Best Indians Poems
Red Indians
We'd fall like Red Indians dying
in that tall fragrant summer grass
Small bellies weaving in and out
with exertion of bloody battle past
Or a ladybird might catch your eye
while conflict fades in a midday sun
the world might grow perfectly still
scented in a child's dreams and fun
I remember now the heat of hands
and transient soft warrior bow
Excited screams fading on red lips
the peeling bark on twig and bough
The shouts of anxious mothers
our pleading, disappointed reply
Cotton white shining clouds
sounds of play beneath purple sky
Tonight we will sleep in candied dream
crows feather lying on our bedroom floor
Tomorrow we will fight our lifelong foe
child soldiers in the fields of war.
Thanksgiving magic
Traditions honored
Family respected
Pumpkin pie with whipped cream
Hot rolls oozing with warm butter
Stuffing no one ever makes as wonderfully tasty as my mother
Do we remember to give thanks to the Indians?
They had too much passion to let the white faces starve.
Bringing them food, and teaching them to plant in the summer.
They shared their bounty, and their knowledge
Taking white faces under their wing, saving them.
Do we remember to thank them?
I certainly hope so.
Half-Eleven Form Contest/Nina Parmenter
THE ETOWAH INDIANS
The Etowah indians, tribe of redskins,
trading their buckskins.
Mississippian mounds base of temple grounds —
history astounds.
Spaniards kick dust, sitting high on each horse,
with winds changing course.
Silver helmets and harquebuses - tribe stared —
the thunderclap scared!
The Etowah Indians tribe of redskins
leave Georgia with wins
and young “bucks” with grins.
10/28/2018
harquebus - type of gun that sounded like thunder
young buck - a young person, child
You perfected your lies to an art.
You succeeded in breaking my heart.
I shed not one tear,
for the hour is near,
when arsenic will keep us apart.
Oh how I wish
I could set free
the native American Indian
with pride and dignity
taking them back
across the great open plains
to their sacred home
in the lush green vallies
where buffalo are plentiful
and roam
so the Indians can live in peace
one with nature once more
where the eagles soar
setting them free as the wind
wild untameable as a magnificent stallion
running toward the setting sun.
Peter Dome.copyright.2012.
He pulls his hat down low against the chill of the storm,
The numb fingers that hold the reins forgot what it was like to be warm;
On a grassy knoll silhouetted against the rising sun,
Astride his pinto pony sits a Native American son;
The blowing snow and freezing rain steal his breath away,
But he knows that being a cowboy, it’s worth the price that you pay;
A majestic, bronzed brave, feathers wafting in the breeze,
With arms uplifted in obeisance, the Great Spirit to appease!
A worn out calf is stretched across his lap on either side,
Her head resting on his thigh just going along for the ride;
He offers thanks to Him for the grandeur of creation,
And for the sun and moon from which he gathers inspiration;
Her momma just like him had been caught out in the gale,
It’s just another story to add to the cowboy’s tale;
He asks the Great Spirit to bless his arrow and bow,
That with true aim he can fell life-sustaining buffalo;
His face is hard and beaten from too many days in the sun,
From early mornings and late nights workin’ til a job is done;
A tear rolls down his cheek thinking of his ravaged, sacred land,
The broken treaties and those who dealt with deceitful hand;
But being a working cowboy surely has its rewards,
Riding forgotten country that has never been explored.
With a sad heart he lowers his arms and slowly turns away,
Determined that from the paths of his fathers he will not stray.
By Tirzah Conway and Bob Hinshaw
The cowboy portion was written by Tirzah Conway and the Indian portion was written by Bob Hinshaw
we have lost the meteoric
icy-blue, sky-fire
above the heated planetary core
of a thousand covered suns
in the center of oblivion
where confluence
carries hope
in warm symbiont souls
and lambs
wear ragged fleece -
iconoclastic mediocrity
reflective fables
of future past history
unlocked - foretold
the shamanistic path
of return
through stalagmite tunnels
would lead our spirits home
as tribal songs retreat
oppression
ever-present present past,
shaman seer
resurrected spirit healers
weeping, weeping,
weeping,
for the buffalo
bitter flood of salty tears
blood of man
soaks the trail with broken souls
man and beast, stink and sweat,
co-mingled
bathe in single sacred tear
underneath a future vision
four white devil idol faces
spirit sacrilege
breathing devil breath
upon the sacred hills of black and gold
the ancients from the sky
watch and weep
and still dust stirs
forty thousand spirit feet
walking, winding, wending,
in a never ending line
worn and torn, shoeless feet,
blistered toes to blistered souls
trail of fear,
women wailing, pain prevailing,
psychic suicides and tribal death
takes one final breath `
Of Pilgrims and Indians
By Elton Camp
In school we are taught a history filled with lies
In order that American history be well sanitized
The Pilgrims were a stern but gracious bunch
Who invited the Indians in to share their lunch
The Pilgrims were grateful to God to still be alive
And that with the Indian’s help, winter did survive
In their joy that they were still among the living,
Fed the savage natives at the first Thanksgiving
They thought themselves to be God’s chosen group
That those evil heathen it was God’s will they dupe
They were the new Canaanites in the promised land
Who, unless they converted, suffered a stern hand
In the name of Christ, they had every right to slaughter
Any the rebellious Indians: man, wife, son or daughter
The massacres of the Pequots are a very good example
Of what the Indians could expect was only a sample
Defenders of Pilgrims say that they were a hostile tribe
Murderous and far more vicious than one could describe
But, the Pequots were quite tranquil and living in peace
When Pilgrims hunted them like animals did that cease
It was in 1637, to the evil Pilgrim’s everlasting shame
Set a village on fire & shot those who escaped the flame
Before they set out with the intention to destroy a village
They prayed to their Lord to direct them in their pillage
To Indian captives, Pilgrims showed the extent of hate
To murder wasn’t enough, so they enjoyed to mutilate
So one Pequot man they literally tore limb-from-limb
Until Captain Underhill showed mercy and shot him
And by candid records written at that time, we’re told
Captives they decided not to kill, into slavery they sold
Other Indian tribes, to help, the Pilgrims did compel
And demanded body part of victims as success to tell
Some may teach we cannot know what motives they had
But their conduct speaks for itself and is so terribly bad
To viciously kill other people seemed to give them a thrill
Then they made it worse by claiming that it was God’ will
(The version of the Pilgrims we are taught is school is nearly a complete falsehood.
An example of spinning history. Sorry to crush any childhood delusions.)
When my brothers and I were young,
A very, very long time ago,
We had to entertain ourselves
And to make up our own show.
My brothers were riding bareback,
When they thought it might be fun
Instead of cowboys to be Indians.
With the thought the deed was done.
They stripped themselves and hung their clothes
On the bridle of each horse.
Their noble steeds were frightened
Of those flapping clothes, of course.
The horses ran and dumped those lads
Right into next ranch neighbor's yard.
They stood in bare embarrassment
While the neighbors laughed long and hard.
4/21/14
Indians in six
Without any tricks
The tribe will be taking charge
For the Cubs just a mirage
He pulls his hat down low against the chill of the storm,
The numb fingers that hold the reins forgot what it was like to be warm;
On a grassy knoll silhouetted against the rising sun,
Astride his pinto pony sits a Native American son;
The blowing snow and freezing rain steal his breath away,
But he knows that being a cowboy, it's worth the price that you pay;
A majestic, bronzed brave, feathers wafting in the breeze,
With arms uplifted in obeisance, the Great Spirit to appease!
A worn out calf is stretched across his lap on either side,
Her head resting on his thigh just going along for the ride;
He offers thanks to Him for the grandeur of creation,
And for the sun and moon from which he gathers inspiration;
Her momma just like him had been caught out in the gale,
It's just another story to add to the cowboy's tale;
He asks the Great Spirit to bless his arrow and bow,
That with true aim he can fell life-sustaining buffalo;
His face is hard and beaten from too many days in the sun,
From early mornings and late nights workin' til a job is done;
A tear rolls down his cheek thinking of his ravaged, sacred land,
The broken treaties and those who dealt with deceitful hand;
But being a working cowboy surely has its rewards,
Riding forgotten country that has never been explored.
With a sad heart he lowers his arms and slowly turns away,
Determined that from the paths of his fathers he will not stray.
By Tirzah Conway and Bob Hinshaw
The cowboy portion was written by Tirzah Conway and the Indian
portion by Bob Hinshaw
high-priests are never family guy
indians are never family guy
when working,one-man army
during holidays,solo wanderer
high-priests are never family guy
indians are never family guy
when peace,no-rain like ban
during war,nuke like destruction
high-priests are never family guy
indians are never family guy
when commited,magic like colonising
during rest,magic like relinquishing world
high-priests are never family guy
indians are never family guy
When I look on the white mans past
And the tribes that never did last
We have Reagan to thank
Indigenous profits, bank
Casinos, through the doors you'll pass
"Indian giver. When an Indian gives any thing, he expects to receive an equivalent, or to
have his gift returned."
"My slant differs somewhat slightly to the fact they were forced to give their lands away,
eventually time and Guilt made the modern white man see sense and return their lands somewhat"
There goes Pochahontas bent.
Sent with flaming arrows.
All that anger's meant to vent.
Just for faming harrows.
Lost to others who were sent.
Darrring Blaming sparrows.
Cost of all who met their fate
sought for claiming parrows.
All that land was meant to be.
Tribes of mainly darrows.
Lost to others much more fit.
flagrant ignorant farrows.
Brought to wrecken what they did.
Trading Indian Marrow.
Welcomed family to their nest.
Blaten Christian Narrow.
All for honor to the West.
English broken Saroh.
Brought back daughter to the East.
England's married ferro
Host for others who would seek
dangerous paton barrows.
Tsenacommacah Queen to take her crown
to English ratten tarots.
Beloved by all who'd sheikh the name
of English Cotton-Keurro.
Forsaked by all who'd come to claim
her Pochahotas Buenos.
When Shawn was 6
I heard about Indians that throw sticks
Me and my family were all up in the mountains
There was a big lake
I started walking around the lake
I heard my Father state
"Son you watch out for those stick Indians boy"
I yell back "Stick Indians"
So intrigued I wondered back
My Dad begins to tell me a story
About how my Uncle Dean and Aunt Lori
Were there at this same lake
And something came flying out from several of the trees
And it sure wasn't bees
It was sticks being thrown at them he said with a grin
So I was cautious carefully looking around
To see if any sticks were hitting the ground
As again I walked to the other side of the lake
Where a fisherman sat on the bank with his bait
I asked as I approached
"Have you seen any Stick Indians around"
Oh my God I just heard a stick hit the ground
The fisherman couldn't stop laughing he knew my Dad had, had me
So knowing I was fooled I ran all the way back to camp
And began punching my Dad in his arm
The whole camp was in an uproar!