reconciliation was
perhaps possible
Copyright © D.W. Rodgers | Year Posted 2015
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Chinook Poem
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All we eat is elk meat, boiled elk, roasted elk, elk jerky
sometimes fried elk if we get bear or whale oil,
oh, and sometimes elk soup,
for four months we've subsisted exclusively on elk
except for occassional dog meat, candlefish or duck,
the elk have become our saviors, and our culinary suffering,
yet it keeps us nourished like some kind of ape predators,
Clark has officially named the massive boulder at the front of the bay
Cape Disappointment on account that its now March 1806
and since November no one has spotted a merchant vessel
nor has any trading post been discovered along the coast in either direction,
frankly its astounding, has the world done gone forgotten that the Columbia exists,
everyone is gettin uppidy as bull frogs
and we've had enough rainy hours here to last ten lifetimes,
to hell with the sailors, we've gotta race to finish
and we ain't gonna get beat by a disappointment or by a sinister suprise,
Load'em up!...
Since coming out of the Rocky Mountains
like a migrating pack of wolves pursuing the scent of a bloodied den
I've been spending more time away from the river's rigors
providing fresh meats for the mission that we leave hanging along designated banks,
for the first time I feel liberated from the fear of failure
winter can no longer hurts us,
the great mysteries of the continental crossing have been revealed
through their savagery and splendor
the tribes have been touched with a new spirit of survival
animals ferocious and exotic have been tasted and classified
we have learned what these landscapes can lend to farming legions,
the mountains no longer menace us, we know how to travel their pain,
as my horse feeds on the grass of unowned soil
I reflect on my moments of intemperance with the natives
when I thrashed a Chinook thief into bleeding shame,
the order I gave to burn their village to silent ash when my dog and saddle were stolen
fortunately that was not necessary because I got them back,
the time I was meanly mocked by a Nez Perce Indian for eating dog meat
and threatened to split his skull with my tomahawk if he ever insulted me again,
J.A.B.
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2015
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Chinook Poem
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The Columbia is a smooth beast that has introduced us to a semi tropic clime
that produces a bewildering humidity even for November
and a panoply of tree types that canopy the mossy turfs
from a sky that is often sullen,
the Flat Head Indians say the sky cries much from missing the ocean's song,
these people tie boards to their infants soft skulls to make them grow conical,
the more sloped the forehead the more attractive those are esteemed,
the Flat Heads are a shy, meditative people
and are the only Indians we've encountered that collect and value gold
this custom has caught the attention of many but Clark and I dissuade
our men from enquiry or barter for raw, unworked nuggets,
covert gold scouting is a priority that thy he President gave me personally, exclusively,
no one knows that I've been studying mineral deposits,
charting gold veins in the mountains, prospecting for the U.S.
like a spider in the night,
up to this point its been a non issue, it must remain that way,
the Chinooks actually build wooden huts, some resemble shacks,
this is probably from being in contact with European merchant ships,
trade abounds on the coast, even the Russians have made periodic landings for furs,
the coastal tribes have been considerably influenced
evidenced by the red and blue fabrics they possess
along with jackets, hats, axes, handguns and curse words they've acquired,
these Indians are very shady, scoundrels with hands and haggling,
stealing is an instinct and seemingly a pathological sport for them
we constantly have things stolen from us as they rove around the camps
yesterday Cruzzatte found a boy attempting to snatch his fiddle
and today Thomas was yanking a teenage ruffian around by the hair
in an attempt to retrieve his axepipe from the culprit's friends,
its a surreal situation,
the Chinook are providing us with efficient foods
and the sugar of their women for those who crave,
the prices for both are extreme but acceptable to keep the canoes skipping,
so their business is welcome
but their justice is seldom
and we can't afford to lose our currency piecemeal in knives, fishing hooks, beads, guns etcetera
if we are going to return through here in Spring to the Mandans and survive,
we want to be patient and kind
but a harsh hand is sometimes necessary to avert loss,
and the mission is always outnumbered, vulnerable to savagery,
we just want to get to the Pacific
every one of us has an epic in our eyes
and the blue blood of that ocean will give life to our glory
it will validate everything we've endured, put success in our mission as soldiers,
hopefully we will negotiate a ride with a trading ship
that will sail us around the continent back into the rituals and routines of civilization,
J.A.B.
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2015
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Chinook Poem
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Fort Clatsop is up and true,
50 feet square, with a smokehouse, pallisades, barracks and two gateways
furnished from the aromatic and reliable wood of the great Fir trees,
we keep busy by scraping elk hides for clothes, making moccasins, hunting
and boiling sea water in kettles to manufacture a nutritious salt,
the Clatsop Indians are not the onery thieves that the Chinook are,
in fact, they are merry hustlers with fine things to trade,
the Clatsop chief, Coboway was in fort today, smoking and learning how we leather stitch
when I began negotiating for his sea otter robe,
a fur of extraordinary waterproof warmth and deep colored beauty
several layers ringed, overlapping one another like roof tiles
with a thin elk hide underneath
the length of a knee cloak with the incandescence of morning mountains
snowy whites, granite greys and cool browns,
I believe that is why Clark and I are contending for it,
that rare robe reminds us of the Rockies, the rugged majesty,
Coboway isn't being simple though, actually he's being a prick about it,
refusing all sorts of neat and valuable things
and then Sacagawea comes into the room shakin her meaty hips around
and the chief comes to life and says he'll trade for her beaded belt,
Clark looks at me like hey, not fair
because he knows I can get Janey, Sacagawea's American name,
to give it up for my blue velvet coat that she just purrs for,
J.A.B.
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2015
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Chinook Poem
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No lies to the heart she says only
ties will do to the lonely, To
make a union of two hearts that makes
a reunion of a feeling called love.
So lets rejoice and throw
the doves to the wind
and look to the pictures in the sky.
Now we can kick off our shoe's
and take off our golden wings
and send off in a chinook wind.
so now you can tell
no lies as we are tied
into one,Our reunion has just begun
Copyright © Cheryl McCall | Year Posted 2009
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Chinook Poem
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A
chinook
silently
melts the lying
snow
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
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Chinook Poem
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The old red barn seems to grow up through the dust and brown
Along the vague dirt road that mars the sage.....
The rhythm played by rain for wait of seeds, still echoes here
Erect and proud, it stands somber as the purple shadows that surround the hills
A faint whistling song is heard within these derelict arms
A song of faith....a song of sweat...a song of contentment and tears
Someone fitted the beams, and squared window panes, ....and built a life
Hope and pride filled to the rafters, as it overlooked rolling fields plowed, tilled and furrowed
Now weathered gray, it creaks and groans under dark prairie skies
It leans inches more with each Chinook wind that sweeps and sways the grain
Where now only wind whistles through the eves, and stiff grasses grow
And bats and mice find a place to live, and white stars shine down on loneliness
Abandoned and forsaken, while gaunt hills stand silently by
Day after day, under the prairie sky, this monument that is left alone to die
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2010
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Chinook Poem
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If you stick your neck out for a friend, you’re likely to lose your head.
A friend is a potential enemy in disguise as a loving wife just before vowing ties.
Friends are of all kinds but the kind you want them to be.
A friend you use is a friend you abuse and who has no use of you.
The friend you call upon in need is always in greater need.
If you give a friend an helping-hand, make sure you take it back as soon as you can.
If you trust your friend with your girl, you’re the biggest dope in the world.
When friends meet, they always talk about beating meat.
If you take a friend to dine, make sure he leaves his horse behind.
The friend with daughters is the kind you wished sported blinkers.
A friend who works in banks, we always drop in - in person - to say thanks.
The friend’s wife even if she’s a bad cook is no chinook to hook.
If friends go on vacation with their wives, they always know who connives.
Friends who live close-up always end-up in the lock-up.
A friend with an axe to grind always uses it on some friend’s uterine.
A friendly father is one who takes a lasting interest in his daughter’s girl friends.
A friend who loans you some dough is always knocking on your door.
Only a friend who walks his dog picks the hour your wife goes out for a jog.
A friend at your beck and call must be wondering why you don’t him enthrall.
A friend by any other name is a still a friend you can put to shame.
A friend is someone you can entrust your shame with, but never your fame.
Keep your distance from the friend who shouts in your face for it’s a downright disgrace he spits in your face.
Friends who work for rival companies tend to share daily work memories.
Friends who work in different embassies are thick as thieves.
The greatest friends are those married couples with very large families who realize far too late they are/were really homo-sexuals.
Friends who give one another too many presents ought to look for friends who only give presents.
The best friends are those who need no psycho-analysts for they can see each other without waiting for appointments.
Childhood friends always end-up wishing their friends on other friends.
A friend of a friend always turns up for a spend or a lend.
Long lost friends who meet to go out for the night leave behind wives happy, whallop-py and tight.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
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Chinook Poem
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When the final Autumn leaf spirals to the ground,
and a warm Chinook breeze is no longer found.
Bears retreat to their seasonal slumber,
as snowflakes approach in abundant numbers.
Mother Nature steps down from her post.
As old man Winter prepares as new host.
A starving North wind arrives in his horseless carriage,
preparing to join hearts with the Earth in marriage.
Thus for many eve's they shall bind in wedlock.
Till Spring rises from the shadows to create a new flock.
Copyright © dale kruper | Year Posted 2008
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Chinook Poem
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War
Enlist list
Signed sheets
Quick and easy
It's all so cheesy
Come home soon, please
Chinook ride overseas
She sends a letter
I've felt better
Worthless
Mortars
Night raids
Humanitarian aid
A spade's a spade
All this just to get paid
Improvised Explosive Device
Repeating "love will suffice"
Injured soldier
Never colder
Scared
Firefight
White flags
Lines of sight
Bodies to drag
A fire to constantly ignite
Longest war in history
Victory is a mystery
Endless gunfire
Situation dire
Desperate
War
Eternal
In our blood
Till our blood spills
And our casualty joins the statistic
Copyright © Bilal HB | Year Posted 2010
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Chinook Poem
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Born in the mid west, a long time ago
in the sunflower state where the prairie grass grows
she would spend many days, sharing stories and dreams
Tho' my own feet have never been blessed to step near the place
I would watch as she told me, with glistening eyes
I pictured each message, while I quietly listened....
Some might have seen it, in much different hues
but the Kansas I've seen, was from Grandmother's view
It awakens in spring with new sprouting grain
After brittle white frost, or slush under the rain
I have seen just how golden a wheat field might grow
I shall know how a wagon, dark-framed, work at rest
Waits by a shed, and how two horses will stand
Waiting and grazing where the fence-line might bend
I can see quivering trees, and stiff shocks of corn
The amber of the noon, and the warm sun-cured hay
Milking cow barn, and the old chicken shed
And a barn filled with pigs wait to be fed
A lone, white farm house, with a big front porch
And how a bible rests...on the nightstand, next to a bed
How harsh the weather, how the Chinook wind shakes the roof
And how fast a family gathers, into a cellar when tornados are due
And the sound of a meadowlark, and a hot wood stove and coal black soot
The kindness of folks, and the loss and heartaches
And the smell of roasted chicken, and bread as it bakes
In this place of her birth..... is the scent of the earth...
I see the brown and green
I see what she has seen.......yet only through her eyes
As I stand by her side...under a Kansas prairie sky....
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2010
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Chinook Poem
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TWO FOR FEBRUARY
i’m crossing fingers
mild february thus far
blue skies atlas smiles
blue bird on the wing
color against winter’s nap
harbinger of spring
Dave Austin
*inspired by “Chinook” – forgot the author
Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2012
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Chinook Poem
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Two rivers flowing; one is warm and pleasant like a chinook wind,
While the other is cold and swift and boulders roll with the current.
One we shall call the river of love, and the other, we shall call it the
River of discontent.... And since no one has ever returned to confirm
Or deny which one flows into paradise, we can only wonder,...
Until we test our faith.
Copyright © larry colvin | Year Posted 2011
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Chinook Poem
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I like talking to you too much
the way you think and dream and dare
I like talking to you too much
drawn like a flame pulls in air
I like talking to you too much
your depth and passion and charm
I like talking to you too much
unexpected wind the Chinook disarms
I like talking to you too much
spinning in your smile, catching in your laugh
I like talking to you too much
momentum of a wave caught in a photograph
I like talking to you too much
fingertips scrape for more
but I'm talking to you too much
even if it's only a whisper under the door
Copyright © Krystal Cochrane | Year Posted 2016
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Chinook Poem
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COLLEVILLE SUR MER
In uneasy rest
He faces west.
They all face west to America -
So far away from this beach,
So very far out of reach.
He no longer feels the chinook
Nor the glance of mother’s knowing eye
Over the range on his Utah farm.
He is the son and brother
Of Omaha, Nebraska, and the Sandhills
Beckon him home.
Silence now
The tolling of the trolley
Car bell over the Bay.
Hear only the swish of beach sand.
He dreams endlessly
In the cold Channel breeze,
From the ocean
Between him and home.
......................................................
NOTES
Colleville sur Mer is where the American cemetery is located in France. All names on the gravestones face west.
Omaha and Utah are the names of invasion beaches on the Channel coast
of France where thousands of US soldiers died in 1944.
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2014
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Chinook Poem
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Chinook winds whisper softly
as lover's breath in spring
promises of wanton lust
desires of passion bring.
Summer winds brush rosy cheeks,
his hands smooth tousled hair.
Rapturous murmurs in the night-
her perfume lingers there.
Autumn winds blow dry leaves
fulfilling nature's need,
amassing beds on forest floor,
accepting fruitful seed.
But beware, the winds of winter
blow harsh and bitter cold,
tearing at the heart and soul
as countless tears unfold.
Copyright © Tamara Hillman | Year Posted 2005
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Chinook Poem
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We’ve called it names –
Sirocco, Easterly, Chinook.
We’ve called it names
to match its devastating games.
Del Rio! how the tent-frame shook
as, twirled on a Tornado’s hook,
we called its names.
Copyright © Taylor Graham | Year Posted 2008
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Chinook Poem
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I turned away and faced the crashing white rapids. My
evergreen hunting dress whipped in the wind with my
copper hair.
I took a deep breath and jumped. I felt the spray
before the crushing force of the furious river of Ashtira .
I knew.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The crashing Ashtira swallowed Clarisa up like a
famished Lunadford scourges a helpless fox before
a feast.
I don’t know how long I stood there before the Seeker placed
his firm hand gently on my shoulder. I looked up to see
his concern.
“Where is Clarisa Shana? The Chinook whispered that she
was with you and in some marvellous peril,” he spoke
with care.
Despite the fact that I was Shano, I still had a keen
friendship with the Seeker. It was perfectly normal to
break down.
He wrapped his solid arms around me in a protective way that
he always did whenever I needed someone, for big matters or
small.
“Come now young Shano. Dry those tears. Clarisa Shana did
what she had to in order to save Lishon. She knew this day
would come.”
His wisdom did nothing to salve my hurt but I knew that
he spoke the truth. It was only because of this that
I quieted.
“Come. The time to grieve is not now. The Kwana are gathering and
they need you to be on the ready for battle. We need you now
more than ever.
“Aye Seeker. You say the time to grieve is later but now is the best
time. I will use my grief to vanquish the Noli and spread their ashes
in the Ashtira.
“Still your blade Shano. To use grief for your sister as
a tool in war is to shame her. It will be a murders victory,
not a warrior.
I felt shame for what I had said. To
wield the power of Shano is to be merciful. I
should have known.
The Seeker put his hand on my head and tousled my
hair. I was his Shano but he was like my father in many
ways.
“Come.”
A legion of Noli faced the entrance of Lishon, while
the Kwana (who were half the enemy) sat in the courtyard.
Waiting.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I was tossed as far as the River of Ashtira could
throw me. My breath left me as I landed with a
brash blow.
My breath came back in spurts. My heart stumbled with
my constant effort to start my breathing. Why couldn’t
I get air?
As if she had always been there the Spoken appeared
beside me. She placed her webbed hand on my chest.
Air.
Copyright © Brianna Picard | Year Posted 2012
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Chinook Poem
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Alaska, The Last Frontier
Alaska; the wilderness state, the last frontier:
Where majestic mountains
Deliver streams into flowing rivers;
Down slopes covered in forests
Of Sitka Spruce and Western Hemlock
That dominate the landscape.
The name Alaska originates
From the Aleut word “Aleyska,”
Meaning the “mainland “or literally:
“The object toward which the action of the sea is directed.”
Home to barren-ground caribou, lemmings and polar bears,
Willow ptarmigan, moose
And the stately Chinook King salmon,
And home to the nation’s only herd of wood bison;
Thought not to exist but, reintroduced
And brought back from extinction!
Hence, ages ago when glaciers grew and melted,
A land bridge was formed between Siberia and Alaska,
Where the ancestors lived and eventually walked over,
To settle the great land and coastal waters.
The indigenous peoples of Eskimos and Indians
(Aleuts and Yuit; Athabaskans, Tlingit and Haida.)
Believe all places, objects and creatures,
Possess a divine presence and Shaman,
Are spiritual healers who can meditate with them.
Under the aurora borealis,
From the North Pacific to the Arctic Ocean,
They conduct their way of life,
Engaging in: hunting, trapping, trading and fishing;
At peace with the world!
March 30, 1867, marks the day history changed,
When the Alaskan territory was sold,
By the Empire of Russia to the United States of America;
An area twice the size of Texas,
For seven point two million US dollars.
And for the next three decades was given little attention,
Until gold was discovered near Nome in 1899.
Then a stampede of sourdoughs left the Yukon’s
Klondike gold fields for richer claims,
Of placer and bench gold,
In the streams and soils and rocks of Alaska,
Via the American only route and Canadian trails.
Today, gold is the State’s national mineral.
—And when war came to the Aleutian Islands,
After the attack on Pearl Harbor,
Alaska proved its worth and came of age,
Due to its strategic importance in the war effort.
Growth took place at a rapid pace:
Roads and towns, naval bases and airports appeared overnight;
Alaskan pride in the fight for freedom prevailed!
Every March, since 1973,
The Iditarod (the last great race on earth) is run,
From Anchorage to Nome,
On a trail just over a thousand miles,
By mushers and their Alaskan Malamute and Siberian dogs.
North America’s highest Peak
And the world’s largest rise
Is Denali (formerly called Mount McKinley),
Located in the Alaskan Range;
And a lake (Ilamna Lake), the size of Connecticut!
The state flag bears the North Star and Big Dipper,
On a background of blue that waves in the wind;
“North to the Future”
As its citizens sing “Alaska’s Flag Song!”
And pays homage to the early prospectors
In their quest for gold,
And in honor of achieving the forty-ninth statehood,
On January the third, 1959,
As the ‘Forget-me-not flower blooms in Spring,
When the season of love begins.
Today: trawlers leave the ports to catch
The prized Alaskan King Crab,
And the Iñupiat spear the Bowhead whale
In managed traditional fishing waters,
And net Coho and Sockeye,
Swimming upstream to ancient spawning grounds,
While a bustling oil industry thrives
With offshore drilling and land exploration.—
Alaska, jade of the North, in the twenty-first century!
Copyright © Dennis Spilchuk | Year Posted 2018