Best Headdress Poems
while eagles soar high
over rugged mountains
of south carolina
through writings shared
WolfSpirit takes shape
my mind pictures the man
in all his wisdom
half human half spirit
i hear his deep voice
gentle with tones of
clarity and insight
the philosopher speaks
with intensity and
full gamut of emotion
from depths within
he wears his name like a headdress
more than a mere badge of honor
he pays tribute to both
land and its creator
behind him a noble lineage
of a proud peaceful people
his code is truth and honor
delving into life
and its many meanings
pondering the implications
of beauty and the beast
his poetry reflects on
dreams alive and broken
past hurts and scars
life and love interwoven
and all the rest
that binds mankind
through harmonious melodies
of visions of brotherhood
AP: 1st place 2020, Honorable Mention 2023
The old indian chief had seen much
fought in many a battle or raid
he had fathered seven children
with his four fine young wives
Now he took his ease
sat smoking his pipe
with the other elders
spent time in dreamland
He knew it would not be long
before the great white spirit
came calling out his name
he had made his peace with all
His children and wives wept
when he departed in his sleep
they carefully dressed him
and laid him on the platform
His favourite spear and shield
thick fur rugs and some pots
his faithful horse battle dressed
some gold and his finest headdress
When all was ready the witch doctor
Set the platform ablaze with fire
wailing his wives mourned his passing
as the fire died his ashes blew away
Now in the after life
he hunts once more
riding the ghost horse
he races through the skies
10/31/2013
contest: Native American People
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
Oh Africa, my Africa
You have the birthmark of civilisation
But shaped like a question mark of nations
Asking us why we flee
When we claim to be free
Your skies are the earth's brightest
But your land swallows the most innocent
If the wounds of slavery have healed
Why do we still run for the hills?
Those you gave us to lead
Have abandoned us to bleed
They dig your land for mass graves
They trade your stones for blood shed
My Africa, you are the pain under the headdress on a woman
My Africa, you are an empty bowl in the hands of the poor
My Africa, you are the empty words of a politician
My Africa, you are sailing and lost on the Mediterranean
What happened to your drums of victory?
What happened to the pride of your history?
We remember your dream on the 25th of May
And forget about it on the next day
Oh Africa, my Africa
Bells worn on ankles by the tribe's fireside
Joyful dancing began when smoke signals rose high
A son was born to the chief and his bride
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky
The young warrior’s time had soon come
His first battle was won when spring was nigh
The tribe had a victory dance beneath setting sun
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky
The Native American village was invaded by whites
And the chief’s soul to heaven did fly
His son donned the headdress as his father received last rites
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky
The proud tribe was confined to a reservation
And the young chief died trying to defy
This was the last dance of a tribal nation
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky
*For Dr. Ram's "Ring Out Wild Bells to the Wild Sky" contest
Kinky boots ...
kicking naked truth
Stripped bare
down to the nightshade roots
Temptress gaze ...
collecting laundered money
off the dirty parquet
Her pay-for-play
get the tilted short cups
ice cubes rattling
See the lecherous throats
swallow the fermented, lewd offering
Let ‘em feel the venom sting:
Allow the paid, slow death foreplay
to snake swamp drain into their pee brain
Seduction Fay Wray eyes
swinging ‘round a metal pole
Medusa headdress affixed at the top
Turning men’s lusty ape bones
into limp chimp stones
Got a Cleopatra guillotine bed,
ready to give
scissor heads a mean Herodian lop
Liquor urging lip gallows to put
a tip squeeze between the bust
And a little rump jiggle
have ‘em groveling in the dust
Baroness Von Knaughty,
she-devil
of such enormous bosom beauty
Daughter of Baal,
Arch duchess of hell
Quenching taboo thirst
with another flesh set of sleaze
Shakedown the pockets
of the bottom feeders
with flimsy lingerie leggy tease
Baroness Von Knaughty,
she of buxom royalty
Vixen kitty, who shows no pity
Feline daughter of the first unveiled dancer,
who STD burned
every lost soul guest
at Hades inaugural purge orgy
"Just living is not enough, said the butterfly fairy...one must have sunshine, freedom and a little flower" Hans Christian Anderson
She’s the Butterfly Princess of the magical valley of fairy Kings
I saw her dancing with her sisters in the enchanted forest glen
Her body of sweet nectar being sun kissed again and again
As she fluttered about on tiptoe with her gold gossamer wings
The woodland nymphs played a melody on lyrical harp strings
Her dress of ethereal light all a flutter with a hundred or more
Swooning butterflies who adorn her effervescent flowing caress
Golden curling tendrils resplendent in a sweet flower headdress
The iridescent undulation of swaying hips is their complete adore
Her gentle grace the epitome of butterflies wondrous folklore
They gathered all around her to lift her gown as she flew away
To her wedding that day, a Butterfly Prince was always her ecstasy
And their love was often said to be the kingdoms new destiny
Around his body he wore a gently woven honeysuckle flower lei
Amid his wings he had woven her gift of a lavender sachet
As the trumpets did herald the Princess on soft petals she came
All bowed to the glorious sight of their love soon to be bound
The next time you see butterflies in the garden, turnaround
You may see the fairy Prince and Princess in the sun all aflame
Swirling and twirling about in a butterfly dancing game
written: 10-3-2019
Writing Challenge, October -Butterfly- 2nd place
Sponsor, Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode Thank You so much!
Cher, why do I love you? Is it your dancing? Your acting?
Is it your singing? The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour?
Thirty million viewers a week cannot be wrong.
Gypsy, Tramps and Thieves is one of my all-time favorite songs
But she has to be sung by you to elicit full power.
Cher, you are so beautiful in Bob Mackie’s costumes.
I can close my eyes and see the Indian headdress on you
With your sweet flat belly button showing.
And your all powerful dancing eyes as you made fun of Sonny.
Mask, The Witches of Eastwick and Silkwood are favorites with me
Because you were in there, showing your vulnerabilities, being yourself.
You have won a Grammy, an Emmy and an academy award.
The people love you, and I am one of them. You showed us what a woman can do.
Cher, you are the only artist to have a number one single
On the Billboard charts in six consecutive decades.
Your philanthropic efforts and social activism
Are icing on the cake that is you, Cher.
Written 11-4-2019
Contest: Your Favorite Artist
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
6
I’ve always been attracted, really,
By the other side of the mirror,
To find the white rabbit,
from Alice in Wonderland,
Playing croquet with the queen,
Not knowing where the world is going,
To embrace Juliet and Miss Cunegund,
Seal fishing in Alaska,
I’ve always been attracted, really,
By the other side of the mirror,
Having tea at the madhouse,
to listen to the advice of the silkworm,
The poet lives in strawberry pies.
7
Who stole my Christmas present?
The toy box, the stuffed animal,
Comanche’s headdress,
The red fire truck,
I saw time fly by the window,
She’s not my little sister,
Nor the matchmaker,
Is it Lucille, playing piano ?
Who stole my Christmas present?
Davy Crockett’s panoply,
The pretty steam locomotive, stupid,
The jumping balloon and its dreams,
I saw time fly by the window,
His skin is coated in red ocher,
making it hard for his enemies
to notice him midst termite mounds.
He wears a headdress of cowrie shells
and ostrich feathers, for his battle
is a special day like weddings
and initiation.
His eyes remain as steady as the Sun,
reflecting greatness he sees lying
before him….
……………………………………………………………….
The lion's fur is wildly free in disarray
proudly displaying its untamed nature
to the approaching hunter under the hot sun
The lion yawns blissfully unaware
of the battle that's about to come
to an ordinary day like any other day
a lazy afternoon nap
Yet the lion's instinct is as sharp as a knife
picking up movements in the grass
with its tiny rounded eyes...
A Collaborated Poem with Teddy Kimathi
Copyright © 2016 June 18th
White Eagle sat in silence, cross-legged;
his eyes were closed,
as the mountains wind blew against his feathered
headdress. He breathed in and out uniformly,
as though he was breathing together
with Mother Earth.
His brothers were preparing for a battle;
they were fighting for their birth-right as chief elder.
White Eagle wasn't interested in power. He was focused
on the whispers of the Chief Spirit between the cedar trees
in the woods, and seeing his ancestors' omens.
"Both of you have two wolves fighting inside you;
inside everyone!" he once told his brothers. "One wolf is good.
He feeds on hope, love, charity, kindness, honesty, patience....
The other wolf is evil. He feeds on death, hate, anger, envy,
greed, pride..... The one that wins is the one you feed most!!"
Sadly they dressed up for a battle -
faces decorated with dark rainbow stripes,
backs loaded with bows and arrows,
a hand ax,
and moccasins for the snow.
That winter took both of his brothers' lives that night.
The wolves howled in unison until dawn,
though there wasn't any full moon. Trees shed their leaves,
though it wasn't autumn. The Chief Spirit
was mourning for the deaths of great men,
who would do greater good,
if they let their little brother, White Eagle, rule;
they didn't know the Chief Spirit was speaking inside him.....
(The story "Two Wolves" is a Cherokee Indian Folklore)
Date: 13/02/2017
They stand together in a family portrait.
In it's surroundings of designer valance curtains,
a bed appears in one corner while in another
a dresser. Together they stand Mother, Father and
Daughter. Each looking in different directions:
Mother looking down, proud, but not at daughter.
Daughter looking upwards to Heaven and father
looking straight out.
They're dressed: Mother in a shiny suit, father in suit and tie.
Daughter in all white dress with veiled flower headdress.
White shoes, knee-length stockings, and gloves. This is
a Confirmation Affair. But with everyone looking in
different directions, and not at each other,
how can one tell it's a family portrait for a special day.
How can one tell love?
The feather had started its life as part of a bird's plumage
until one day it was preened out and left on the ground
A warrior chief finding it added it to his headdress
where it rode into many bloody battles with him
until it was wrenched out by a tree's branches
trapped there fluttering in the light breeze
it was found by a man who took it for his wife
she added to her Sunday hat and wore it to church.
Starting to look very bedraggled she took it out
she was going to throw it away but her daughter
pleaded to be allowed to have it for her collection
and there it rested for many years as a trophy.
The feather had started life bright and jaunty
now in its last days it had faded and become shredded
I wonder what tales you could tell us, the lady thought
as with a sigh she took it outside and let the breeze take it.
written 08/05/2014
contest: LEAF, FEATHER, SHELL or FLAKE
Chickasaw warrior…Apache brave
Chimed echo from recent pasts
Rawhide clad of bow and stave
Our iconic figure now cast
Roaming prairies open plains
Selfless equal within nature
A simple life of a people proud
Societies of ancient stature
Cherokee warrior…Arapaho brave
Awakened into midnight battle
Blue eyes aim down the thunder sticks
Reaping from cavalry saddles
Shunned showpieces of society
Called examples of a savage pride
Crushed of tyrannical booted propriety
In the federal wastes to reside
Tillamook warrior…Shoshone brave
Hunted through the very last stand
Forced to the brink of identity lost
Imprisoned in fenced desert sands
Allow the great spirits to soar the skies
A birthright given back anew
This aspiration for the tribes we hold
Sadly realized by consciences few
Indian warriors…fighters brave
Truest peace I offer my hand
Headdress upon the shadowy brow
Those great tribes once roaming the lands.
The QUIESCENT, AMBIVALENT brave ate the BITTERSWEET berries,
as he listened to the ARCANE canticles of the chief’s INTERCESSOR’S words-
How absurd the man looked with that buffalo hide
and FLAMBOYANT headdress made from feathers of so many birds-
The QUINTESSENCE of tribal wisdom, claimed that animal IMMOLATIONS
gave him TACTILE powers with the great spirit – they must fight!
When forced from their LUSCIOUS valleys onto barren reservation lands,
The brave realized, too late, that the medicine man had always been right!
written for John Hamilton's 10 word contest -