Best Moccasins Poems
We Are One
Dear Ancient Sister
I hear your distant calls finding me on a gentle breeze
You have lived in my dreams for many seasons
My voice
Your voice
My soul
Your soul
And our Coming of Age
I have always known you...
I have heard your
Quiet whispers echoing in
The night coming close to me
I call to you ...
Let me be a part of your breath
I have always known your wounds and sorrow
I see the light and magic in your eyes...
The pain you carry so eloquently
I see your reflection in the clouds above
Carrying your soul wound on your sleeve
I see the deep crevasses and lines
In your grandmother’s hands
I hear the secrets beneath the earth of
Your grandfather’s footsteps
I see your reflection in the twilight
Of the evening... against pink watermelon hills
Your voice beckoning me onward closer to you
I see you in the moon and stars
Your buckskin dress adorned with
Ceremonial beads
Abalone shell against your forehead
The dirt beneath your moccasins
Grateful for the kiss of your dancing feet
I hear the echo in the distance of songs
The Elders sang...
During their passage here
You are born into a woman
Before my eyes and heart
Before your tribe
Before nature
A wise new feline
A mystical power with endless allure
A force that lifts and unites us all
As one
Your rays blessing us and leaving
A welcome imprint on our hearts
My Ancient sister
I drink in your wisdom and grace
I fly on your wings
You have shown me your world
Watching you dance
Becoming you for moments in time
Your silhouette etched by
The wild flames behind you
A glow radiating into
The night sky
The stories of your Ancestors
Filling the air with
Words and lessons and song
Notes sung into clenched fists
With bloodstained hands
The children and animals
Sensing all that was
And all that will ever be...
The call of a distant bird
The thumping of your cane on
The hungry earth
Keeping time with
The movements of your body
You will look back on this
Day as you walk with the
Same cane down the path of
Old Age...
Your wisdom
Cupping your heart gently
Ancient Sister of mine
I am in gratitude for
Your strength and courage
The kiss of your words and
The teardrops of your loss
Susan Lawrence
Copyright 2020
Original Artwork
Susan Lawrence
Rainbow Forest
Indian maiden, resting on the verdant, grassy, shore.
White leather, beaded dress.
In moccasins, does dream, she would confess, longing
for my happiness.
For now, dreams of days of serenity galore!
She,of unknown beauty, does not know.
Of how lovely, she is, truly as gorgeous as the
diamondesque sparkling stream.
She, was created of glistening metallic dreams.
As an ultramarine light show.
Amazing Star is her name, in this universe aglow.
She of ebonied, flowing hair like a waterfall dream.
She is my Spirit Guide in the land of peaceful, moonbeams.
I meet with her, and other animals, who seem to flow.
Oh, a most fulfilling, flute filled show!
6~7~2021
Legends of tribes roam across the plains
Bold spirits guarding their own mighty land
They dance and offer songs to ease lost reign
And nourish life when soldiers flag on,
Encircling a bonfire with shaman’s praise.
The whisper of the winds gives them strength
An Indian terrain, they protect
Oh, hear drumbeats pound a mighty roar
As chieftain gathers the arrow’s quest
For the call of blood, for freedom’s dreams.
Legends passed from generations
Navajos marginalized, tales unfold
When duskfall speaks of native wisdom
To recount strides in brave moccasins
Marking prints from whisper of the winds.
'In the Name of Love for Country -
and Brian's Select 6
Comes silently
on sorrel moccasins
roosted on tortoiseshell
of root cellar
singing, stumbling
in numb imaginings
lit with half-light
vegetables
squeezed in jars
of russet and avocado
above
a cornice of sky
split with laughter
searching
for broken arrowheads
gold and silver among leaves
air billowed white
from lips
soft frail bones
of snowflakes
magically appear
scattering in breath
taken away
into apple night
Wise Grandfather Shaman,
I am pure of Heart,
I bathe beneath the Moon,
and dry beneath the Sun,
I listen to the Wind,
I run with the Deer,
I hunt with the Wolves,
I fish with the Eagles and Hawks,
I ride with the Wild Paints,
And roam with the Buffalo,
I grow with Grandmother Tree,
Ever learning from her Wisdom,
I am skilled in Warrior Ways,
A strong Hunter,
A compassionate Listener,
A patient Tracker,
I have gathered with the other women,
Contributing to our tribes growth and strength,
I leave no tracks of moccasins in the soft clay,
My heart is pure,
And I wish to continue my journy,
Wise Grandfather Shaman,
Allow me to enter your lodge,
I will smoke from the sacred pipe,
My heart is pure.
I walk to you
softly upon this earth
among things great and small
remembering one great Spirit
created us all...
You walk in beauty
my eyes always seeking
the red and purple sunset
beholding in your eyes
pastel and calico I can't forget...
I dance for you at dawn
upon our bed of evening light
riding on a dark cloud
praying for your female rain
in a house of pollen I chant out loud...
Hey yaw, hey yaw
In my house of evening twilight
in our dreams made of dark clouds
you in your moccasins of dark clouds
dance your way to me
as you chant for me out loud...
Hey yaw, hey yaw...
The sun receded quietly on a relaxing siesta, as
Calm clouds of the mid-afternoon smiled henced,
The beat of the drums provideth dancing rhythm
As she moved in pure elegance with harmony, to
A style of danced buoyantly bouncing in melody.
Crafted beadworks accented her warmth charm,
Under her delicately brown-jeweled moccasins
The grass provideth such a natural cushion,
As Angular unique flexings of her gentle knees
Resonated like an eagle’s stealthy landing
Quietly in its nests with an eye on a nice prize.
She tingled as the sound of bells jingled
Sending pure melodic rhythm to ears—many!
Whilst she turned in an elegantly slow motion
Fringes from her shawl swayed air of warmth.
The balls of her feet moved in slight degrees as
Her heels touched Mother Earth softly in harmony,
She smiled as the judges watched intently. Like
A graceful dove she floated with precision—uniquely!
Her buckskin regalia trimmings—so singed softly!
As she danced in the sunset evening's twilight;
She created an energetic circle of life’s fire
Yet, never raised her ceremonial feathered fan,
Whilst in clear focus emerged from the dance
Regal styles of proud cultural Native heritage
A contrastingly exquisite fine female figure
Arousing sights in the soft evening’s twilight,
Dispelling the uncertainly to even look twice,
Elegantly noble and much marvelously nice:
She was naturally—First Woman!
~~~~~~~~~**********~~*~~~~~~~~~
Written During Oneida Nation Annual 2010
Independence Weekend Pow-wow Celebration
Host Drummers – Bear Creek
Oneida, Wisconsin, Bordering Green Bay
~~~~~~~~~**~~*********~~~~~~~~~
Won Honorable Mentioned Prize
Images Contest
Sponsored by Frank Herrera
7/15/10
~~~~~~~~~**~~*********~~~~~~~~~
black-water canals
where alligators patrol
and moccasins wait
where starved mosquitoes
invade in hoards at twilight
thirsty for fresh blood
at morning's first light
dawn illuminates cypress
birds announce sunrise
perilous beauty
on display in the Wetlands
and all is at peace
~~Upon the banks of big piney slough,
I recall a picnic with old blue,
and my granddaughter at age two.
and many blood sucking critters too.
~For a very short while we did picnic,
then we would bait our hooks and pick ticks.
while the ants carried our food off in nit picks.
Gets no better than this, can’t beat it with sticks!
~Mosquitoes demanded their rightful share,
for of the blood of we humans they are an heir.
Some dudes have no flair for this type of affair,
after a day or two they would need repair.
~Moms who let babies grow up to be rednecks,
raise children who can fish and pick blood ticks,
and kill big water moccasins with little sticks,
while picking polk salet for supper on picnics.
~Having caught a big flathead cat or two,
I called granddaughter Sue and my dog blue,
for I remember quit clearly when Sue was new,
was the dog days of summer, ninety two!
For and in Honor of: Carol Brown
And Contest: Picnic
Wandering through the bayou,
wrapped in its eerie embrace.
Mysterious and strange--
a magical place.
Never seeming to change,
even as seasons come and go,
swampy waters ebb to and fro.
Like long-lost daughters,
gnarled courtly cypress trees
rise from black, murky waters.
Draped lovingly in Spanish moss,
swaying softly in the breeze.
Butterflies float across
as gentle winds ruffle their leaves.
Bouquets of wild hibiscus fill the air,
mingled with sweet azaleas blooming there.
Bullfrogs croak and crickets chirp--
the bayou is awash with soothing music.
As dragonflies flit the cattails, elusive,
water moccasins slither at your feet,
or lurk above you in the trees.
Just as the sun begins to sink low,
comes the faint sound of a fiddle and bow.
The gator comes out of hiding,
rising from the dark waters below--
looking for his meal and smiling.
With snapping jaws, a deer is caught,
then taken below, where he will rot.
The moon rises high into the night,
as fireflies glow in the twilight.
A voodoo queen slips into sight--
with gnarled hands, she rolls the bones.
Whispering cryptic words, she softly moans,
tenderly caressing her snake,
wrapped around and about her neck.
A coon hound whoops it up.
The gnarled trees cast spooky shadows.
Is that the ghostly apparition of Jean Lafitte--
who managed to escape prison and gallows?
Did you bury your treasure in the water or weeds?
As the wind moans softly, it’s time to turn home,
where you can fill your belly with spicy gumbo.
Alesia Leach © 10/2014
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
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.
Kwe’ explained he’s an elder, teaches the
ways of his people from their hearts – stories
and songs; spiritual rituals link
us all – we are all connected, beasts too.
Dedicate songs played to our ancestors,
their wisdom and knowledge has been passed on
from generation to generation.
Kwe’ swept arms wide as if embracing all
Nature, “here Spirit resides, we believe.
here for reflection and observation –
meditate on interconnectedness.”
Kwe’ picked up his flute, resumed playing tunes –
owl and coyote hooted and howled then
other forest creatures added their songs
creating a symphony of diverse
voices in unison – inter connect.
by Carol Fillmore
for Tell His Story contest
sponsored by Constance La France
^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^
We are at the junction of the Little River and the Ottawa River,
journeying into the Canadian wilderness by canoe, the
paddles stroke slowly into the water, paddles heavily incised
with vines and flowers, and I am dipping my hair into the deep blue.
Spirit, is a native man in a crisp white shirt, his head shaved
but for one braid with feathers, his blue leggings enthrall
me, intricate beaded moccasins are sublime, his leather
pouch and glass jewelry lovely, I think I love him . . .
Falcon, a beautiful man with raven hair falling down his back,
his feathers are fluttering in the wind, he has dangling earrings,
a red cape edged with gold threads, his beads are exquisite,
and he is telling me stories and smiling at me . . .
I could love him, and I am dipping my hair into the deep blue.
O, how can this Ojibwa girl choose, I love them both . . .
I truly do, but luckily for me this is a dream and I can love both.
^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^
_____________________
December 10, 2012
Poetry/Narrative/A Dream Comes Floating
Copyright Protected, ID 12-441-915-10
All Rights Reserved, 2012, Constance La France
O, Chief Spirit,
thank you for the harvest
that fills our granaries
to the brim.
Thank you for the blue sky
that fills our souls with dreams
and beauty.
Thank you for the waters
that replenish us ceaselessly.
Thank you for the rain that brings
life to our crops.
Thank you for the snow that makes our children
leave happy footprints with their moccasins.
Thank you for our parents, brothers, sisters,
strangers, and most importantly,
our ancestors.
Thank you, Chief Spirit,
for remembering us throughout
our existence.....
Date of Entry: 8/17/2016