Best Moccasin Poems
INDIAN INK
Indian Accent, form the whispers inside
Chanting from long ago
Echoes come and go
Losing time in a soft eternal glow
A beautiful and delicate autumn mountain scene
Dry blue eyes enchanting melodies!
Voices fall from the sky, rising hymns release
ancient demons CLINGING to the SOUL!
Darkness dwells under - gentle moonlight
Ancestors of the Spirit World!
Weaving Native smoke into the barren air
Indian spirits haunt the muddy Earth
Moccasin makers rise from underneath,
While guardians of dream catchers - print the Universe
Smooth thread from the outer world.
Arrowheads, Ivory gems, feathers, and illusions
I stumble upon a florid kiss....... My veins!
Run cold, like ice through a desert night.
Winds of enchanted drums - cry out for rain
Hollow chimes mesmerize, my ties, my eyes
An ancient rage begins to flare --- MADNESS!
takes place among the sanity of who I am
The spear of perfumed buffalo scrapes my skin
I remove the veil that covers my eyes
The hands that cover my ears
Drying the scalp that bleeds on my face
KINDRED IN EVERY WAY!
Raven silk braids and feathers on my hair
Dancing in a horrid hallucination of Peyote,
Waking up from the “American Dream.”
Holding out my arms, I am free, I can fly,
I AM A BIRD!
night snow
moccasin silent
drifts downward
landing without feet...
smiles in the sunlight
~ morning curtains peek
Above the Blue Ridge hills
flights of stealth owl
glide in from the moon.
Strange how a jungle is never quiet
but these Tennessee woods
sleepwalk along moccasin paths
watched over by the velvet foliage
of dreaming tree.
Owls are the true eagles here,
they hunt the thriving flesh
and distain all that no longer trembles.
They do not scavenge
but scatter prey before them
hunting the huntable on sonic waves.
Sometimes on a summer night I leave a cabin
to walk among the owls and nightjars.
To sit silently listening to the rustle and scurry
of a timid pulse and the silent wings
of its pursuer.
Occasionally a deer is startled
by an incautious movement
sending it crashing through the dark brush.
I do not carry a gun here, but if I did
I would never break the silence of these woods
for the voices of the dead and the living
sing in the air as softly as stars do
when reflected in the eyes of hunting owls.
In the wee hours of the morning
When the owls and imps were upon the marsh
We would take our old pirogue and paddle into the darkness
Our intent was to catch bullfrogs but anything was game
We were two young boys armed with BB guns and fishing poles
Headlights strapped hard and tight around our skulls
We searched the shore and stumps for eyes glowing in the night
Cypress trees towered overhead and occasionally the canopy would break
And we would see the clouds drifting quickly past and catch a glimpse of the moon
The paddles would never break the waters surface, as silence was our friend
Once we spotted our prey we would move in slowly and my brother would creep
Slowly to the bow. He would bend over the bow reaching out many feet in front of the boat and grab the frog behind the front legs and quickly stash it away into a burlap sack
Every catch brought us great pleasure, as this was no easy feat. We could have shot them with the BB guns but that was illegal and not nearly as fun. On occasion we would have to steal them from a water moccasin that was ready to strike. Those moments were like lighting and only steeled our intentions to catch more.
Once we had caught a dozen or so we would begin to look for other prey to catch or harass (we were teenagers and couldn’t help ourselves). The occasional raccoon caught out in the open was always fun to chase but never pleasurable to have in the pirogue with us. We learned that lesson the hard way one night when I pushed the boat into the fork of a cypress tree with an old mother coon eating a turtle. My brother and I fought like hardened sailors to keep her at bay but both ended up in the water and nearly sank the pirogue.
Other occasions found us pulling loggerhead turtles from the depths and trying to dispatch them before they bit off a finger.
We both have all our appendages to this day, but I swear Lord we tried, we really tried to lose them.
I never saw a frog leg jump from the pan, but the old man did make us slice them at the knees just to be sure we didn’t loose a piece of that meat that tasted better than any chicken I ever ate.
"Beyond lychgate lies future death" she says,
cucumbered eyes slid back under cauliflower sky,
brimming smithereens of harkening demons.
Been in saddle some time since torchlight began,
a child's silent castle ago. Chaos-times cut alleyways
through rose-lettered circles, reads trashy maid.
The journey fell sword north along shield path.
Peninsula late to temple-crawling fiend
and settle princess patter dust. Like trick glass
the moon palace emanates, a chain works
its crystal door. A shore of bane swims world-sick
with fire-wing ticks abreast, dragon-headed air:
happens to be, as the world burns...
Spring chickens looked at first
grasshopper leaves, blossoms.
Empty saddles of burnt Autumns
sit with moccasin thirst.
One ruby night ago, vampire night,
made movie set by tail light.
Wrench of fog came loose and fell.
Eye of moon too close, well...
Winged skeletal open sheet,
sanguine collar of his neat.
Began by serving up the meat.
Legs he tossed, and arms and feet.
A rise and shine ago, luster of sight,
out of scene the farmer goes.
Steel machine cranks horizon bright.
Scroll up the title i suppose.
Barn stall features dingy leather
where lasting gleam slips by candle.
Recall adventure, mural by weather.
Motion eye attached to handle.
Scoot across encrusted bucket,
folded over the eating depth.
Put filthy Kraken atop it,
swished around the damn mess.
Brave journal follows company
down the water-taped steps
to where there isn't any.
Sealed flame lights diver's quest.
A cave away, keys of hassle,
swim to shore with hopes unravel.
Brute force thunders far within.
Exact the sword to have them send.
Enter bar stool and order takeout.
Hostess charm enhanced the make out.
Her fuel adds flames to very fabric.
Her fists were fiery, action: magic.
Out of dust broom closet knelt good
ole nuke we ended up sneaking places:
peaceful village of the caring hood,
small reaches, to parking spaces.
Twisted hair in castle braids,
scoundrel bristles painting raids.
Countdown pistol official use,
punching bag for ogre face.
Two kittens sleep
aside as I write purring
each in a moccasin
For some reason
I really like to drive,
and ever since I was sixteen,
when I get behind the wheel
feel free and alive...
Only once had an accident
when I was seventeen,
pulling out too fast of the driveway,
into my parents car I careened,
thank God it was minor damage
and my Dad was able to pop
the dent out with a hammer,
got a stern look and talking to
but kept me out of the slammer,
Have driven some Dodges and Chevy
cars in the past, but lately drive
a Ford Focus because its
much better on the gas...
Have driven in about all of the
states on the east coast,
and when I go once a year
to visit some family
its destination L.I., New York,
Out west have driven through
Texas, Oklahoma, Arizona
and even California,
reason being my husband
back then went to a school
called UTI in Phoenix, Arizona...
Probably the most traveled
interstate in the east being I-75 and I-24,
which is one of the biggest
trucking routes that I know of by far,
and I truly admire truck drivers
driving their 18 wheelers
up and down the highways and interstates,
they just scare me a bit
when they get too close,
driving as if my car was
truck driver bait...
I even thought once about
becoming a truck driver
but that was a fleeting idea
that lost most of its appeal,
because the more I thought of it
wouldn't really like that career,
especially since they're all
probably pretty heavy from
constantly being behind the wheel,
and when I stop at those truck stops
I can't help but notice,
that the truck drivers not only
buy toothpaste for their teeth,
but also preparation H
for their hemorrhoids...
My son and I just came home
from Chattanooga, Tenn.,
and thank God we both
arrived home safely and in one piece,
because even though I love to drive
can't understand why people
fly by me doing 80 like in an emergency,
unless someone in the car
has to use a restroom or
is about to deliver a baby...
and lately when I drive
around Moccasin Bend
feel a little more on edge
and on the offensive,
because its like driving on the autobahn
or being in the Indy 500!
Remember, don't text and drive because you want to arrive alive…:)
P.S. Happy 60th Birthday Interstate System!
In a society where mood elevators thrive
Of Lady’s Slipper’s value we should not be deprived
Now as rare as the Native American culture
That found the medicinal plant promotes composure
Its moccasin shape made it even more attractive
To peaceful tribes who disdained the hyperactive
For just like stepping into a pair of comfy shoes
A Lady’s Slipper’s herbs can eradicate your blues
A treat for the eyes awaits in the early spring shade
Soft golden texture like skin on an Indian maid
Slippers
Ordinary looking
Brown
Moccasin type
Felt lining
A bit too tight.
The right size would be fine
But in their mashed way
They've become comfortable.
My worn slippers
Are in some perverse way
Like life?
I contend
With a lot
And hope for the best
But in the end
I often
Settle for less.
Copperheaded Snake
Highland moccasin dread
Kin to cottonmouth
It slides softly in the night sky,
That pale moccasin of the moon—
It lights up a snow-bleached prairie—
Whispering summer comes too soon.
We trace the trail of coyotes—
Avoid the dark dens of the bear—
The full light of your white footprint
Lures us now to your fatal lair.
Oh, we chant into the black dome
Of all the things that used to be—
There’s no more Indian summer—
Long gone are Cree and Cherokee.
Yet, still the silky stealthy tread
Brings back images bright and keen—
Of lost Native Americans
Where so few are now seldom seen.
But moons do not let us forget
All the wild blood shed on both sides—
As we trace steps of moccasins
To where the dark of the moon hides.
Yes, it walks gently in tall sky,
That faint moccasin of new moon—
So gently it illuminates
As we dance mutely to its tune.
Gone Now, Thousands Of Winters Once Endured
warm, blue-sky waters
hard winter, blackbirds frozen
moccasins left there
Robert J. Lindley, 4-06-2018
Haiku
Note- In my childhood dreams , I oft saw this place , this happy image of Spring, life renewal and little red-children at play. They , with no care of life's hardships, no knowledge of their future that was soon to be destroyed.
These, of my own bloodline, totally blind to the doom that was soon to befall them.
This world is dark, Death and Fate RULE OVER ALL.
ARE WE TRULY BETTER OFF- BEING SO-CALLED- "CIVILIZED"????
Native American-Moccasins. Traditional Native American clothing varied widely from tribe to tribe, but one nearly universal element was the moccasin, a sturdy slipper-shaped type of shoe sewn from tanned leather. ... All American Indian moccasins were originally made of soft leather stitched together with sinew.
It stretches mind to understand
How telescopes are time machines,
Have God-like powers quite profound,
To plumb sky depths like submarines.
To go where no man’s gone before,
To see a past that’s clearly been,
Discover facts before man’s birth,
Track photons in brave’s moccasin.
Light travels fast but stars aren’t close,
The nearest stars “light years” away,
So thinking you know they exist
Is really gross naivete.
A “nearest star” could die tonight,
Man wouldn’t know for four more years,
With super bright decaying flash,
A fellow traveler disappears.
Expanding shells of photon waves
Man thinks is star, just light from star,
While unbeknownst to human eye
Their fiery sire is now sidebar.
If speed of light hides past so well
Can telescope help us to know?
Well yes, but in another way,
For human eye sees mostly snow.
Where telescopes see stars, though dim,
Our bare eyes fathom mostly cloud,
As onion layers peel away
We learn much more what is allowed.
Each layer reveals history,
As ancient records birth things new,
How telescopes are time machines,
Not books, but God's dreams come to view.
Brian Johnston
December 15, 2016
Buttonhole Daisy
by Odin Roark
My city bud and I
How we love the long walks
Daisy beneath my chin
Tucked securely in a buttonhole
Me with discovery in my eye
Maneuvering ever changing trail signs
We walk these precipitous canyons
This forest without trees
‘cause that’s what a New Yorker does
and if nature be your thing
you take it with you
My feet tread upon sidewalk and road
Concrete and asphalt
Candy wrappers and dog doings
As safely harnessed in
Daisy wriggles for joy
Knowing it’s only for a day
But it’s her bucket list
Together we drink in
Vast canyons of rock and nesting pitches
Forged atop dry beds
Where once flowers and soil aired freely
Fowl and beast danced in synchronous survival
Unaware evolution’s drumbeat was creating
Esplanades of another kind
Here where once crept moccasin-feet
Ever conscious of disturbing precious surroundings
Remain but a buried imprint beneath
Urban scree and mountainous bastions
Afternoon brings overhead sunshine
Peeking into the ravines
Where ant-like motion smothers the surface
Scurrying left and right
Many going nowhere
Still the light reaches us
Warming our journey
Through dens and caves of onlookers
Perhaps wondering as well
Where did all the trees go?
By nightfall
Daisy begins to droop her head
A long day taking in so much
Has left little room for the jungle
That darkness of a city’s life
Where red and blue lights flash incessantly
Alternating with sirens
And blasts of police car Urp Urps
Giving habitual warning
Don’t attack
Don’t hit
Don’t fire
Don’t exercise evolution’s beast-like modernity
By sunrise
We arrive back at our own brownstone cave
Where sitting next to the vase of her kin
Waiting a turn to take their first time walk
Their last time remembrance
Where something besides captivity in a vase
Will fill their final hours
I take a very droopy daisy from my buttonhole
Lay her to rest beneath another page of my diary
Lift the pen to record our day
Smile at the other daisies
Knowing their bucket list will be filled as well
And begin my daily entry
She loves me
She loves me not
She loves me…
Undocumented Warrior
By George W. Clever-----2002
I sneaked into this country on moccasin feet
No one knew I was here
Till one day someone asked
Where is your C.D.I.B. card?
Putting on my best stoic mask I said
Do I need one to buy my beer?
Smart ass!
“You need one to prove you are a “skin”
A “red man”, “Indian ”, “Chief”
Feds will decide if you are a blanket man
You do look a little tan
Perhaps as an Italian, Porto Rican, Chicano
You could pass.”
My Grandmother said that too
Will I need a card to paint my face?
Straight dance with some grace
Or two step and stomp dance
In my buckskin pants
“B.I.A. will approve your case
Just send the documents of your worth
Ancestors listed on the Dawes rolls
DNA, Bible lists, Parent’s place of birth.”
I think Lenape people in the past
Never wrote on things that last
School told us they could neither read nor write
X marks on the treaties lead to many a fight
Sign your name or make a mark
Sold our land your birth right for a start
No vote for you
No office holder
No property deed
Land thieves got bolder and bolder
The PA “Stay Behinds” got together
Declared an Eastern Lenape Nation
Used their sovereign right
Approve my application
Now my card says EDN Lenape man #3405
Do you think the Feds with DNA tests and C.D.I.B. cards will tattoo us like the Jews?