Best Squaws Poems
He was an old Crow Indian
Rejected by all his kin,
That never fit in any world,
But now lived among white men.
He must have been near one hundred
In our scale of years on earth,
And acquired a wealth of wisdom
From the first day of his birth.
All his words would tell his visions,
And I can hear them all still—
Especially his prophecy:
The dark horse upon the hill.
The time would be of many storms,
And grim changes would occur—
There would be wars and many deaths
And the bloody, silver spur.
The chiefs would be great and many,
Yet their medicine be bad—
And on the land would be defeat—
Squaws would wither and be sad.
Yet, there would still be one more feared
To trap us with his cruel will—
The one that spoke of hope and change:
That dark horse upon the hill.
And so the once great nation falls
And becomes like all the rest—
The mighty banner now unfurled
As it sinks into the West.
Yes, that old Crow saw it all then—
Now we know the coming chill—
We hold blinded eyes open to
The dark horse upon the hill.
Long tennis matches stretch on and on for love of deuce,
While endless freight trains mercifully end with a little red caboose.
Domestic snits could be shortened dramatically with a fruit juice truce,
Though kids keep on playing 'Super Elite 4' when they might be watching
'The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle the Moose.'
Some highly-paid accountants play with their clients' numbers, fast and loose,
As weight-loss specialists do patients' expanding waistlines fail to reduce.
More and more often gynecologists must early labor unexpectedly induce,
So that a healthy, social-media-acceptable baby be rapidly produced.
Romantic poets with winsome words do their audiences seduce,
Since philosophers do airtight, logical conclusions no longer deduce.
Injun squaws are still known to carry their young ones in a papoose.
Whereas a hanging by a noose is a custom quite understandably out of use.
And, of course, the current Oval Office Occupant continues to rule the roost
By tweeting, texting, and twittering a refuse-storm gallopingly profuse.
Which all leads to the inevitable, inescaple, perhaps irrefutable con-cluse
That some people will and others won't throw up their hands, saying
"What's the Use?!"
Now that December has descended
with it's roots of ice and skies of snow
our timber fortress is a sanctuary of ethnographic enlightenment
and embassy that entreats the exchange of craftsmanship,
lately I have been preoccupied with my etymological research,
it is important to President Jefferson, an anthropologist
that we discover the origin of the natives through their languages,
he is obsessed with understanding the diversity of the human race
a bone collector of civilizations and shaman of scholarship,
Private Sheilds, through his blacksmithing expertise
has allowed us to barter iron for corn without which
the Corps of Discovery would either lose vital quantity of provisions,
be reduced to malnourished paupers, or even engage in unscrupulous raiding,
there are still a thousand arduous miles to go
from all estimations, before reaching the Pacific,
as is, the Elders, especially from the Hidatsas
are suspicious of our motives
because of the 18 foot high pallisaded fort we have built adjacent to the Mandans,
so mistrust is suppressed well with an open door policy
and liberal trade of battle axes,
knives, weapon and tool sharpening, kettles, needles and so on,
January 1805,
the new year has introduced 40 below zero weather, syphilis and fists fights,
to stave the ills of boredom we routinely go on hunting expeditions
through the gruelling grip of winter's madness,
another activity that warms the soul are the spectacular jamborees
that conjure the whiles of instincts
and reminds us all how the heart seeks it's deepest expressions,
Cruzzatte plays the fiddle like a tempter of lunatic love
while Silas Goodrich thumbs a mandolin into the dreams of romantic heroism,
the squaws often coo with eyes of diamonds
arms outstretched with fingers swaying like wind blown wheat,
York is a sensation with the Indians
they have never seen a Black Man before
describing him as the black clay of chaos,
they believe there is magic in his skin
touching and rubbing him constantly like a healing stone,
J.A.B.
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
We are hours into the mountain riverway, the current unfriendly to us
paddling earlier had simply strained the men to burning exhaustion,
those who have the shoulder strength are paddling the two larger canoes
while the other six vessels are being pulled along in the side shadows with elk skin rope,
their feet and ankles paying the price,
an incredible sight is rapidly, dramatically coming towards us,
two hundred yards from where the river bends
an unmanned horse is galloping in our direction
with a confident craze in it's agility as it stomps through the rocky mud shore to the left,
running like a messenger of madness, reckless and unstoppable in passion,
a white, grey spotted horse, mane long, white and smoking in the wind,
it has already run past my canoe 50 yards off shore
but Sheild's canoe, being pulled very close to it's path
and McNeal has gotten a rope to lasso this animal,
in trying to claim it they have only sped the horse's instincts
McNeal nearly trampled, has gotten a face full of rock water for his effort,
that beauty is long gone, but everyone saw the sign,
the hip of the horse had a skull, and crossbones of rifles painted in black,
suffice it to say our hearts are humpin hot!
down here where we are predictable targets confined to the river's warpath
in order to saddle up on the upcoming banks some of our men must remain exposed
everyone else has rifles lead ready and hugged, telescopes spying space,
Clark and I kneeling with plank boards for armor, rifles in hand
Sacagawea standing inbetween us at the nose of our trespassing vessel
breasts uncovered, her son Jean in her arms swaddled in a U.S. flag
repeating a Shoshone lyric of peace, her clarion voice of sincere spirit
echoing through the mountain passes like an angel of sapphire wisdom
in this methodical moment of cautious maneuver
I realize that I love her,
I love her like eyes love color,
she is so above the ordinary, so forbidden to me,
we must clarify to the unseen onlookers that we are no warparty
but that we are no laundry squaws either,
20 minutes later we find a suitable shore line and disembark swiftly,
there be no indication of Indians, no presence of hostility,
J.A.B.
In the setting sun the Sioux Tepees look like vandalized pyramids,
the Tetons themselves appear as though angels raped
by the savagery of centuries yet noble in barbaric beauty and warrior ethos,
a Scalp Dance is begun, torches up high on the outside
a bonfire big and heavy be the center spirit,
the drums awaken from the caves of ancestral courage
and the voices of a thousand Mothers plead for the pride of their sons,
drumbeats raise the heartbeats into the heat of glory
as the rattles rake the mind with the cost of blood,
warriors enter the pit with bravery to prove and fate to appease
feet pound the earth and scalps shake on power rods
the currency of victories swing wide and thunder smacks the stars,
Afterwards, Chief Partisan presents us with squaws
pretty in young passion and fertile to the touch,
there is a custom of strength transfer through intercourse
they desire the seed of our spirit,
indulging in their spells of native kiss could leave us vulnerable
to capture or even assassination
we can't afford to be reckless in pleasure or mindless of morals,
I am unwilling to father a hybrid pioneer amongst a probable enemy,
embracing these temptresses gowned in scanty furs
could even politically bind us to the Teton against their traditional adversaries,
we must avoid inciting intertribal conflict at this juncture,
Morning has arrived with a think fast attitude
the messages between our nations is unequivocal
the Teton are intractable in their belief of invincible independence,
they have their arsenal, warriors, and horses,
feeling that they own the thunder and the fear of their neighbors,
the Chinese and New York fur markets
along with taxing river passage have to date guaranteed them wealth
and the British have armed them for profit,
however, the arrowheads of the United States are aimed to strike their arteries
and we won't stop until they bleed out into oblivion,
the Sioux shenanigans have resumed as we gather up and get ready to push off,
exasperated, we convince Black Buffalo that it behooves him
to persuade his people to let us leave without hostilities
and they do as we toss them some tobacco sticks,
once on Destiny, anchor up,
the southerly winds lift our vessels towards autumn's genesis,
J.A.B.
'Tis said that the first Thanksgiving feast was celebrated in sixteen twenty-one.
'Twas the Pilgrims' first bountiful harvest so they decided to have some fun!
(That was the genesis of church potlucks that are popular to this very day,
And the origin of that American addiction, the all-you-can-stuff-ten-buck buffet!)
They invited Indian friends but with wary eye kept their blunderbusses handy,
In case the guests and their squaws might become sozzled with too much brandy!
The Injuns brought canoes full of maize, deer and fishes from Cape Cod Bay.
(Puritan ladies shyly tittered at the breechcloths worn by braves on that day!)
The Pilgrims had diligently tilled God's good earth to grow vittles for the feast,
And prowled forest and waterway on the hunt for fowl and four-footed beast!
Tables groaned with grub - the menu would've done the Waldorf-Astoria proud.
There was little talk 'cept for an occasional "pass the salt" from that ravenous crowd!
There were apple, peach and punkin pies and heaps of smoked and roasted turkey.
Also, fiery brandy, cider, barbequed beef, lima beans and piles of venison jerky!
Succotash, sweet pertaters, peas and turnips were heaped on pewter plates.
Gluttonous souls were heard to groan and appeared to be in desperate straits!
Missing was the dreaded green bean casserole that hadn't been concocted yet,
Since Campbell's mushroom soup, an essential ingredient, they could not get!
'Twas on that notable day that the strutting and hapless turkey made its debut!
(Oft I've mused - did the Palefaces and the Redskins play a football game too?)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
There was a great Chief named Many Papoose,
Who with many brave's squaws played fast 'n' loose!
When in battle the Chief died,
The Chief's tribe was well supplied,
With many papoose since he was profuse!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
The day seemed no different
From the ones that pasted before
Heat, dust and wind
Made living here a chore
We haven't had a drop of rain
For as long as I remember
It seems to me 12 years ago
From this past December
This dusty little town
Wasn't much for one to see
If it wasn't for the Army
It surely wouldn't be
For this place once was covered
With buffalo and grass
And Injuns Lived in Teepees
But that's now in the past
They say they broke the treaty
And that the Injuns had to leave
A tribe of mostly kids and squaws
I think we were deceived
The Army rode like lightening
The tribesmen held their ground
With the flashing of their sabers
They cut every Injun down
The last time that the clouds
Brought water to this town
Was the day that the soldiers
Dragged those bodies to the mound
There they tossed each caucus
In a shallow unmarked grave
No lance , nor stick, nor stone
Not even scribble on a stave
As the Army rode away
A single soldier stayed
To guard against the animal
From digging up the grave
He felt awful for the Injuns
Disgusted by their plight
So from his bag he took a chalk
And upon a stone, did write
To be continued..............
There once was a sweet Shawnee squaw
Who left home and Ma and her Paw
They had given her life
But he’d wanted a WIFE!
So she left with that brave Checotah.
The Checotah brave was a knave
Made his fine Shawnee bride his slave
she ditched his rawhide
And left on his ride
That’ll teach that guy to behave!
Well, the horse was a fine pinto mare
Who loved men and for squaws had NO care
the woman got off
The mare she caste off
And returned to the Checotah’s lair!
Amid 240 units of toil
Reigns my Connie
Where she walks
Is blessed soil
California sun
To match her hair,
No nature's beauty
Could compare
Sitting at a table,
With her friend Denise,
Mulling over a
Possible lease...
To an Indian
named Cochise...
Will he pay in wampum
Or scalps he'd taken,
Or Indian souvenirs,
Or maybe he's fakin'
Maybe he's
really from Jersey
Or maybe he's not...
Will he want
To keep buffalo
In the parking lot?
Will arrows fly
When he gets mad?
Will he smoke
odd stuff
When he is sad?
Erect a teepee
In his living room?
Keep six squaws
To dispell his gloom?
Ride his horse
bareback to work...?
Feathered head
that he can shake?
Or suit and tie,
Briefcase at his side,??
Laptop computer
Covered in cowhide??
It's a mystery,
As you can see...
Time will soon tell
What will be.
I'll let you know
how it turns out,
And even though
You likely doubt,
This story that
I'm telling you...
Yet, it's possible,
that it just might
be true.
She frowned at him, still dressed in his skins,
then cast her gaze upon sweet Nell.
“Why do you bring a savage with you?
Long, lost, little brother, do tell?”
Prent knew this would be a hard sell.
“She’s your niece,”he informed,”My little girl.
I came home so she could learn the ways of the world.”
Annabeth laughed, then she glowered at him.
“If only our father could see you now.
Consorting with whores, laying with squaws,
that’s how he figured you would turn out.”
But Prent would let no one talk down.
“I came here to settle, and do right by Nell.
If you don’t want to help me, I’ll do it myself!”
Annabeth sighed, and motioned them inside,
but the scowl never did leave her face.
“Mother, I’m afraid, was laid up by a stroke,
I’ve taken over running this place.
I guess you and your…child can stay.
But I’m telling you now, just so you know,
I’m not associating with folks in such ratty clothes!”
The days that came transformed them both
Into good facsimiles of civilized folk.
Prent wore waist-coats, Nell put on a dress
With a high collar that nearly choked,
So tight it was that poor Nell spoke:
“Daddy, daddy! It huwrts my neck!”
Said Annabeth,”Child, you’ll get used to that.”
Days went by and a tutor was hired,
to try and teach the irrepressible girl.
Annabeth grimly took it on herself
to impart on her manners of the world,
still scowling at her like a churl.
While Prent went to his brother Ike,
to see if the banker had a job he’d like.
But luck was not with him at the bank,
owned sixty years by his family.
He still had no skill for business talk,
or keeping the customers happy.
He found his spirits soon flagging.
Plus, when it came to finding a love,
it seemed he was cursed by Heaven above.
Some would walk with him if he called,
but most ran when they learned of Nell.
One was so shocked he’d married a squaw
that she loudly condemned him to Hell.
In truth, it was all just as well.
A mother, he thought, Nell needed to grow,
but none of these women would make that so.
A month passed, and things grew strained,
Annabeth seemed more and more disturbed.
“She won’t learn her manners, and only talks
about trapping, horses, and pet squirrels!
That’s no kind of talk for a young girl!”
She threw up her hands, and said,”I’m done!
There is no helping that little one.”
CONTINUES IN PART III...
Raised on promises ? Trip the wire where nothing remains...
An east coast orphanage and red coats, fighting for her republic
Dolls in rags their quivering lips these salty tears Eurydice a crazy life
Insidious circles Paul Revere stigmata's, the British are coming offertory's
Communion Alfalfa versing Buckwheat a Shakespearian send'off Monroe's doctrine
Alibaba's all saints day Bluebeard's manifest, destiny Mahican squaws as trails their tears
Longfellow reciting Darla's dreams; love's turn'coat screams pledged of dire shots, ringing out.
It’s time, by now, we did away with nations.
I tell you, hand on heart beneath the flag,
This jingo jag has now become a drag.
Those puerile patriotic palpitations
had meaning only when we lived in tribes.
Today our people mix and mingle freely –
so can’t we now dispense with Horace Greeley,
and wetbacks, wops and wogs, and all those jibes?
Since nations never have a sense of humour,
it’s little wonder why we have these wars.
We need a change of heart. Embrace the cause:
don’t split us into gooks or spooks or squaws,
or hicks or micks or spicks, or baby-boomers.
One nation under God, we’re all consumers.
Driving South Dakota in December
Means you’re a “Stupid Club” member
I’d never even heard of a “White Out”
That’s what this story’s all about
Cruising along and relaxed as can be
My three daughters, my wife and me
You could see for miles, the land was so flat
Heard truckers do a CB chat
Heard one of them say “It’s blowing ahead”
But couldn’t quite hear all they said
But in twenty miles I knew what he meant
Cause into a snow storm we went
We found ourselves in a total “White Out”
It was a “Ground Blizzard”, no doubt
Strong winds blowing horizontal to land
Should we go on, or take a stand
I thought we’d drive right through it pretty quick
It’s so cold the snow didn’t stick
The problem was, powdery snow’s so light
When the wind whips up, it takes flight
It only got worse as we went along
The car swaying, the wind so strong
I could just barely see the center line
We all watched for an exit sign
At this point, I knew things were getting bad
Afraid to stop or go ahead
From the car’s rear window, kids watched the stripe
Could see through the rear window wipe
They'd yell if I strayed from the center line
And that happen several times
The next thing I know, my CB squaws out
“You’re going off right!” it did shout
An eighteen wheeler was right behind me
His cab so high that he could see
The “White Out” went up higher than the car
At trucker’s height, he could see far
He guided us down the road for a while
Said an off ramp is just a mile
You should just stay there, till the wind gets low
I’m passing on your left, go slow!
We thanked him for all the help that he gave
He went by, gave a toot and wave
We found the ramp and got to a café
Sat down and bowed our heads to pray
We knew we had much to be thankful for
Safely through this and one before
A fishtail and spin on the mountain pass
This winter driving is my last