Best South Dakota Poems
Of course on this night we are supposed to be asleep so Santa
could come, but we hadn't been home from Midnight Mass very long, and the
invigorating cold was not conducive to sleep. Even the hot chocolate did not do
much to help sedate the excitement.
We were hoping for sleds that year. The snow was perfect for
sledding especially like we did it. We tied out sleds on behind the car or pick up
and were pulled through the hills. We got our sleds. My dad and my uncle made
them for us.
No television and only in the late years were we allowed to use the
radio. Batteries were to expensive for frivolous use. We spent many hours
playing cards or games.
I took time out and went to high school and college and got my
teaching certificate.
My aunt taught there only one year after the Federal Government
turned the schools over to the local government.
The last time I was back there the out buildings had been moved and
Indian families were living in them. The school was dirty and unkept.
Now the school is gone. The ancestors who once walked these
dusty plains are gone. The Indians who were there when I was a child are gone.
They are Ghosts. Ghosts whose faces can be seen in the clouds.
Ghosts who still chop wood on those sub zero nights. And the drums we heard
in the middle of the nights are still beating. They beat as strongly as the heart
beats in a healthy body. The laughter of the children still echoes under the
bridge.
The life blood of a culture, of a nation grows thin. The Battle of
Wounded Knee was the last battle to be fought between the white man and the
Indian on the northern plains. It's cries still echo across the land.
My foot prints in the creek did not last any longer than those they left
in the dust. But in my memories, this mile and a half by three quarter mile haven
still lives. And will live forever as a piece of unrecorded history.
There were seven Indian Government schools. All built alike. The
one I'm writing about is Spring Creek. He Dog, Soldier Creek and White River,
Grass Mountain, Two Kettle, and Black Pipe were the other schools. The
Headquarters for these schools was at Rosebud, South Dakota.
On some summer evenings we were able to talk our mothers into
hiking to the lookout tower. We followed the ankle deep sandy trail road to the
cliff north of the school., A canyon lay at the foot of the tower but we climbed the
bluff. I don't know why we didn't explore the canyon unless it seemed dark and
sinister. The footing was better once we reached the summit. The closer we got
to the tower the taller it grew and standing at the foot of the steps looking up was
easier than getting to the top and looking down. My mother didn't usually make it
to the top because she didn't like heights. But she didn't mind being left behind
this time. We never could get into the building at the top because it was locked,
but we could climb the steps to the very last one. Even my little sister managed
to elude mom and followed us to the top.
From the bluff we could look down on the garden. My aunt grew a
huge garden and canned the produce for the hot meals served the school
children. We kids didn't work in the garden very often, but we looked for the arrow
heads and fossils. Which, I suspect the adults probably considered the best
place for us.
At the end of the road, living in shack, was Old Lady Grease. I have a
vague recollection of seeing her. Tiny, frail, wrinkled and gray headed is all I can
remember.
In spring and fall we were in school in Kansas.
It's Christmas now. Cold and usually snowy. We were in a winter
wonder land.
I'm standing at the fire escape window. The ghostly pale full moon is
illuminating the naked arms of the trees as they shiver in the wind, swaying to
and fro as if dancers in a ballet. I listen to the winter sounds. The frigid air
enhances their sharpness. The ax's thud echoes up the canyon as one of the
Indians across the river chops another supply of wood. One of his peers beats
on the drum. It is one-thirty a. m. but the thin walls of the tents do not keep the
cold out. Day or night this chore must be attended to for survival.
There’s a soft glimmer of day on the horizon
As a vanquished sun is swept away by dusk’s dark flow
With a slender slip of a cloud stretched North to the South
That floats on the sweetness, the texture of marmalade glow.
Dark clouds above me are still catching last light
And the air is still fresh from a passing shower.
Overhead there are magnificent canyons of sky,
Clouds eroded by meandering rivers of air,
Untouched stars shining through,
And flashes of lightning that break dance further South
Reminding less attentive humans feelings are electric too,
Random flashes, like a child remembering how to cry
Without understanding when it is effective.
And the crickets are singing their harsh waves of sound
With combined voice that could wake up the dead
Or float lovers to their dreams with strange musicality.
What a chorus! It’s like they’re all suitors of one woman
Hanging out in the darkness under her window
Their legs resonating in an orgy of praise.
Is there anything alive that does not ooze sensuality?
I’m driving myself to a late dinner in Pierre
And there’ll be no one waiting to greet me,
But loneliness is not the same as being lonely
I even stop as I’m driving to write down these words
For when my muse speaks I almost always listen
For the music of the night is so fragile,
Though her words are my constant companions.
Like raindrops they cool me with their touch, to my senses glisten,
The thoughts she brings are flowers that follow mountain streams
And her rhymes, even when it’s cloudy, are stars in my night.
Arriving back in Blunt, the cricket song, seems somehow softer,
Though hardly less insistent, cries “Don’t you know we love you?”
I insert some extra lines and thoughts into what has come before,
Into an already flowing work, dollops of color added madly,
Just more cricket noise, hoping to touch your heart.
I wish that I had stopped once more beside the road as I returned.
“That was such a beautiful thought! What was it?” I wonder sadly!
Apparently the female that male crickets seek has not chosen yet.
But with this poem my day is done.
Brian Johnston
September 7, 2015
the home of the brave
indian caves,exploring time
lets go.we can walk
dear Mr. maniacally-raving-mad-
repugnican-
representative
Daugaard,
if a kid in your school has a gun &
your teacher has a gun,
and the teacher fires first,
or the kid fires first &
somebody misses &
hits other kids
promoting a domino effect of a
bloodbath,
will you think then
that the idea of
putting guns in the hands of
teachers,
might’ve been the
wrong mother****ing way to go?
not quite with me yet, *******?
hmmm…
how about if your armed teacher has
a problem with an unarmed student one day &
s/he got dumped the night before,
came in drunk, may have a temper problem
that slid under the radar…or maybe,
just maybe, they are ****ing nutbags
themselves…
now that teacher pulls the trigger,
because you know what…being a teacher
wasn’t really what they had wanted to be
all their lives…instead,
they just wanted to make a mark,
secretly &
now is the time which they’ve chosen to do so…
will you regret making South Dakota the first
****ing hick state,
DUMB ENOUGH,
to arm their teaching staff
(that is, ON THE BOOKS…
yes, we know that there are dumb hick
schools out there that have already allowed
cowboy teachers to strut their stuff off the
books with guns…)?
still not with me, ****stick?
let’s put it in a little equation for you…
kid with a gun + a teacher with a gun
DOES NOT EQUAL
LESS GUNS IN SCHOOLS.
kid with a gun + a teacher with a gun
DOES NOT EQUAL
LESS VIOLENCE IN SCHOOLS.
teacher with a gun + students without guns
EQUALS
GODDAMNED
FEARMONGERING &
ALL THE MORE REASON FOR A KID TO
BRING A GUN TO SCHOOL.
In the cold and rolling hills of a barren South Dakota,
On bleak and uncaring reservations of the Lakota,
Live both the ancient and the young of a once proud native race—
Living with America, whiskey and a fall from His grace.
We now bring contributions of food and clothes on Christmas Eve—
Given by those who know their plight as we smile and slowly leave.
Over a hundred years now and their progress still seems too slow—
A once noble people clinging to a past they’ll never know.
And what is the price of progress when we conquered the Old West
And took the proud Indian down a trail that we thought was best?
And what of free range, a way of life – the country we stood for?
We hid it on reservations so it would haunt us no more.
So we ride past reservations – think that we have done our best,
As time erases memories of a people and the West—
Once a year we sooth our egos and add money to the pot,
Hoping time heals miseries and we can keep what we have got.
In the cold and rolling hills of a barren South Dakota,
On bleak and uncaring reservations of the Lakota,
Live both the ancient and the young of a once proud native race—
Living with America, whiskey and a fall from His grace.
It was mid-October, several years ago
In some little town in South Dakota, can't remember the name
An hour before sun down, still some day light
I was filling the truck with fuel, getting ready to go
All of a sudden, the sky turned black as they came
Must have been a lake near by as the started their flight
I was hauling a load of horses back east somewhere
Never saw any Canadian Geese that close before
They were like fighter jets getting ready for their flight that night
I just stood there looking with a dumb stare
Starting forming a big circle, seemed like more and more
I knew that they were getting ready for their way out of sight
An old farmer told me, "They have been at the lake since yesterday"
"Resting up for the next leg of their southerly migration"
And now they were starting to form a perfect V
The leader was honking the loudest, as they made their way
So primitive, yet so precise, their natural navigation
To me it was a great sight to see
Who knows, maybe they would spend the winter in Old Mexico
Whatever Canadian Geese do when not in snow and ice
I got back in the truck and headed for North Dakota
The sight of those geese stayed with me that night until I hit Fargo
What a wonderful sight, that sure was nice
I am glad that I stopped in that little town in South Dakota
Gigantic pylons of wind-carved granite
Form astonishing pillars of natural wonder
Sculptures to rival Borglum's finest faces
Perilously perched along the winding trail
Punctuating the Black Hills with awesome
Commas of towering mystical totems
Where once the proud Native Americans
Roamed with the buffalo in blessed peace
written August 25, 2021
He took a plane to Rapid City
Hoped the bike trip would be pretty
Took a cab to where the trail began—
He had the spark of a younger man.
Next day he cycled on the Mickelson Trail
Though he knew he was in a moving jail
Higher ups told us he must be kept down
If left alone, he'd gain a crown.
It wasn't fair that he be free
Breathing pure air, loving scenery
He had dissed our people, defied our creed
His attitude offended, more than his deed
We tracked him down, he had to fail
No free pass on the Mickelson Trail
No free bird, flying into the sky
We clip the wings of those who defy.
He got to a valley so pretty and green
I looked at his joy, I felt it obscene
In Buffalo land, I brought him low
No escaping our rules, no letting go.
Know that webs exist of every kind
You don't see the cords, but still they bind
Trip a wire, that's it for you
They don't care for your excuses, you can't argue
The cops won’t shield you, won’t take your side,
Your story ignored, or your story denied.
You’ve crossed a border few understand—
You're hunted now in Mafia Land.
There was a fellow with a note pinned to his chest
He lay in the street, the knife through his vest
He had offended a religion, but others die too
like a reporter who exposed crimes ugly but true.
So keep your head down, and try to conform
There are penalties if you stray from the norm
You walk a shaky bridge over a steep drop
Don't expect a parachute, not an angel, not a cop.
Four faces
ten cows
40 people
a river runs through it
Aberdeen Rapid City Sioux Falls
crops of corn soybeans
hog factory ethanol highway interstate
flat plains shadow of Rockies
sparse vast country music cowboy hats
pickups tractors American flag whackos
jacks coyotes
buffalo paddlefish grasshoppers deer crows
vulture walleye pheasants otters cattle grain
green sky derecho buffalo
ghost towns railroad
Homestake mine caves peaks
tribes pioneers reservation farms
million Big Siouxland
crickets chirp
plains old west
motorcycle rally August
blizzard snow hot humid
Katie’s ribs pressed against her skin,
the sharp angles of a body once soft.
She lifted her blouse, let me see—
the stubs, the little bumps,
two perfect incisions smooth as marble.
I swallowed.
Physically lubricious—I couldn’t do it.
Her perfume fought the chemo stench.
Coiffed mascara, a careful face,
a practiced smile, teeth too straight.
She asked if I still wrote poetry.
I said nothing.
Once, she stretched across the hood of my car,
blonde roots peeking through red box dye,
sipping melted ice from a gas station cup,
her freckles a map I traced in secret.
She could talk for hours,
a queen without a kingdom.
She whispered after the hysterectomy,
baby gravy’s got nowhere to go.
No need for rubber—
I trust you.
I left the room, shame humming in my jaw,
the sound of her voice stuck in my teeth.
Later, I cried.
Made a cuppa coffee this morning
Forgot about it
I think I ate breakfast
Can’t remember what
I combed my hair
Singular
Musta brushed my teeth
They’re back in my mouth
I wear a shirt that reads
“IF FOUND PLEASE RETURN”
Socks that disagree with each other
Shirts that read like a virtual menu
Shoes that tie themselves
The best place to look for my glasses
Is in the lost and found pile
I shave when my beard
Gets to that itchy stage
Bathe when the dog moves
To the far end of the couch
I laugh a lot
Not always sure why
Or for what reason
I have children
And phones
That are smarter than I am
Yet nowhere near as wise
When my doctors ask
“any questions”
I reply
“yeah, what’s the capital of South Dakota”
They are generally not amused
I don’t think they know….
Into the badlands we travel with hearts full of infinite hope.
Ecosystem in this national park fosters four hundred species of life.
Sedimentary layers of pink, tan and white look like soap.
Into the badlands we travel with hearts full of infinite hope.
Oglala Lakota people named it land bad as they learned to cope.
Ghost dances are performed there around indigenous fires of rope.
Black footed ferrets are chasing prairie dogs who understand strife.
Into the badlands we travel with hearts full of infinite hope.
Ecosystem in this national park fosters four hundred species of life.
Written 10-25-2020
Contest: Pick a Title Vol 24 Triolet Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Whisper is jealous of Josh's black leather boots and Katie's fur lined boots, so they have a threesome to make up for it. They frolic in the moonlight, playing the oboe, xylophone, and vacuum, drooling and spanking each other. Then, the platypus, jackal, and whale join in, hammering out a rhythm on the pajamas, racing the tortoise, and jumping the rabbit's tail. Suddenly, the clocks, magazines, and movies come alive, streaming dirty gray hounds, tungsten spigots, mothers' spleens, kidneys, and tonsils, and cannabis shouting at the moon. The saxophones vomit sand and the pianos strike Jacks, while clouds batter receipts and panty liners. Finally, the cantaloupe refrigerator seals the deal, and the night is filled with laughter.
snaps cowgirl Indian boyfriend
The sound of buffalo meat on her teeth,
Taste the smell of sleep,
Cannabis wafting,
Chew the diamond, steal the slipper,
Call the captain and skinny dipper.
The palm fronds climb.
Squaw walks whiskey hills
Eyes cracked wide shut
Gripped by the hunger of a world,
chasing visions
The moon bleeds through the window
The stars hum a song of youth.