Best Scalped Poems
We loved the land
We tilled the earth, under sun we toiled
We pledged our souls, to nature’s whim
The King of France none to pleased
We took the sacraments
We held our faith, mournful to fates embrace
The British demanded a new oath we take
And scalped we were, both sides did partake
Our villages burned, our fields afire
Our woman and children, in hunger perished
We feared Monckton, a hunter of death
And from him, to ships hold, deported at best
We preyed to Canada, to lend us a hand
Evangeline an angel of our land
The darkened forests, to where we fled
Became bloody in battles, and turned to red
For Redcoats wandered in search of scalps
As Father Le Loutre preached unheavenly deeds
He was bloodthirsty and in skirmishes his evil flourished
His Mikmaq warriors helped rivers flow to blood
We lived along the rivers edge
We fought them all, to no one did we pledge
As serfs we served, to whom did rule
In the end, the forest sang our quiet eulogy
The vessels sailed from Halifax
With their human cargo of Partisans
Off to the West Indies, and a new land
Disease triumphed where Lord Laurence failed
And so the voyage, onward went
The traditions of Grand Pre, to Louisiana was lent
And there they settled, peace at last
As angels of their battles, in sacrifice did rest
High on remote cliffs,
wildflowers huddle
between
wind scalped boulders,
heads kept down,
their roots weaved
into crevices
where a little soil has been
won from rain wash
and wear. They grow
surrounded by a constant
howl, just above
the clawing fingers
and thrown up fury
of waves.
Deep
in their creviced home,
they snatch only
a brief, upward glimpse
of a passing sun,
life confined more
to a damp sliver of shade
sandwiched between stone.
No broad vistas
but a claustrophobic crush,
a cramped space
from where they gasp
for freedom.
For centuries
they have lived like this.
Generations have come
and gone, the living
nourished by the flesh
of the dead.
Countless human wars
have been fought, lost
and won. Year after year
they bloom, yearning
to be noticed, fed
on the merest ration
of light shed
by a merciless sun.
Thank you, they cry,
Thank you.
I walk the streets of heaven
all alone
blinded by the alabaster
GOLD
searching for the God
of endless names.
The streets are empty
under quarantine
the clouds all closed
no angels in the fluff.
While hell is flaming still
in merriment.
I wonder - was I chosen
or just sent?
There are no children here
they took a pass
refusing to accept
salvation's splash.
All the flags are white
no rainbows here
wherever GOD went to
he isn't here.
I somehow breeched the barriers
of faith
and scalped a season ticket
to this place.
The angel's wings are tied
behind their backs
cuz they refused to wear
the foolish masks.
They say the thunder's
just GOD getting grouchy
Because he's not as powerful
As Dr FAUCI.
John G. Lawless
5/31/2020
Broken but disbelieving, we wait
for any doctor to say it’s just blood
as the gray man greens, throws-
up in triage. A Goth teen holds Band-Aids
to her scalped thumb. Somebody loses
patience, explodes, Why are the sick
treated this way? Doors dilate & the sick
smell of antiseptics greets a waitress
wearing a steak knife. We are cribbed by loss;
gone, teeny heartbeats as I pass blood
clots. A junkie limps, unaided,
to the bathroom, another throw
away human, unlike a tot thrown
from a fire. Unforgettable, that sickening
sound, shrill scream after scream raids
the room of complaints. Hell won’t wait
for examination, I learn, as bloodshot
eyes meet mine. Hope is lost.
Patients stoically sit. Some lose
change to a vending machine. A cop throws
a look to his charge. Words drift, bloody
stool, x-rays, concussion. Sick talk to the sick.
My hand is gently squeezed. No one else waits-
out a miscarriage. I watch an aid
swab vintage tiles, restack HIV/AIDS
pamphlets as if they’re a deck of cards, like loss
is just some hand dealt. Somewhere, a mother waits
for her boy to sleep, will wash bottles, throw
out dirty diapers. Somewhere, a heartsick
father releases bloodcurdling
sobs because a body was found. Blood
is both bond & amputation. I took first aid
so I know why the sickest
get priority. Besides, we've already lost
each other, little one. Our separation has thrown
me off balance. Why couldn't you wait?
As if I need hearing aids, a nurse throws
my name out to the sick, the lost, ER roommates.
No. I'll never be ready. Let the bloody stirrups wait...
There was a Red Indian Chief
his name was Raging Waters
he lived a pleasant life
surrounded by his four wives
They took care of all his needs
gave him strong sons and daughters
he ruled mainly in peace not war
apart from raids on the Black Hawks
It was one of his joys to sneak up
and steal their very fine horses
and to capture some of their squaws
these he could trade for guns and whiskey
As time went on he grew very troubled
he consulted with the medicine man
who sent him to the hot bath teepee
there smoking his pipe he relaxed
Soon the visions started to appear
war was on the horizon he could see
also a squaw so comely he lost his heart
he left the teepee and sent out scouts
They scoured the lands searching for her
at last one came back with the news
she belonged to the Crows and was promised
gathering up a raiding party, he set off
At dead of night they sneaked into position
then rushed the camp catching the Crows off guard
they killed the warriors and took the squaws,
children and horses too and well tanned hides
Now there had to be a comeback from this deed
Mighty Hawk gathered his tribes of Crows
and set off for Raging Waters camp for revenge
barely escaping he fled for the mountains
There with just a handful of warriors and squaws
he set out to build up the tribe once more
when at last they had enough warriors
he set out to recapture that beautiful squaw
Never had he forgotten her soft lips on his
driven wild by his desire, he lost all caution
warned by his medicine man it would end badly
he paid no heed and set out to make war
The Crows soon heard he was on his way
and set a terrible trap in between the hills
Raging Waters and his warriors were cut down
the unlucky ones were scalped then given to the squaws
Who beat them and treated them harshly as slaves
thus a lesson was learned do not take promised squaws
Raging Waters name was in time lost in the annuals
his tribe no more, just forgotten ghosts in time
inspired by soup mail chat with Sandra
Seven sorry soldiers
Hiding in a ditch
Errol caught some shrapnel
And then there were six
Six sorry soldiers
Barely glad to be alive
Barrett took a bullet
And then there were five
Five sorry soldiers
As brave as trained to be
Geoff and Tom stood on a bomb
That left only three
Three sorry soldiers
Curt and Blare and Ron
Blare was scalped from a turret
The other two went on
Two sorry soldiers
Ronald T and Curt
Curtis had to press right on
When Ronald B got hurt
Just one sorry soldier:
Curtis M McGee
One of seven not yet in heaven
That sorry soul is me
Inspired by a storyline from a show. The Native American tribal culture is beautiful. This is written in honour of their Light.
Death of a warrior
By Michelle Morris
11/08/2023
Lay me down
Under the big sky
Where my ancestors
Can see my soul fly
I knew it was always
Going to end this way
I've lived my life
A warrior brave
Shot and scalped
By the dark one
The death of a warrior
Is on his conscience
We all make our choices
We all live our fates
Our destiny and lessons
Are left in our wake
My honour and peace
My legacy for my tribe
Our bodies may stay here
But our souls dance with the Light
© Michelle Morris, 2023
Went for a haircut, forgot to say “a trim”
Nearly got scalped, ticked me off to the brim
Kids yelled wahoo
Big rocks I threw
Next time I'll tear 'em apart limb by limb
she's my apache...shootin arrows of anger straight through my heart of hate
she's my apache...she devistates like hurricanes,twisters and earthquakes
she's my apache...she scalped my spirit and seared my soul
she's my apache...she turns a pile of pure garbage into living mounds of gold
she's cold as ice and hot as fire
she owns my love my lust my disgust my desire
we make love on a bed of roses set to fire by desert heat
she puts the flames out with her sweat and tears bad beasts up with her teeth
she's not discreet but they just don't make her breed any better
she's my apache...wildflower wrapped in barbwire
I didn’t think I would miss him,
and I was right.
There are brown spots in the yard where
I scalped it with my lawnmower,
I don’t care, it’s just grass
and it grows to fast anyway.
He would have been sure to point
that out to me, if he’d hadn’t gone.
I’m glad his son took his old dog.
I can fix that hole in the fence now
that his dog won’t be coming
through it to beg scraps from me.
I sure won’t miss his bad haircut
and I’m glad I won’t have to laugh
at his poor, worn-out jokes --anymore
now that he’s gone.
I won’t have to show him
how to play dominoes, or work
on his beat-up car, or
fix his antique tiller before
we replant that garden in his back yard.
I will miss our tomatoes
now that he’s gone.
There ain’t never been much love ‘twixt them two out on the range—
Seems cowmen has always thought that them sheepherders were strange.
Then one day in rides a poke by the name of Tom Campbell—
What’s lookin’ for a job, if some outfit likes to gamble.
The foreman asked him straight out what is his experience—
He says he done some sheep herdin’ and he can mend a fence.
Well, that foreman was Bob Barkley – ‘bout tough a man there is—
He nods his head – says Jake will show him which remuda’s his.
Seems things went hunky-dory and there weren’t no call for lip—
Tom caught on fast, knew his stuff – but still smelt like ol’ sheep dip!
Then one night out of the blue, Tom tells us all he’s a Scot—
He’s proud of his heritage and the long blood line he’s got.
But it’s best some thing’s are left undone – they can make you wilt—
Yet what was Tom thinkin’ when next mornin’ he wore his kilt?!
They’s no prejudice in that bunch, but I sure confesses—
We ain’t too keen ‘bout them cowboys what likes to wear dresses!
Then big Bob Barkley - it seems he goes and blows a gasket—
And we is all sure Tom is headin’ for a pine casket!
“Manly cowpokes just don’t wear skirts!” Big Bob he yelled real vexed—
Then he kicked ol’ Tom’s tail bone from one mountain to the next!
Tom - he lived - though he limps from a break in his lower back—
But there sure enough is one certain thing that he does lack.
Tom done learned his lesson as he stares through the campfire smoke—
If something’s already fixed, don’t flaunt it or it’ll get broke!
And Barkley – he turned odd and wears Tom’s kilt like a scalped hide—
Sayin’ it’s how he keeps in touch with his feminine side!
I didn’t think I would miss him, and I was right.
There are brown spots in the yard where
I scalped it with the lawnmower,
I don’t care, it’s just grass
and it grows to fast anyway.
He would have been sure to point
that out to me if he’d been here.
I can fix that hole in the fence now
that his old dog won’t be coming
through it to beg scraps.
I am not going to miss
that old dog either.
And I sure won’t miss
that bad hair cut he wore for years.
I’m glad I won’t have to laugh
at his poor old worn jokes anymore.
I won’t miss having to show him
how to play dominos, or work
on his old beat-up car, or
fix his worn-out tiller before
we replant that garden in his back yard.
I will miss them tomatoes thou,
now that he’s gone.
As the "Legends of the Fall" unfold
One story stands out, needs to be told
When Samuel heads out to fight a world war
Brother Tristan is sent to be his protector
Young Samuel's motives were clear and pure
And the ravages of war he chose to endure
But to a barb wire fence he clung, then fell
As enemy rifles cast their deathly knell
Renegade Tristan resolved to seek vengeance
As he watched his brother's soul sent to the heavens
He not only killed enemies, but scalped them as well
Then returned to the site where Samuel fell
As taught by a Native American wise man
He removed Samuel's heart, brought it home again
To bury on a serene Montana hilltop
But the tears in his eyes, Tristan could not stop
For Samuel and Suzzanah would never be wed
And Tristan cried so hard, his tears ran red
He felt like a failure, his world fell apart
But at least he'd returned Samuel's precious heart
To the family ranch where his brothers and he
Had been raised by their father so lovingly
Legends live on and this much I surely know
Brad Pitt stole my heart as well as the show
Ghost Santa Stealth came upon a dead night dreary,
His intention was madness and I was quite weary
He took bits of my mind, but not in the usual way
He chomped it out of my fleshy brain dendrite gray.
I felt him chewing, his masticating was angry and mean.
He was a destructor, a Christmas devouring, ugly machine.
He took my ideas and threw them outside in the snow.
He burned up my house, not fast, really slow.
I was trying to tell the firemen, but I could not speak.
He had eaten the part of my brain where language doth peak.
Might as well have scalped me. He chewed slow and gave me a fright.
I was terrified of this devil, that Christmas Eve Night.
Time is of the essence, when I get my hair cut,
Impatiently waiting in turn, gives me dandruff,
Barber’s damn slow, chatting, making small talk
Oh hurry up man, I’m in need of a new Mohawk
Three more ahead of me, staring at the walls,
At least two of them, already suspiciously bald
But the other one, he has me seriously scared
Wears a big long coat, his hairy feet laid bare
At last it’s my turn, barber asks what’ll it be
A fantastic punk style, nice and spiky suits me
So off he goes, razors and scissors a blazing
Going cold on top, I’m sure I feel him shaving
Ok we’re all done, that’ll be twenty five bucks
I look in the mirror, to see a scalped Friar Tuck
What the hell I yell, that’s nothing like a punk
Oh dear thought you said, a monastic monk
I’m a holy show now, of that you can be sure
All I require is a robe, go with my new tonsure
By
David Kavanagh