Best Tomahawk Poems
Cherokee chamber,
where a pow wow stampeedes preconceptions of inheritence,
from Her beaded neck charms of chance & chains of change
glisten from opulent offerings of roots, corn & lavender ablaze
on an alter of unworked stone mantled with skins strong beasts knew,
She is a " Stomp Dance " Queen with an owl as a friend and a spider as assassin,
with rattlesnake ribbons around Her wrists and prayers in Her braids thick with traditions,
the walls of Her teepee painted with the pigments of buffalo blood & sunflower pollen,
portraying a history hewn from customs known to Spirits and men alike,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen speaks for Her People and sings from the stars,
I found this Tribe, not in Appalacia nor on a prarrie stage but in the smoke of ceremony,
the Cherokee Princess has rattlesnake teeth tied to Her thigh & turtle shells upon Her hips,
She played the rabbit on the scene, then the wolf, if you know what I mean,
celebrated by the warriors as a tomahawk maker,
praised by the medicine men for Her Visions,
and feared by the Elders because of wrath that may follow Her steps,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen is a Princess, She is a Cherokee with a song Her own -
J.A.B.
Categories:
tomahawk, native american, dance, for
Form:
Romanticism
When visions crawl into his dream
to grate against a hilltop’s ire,
a sheriff flicks like soft campfire
where hazy winds dip low ,midstream.
Bandit frays stab a roguish past…
he gazes at Time…in lone sojourn
as plucks of hummed guitar return,
to soothe a mind now calm, steadfast.
Though old wounds bite the edge of glow
a hundred stars bathe eyes quite whole,
and moonlight kindles to console
the raid of dark through glazed halo.
From where he rides, the visions fade
in homage to a pure moment…
that on warm breath of contentment,
morning knights his final crusade.
4/18/2016
For Rob Carmack’s Lyrics Contest
Inspiration from lines of the song,
‘God Hates a Coward’—Tomahawk
Categories:
tomahawk, nostalgia, uplifting,
Form:
Rhyme
Written: February 15, 2024
______________________________________
I ultimately rule over these stunning valleys,
Elm trees with mossy brows line the alleys.
Where distant peaks arise, calm and azure,
Akin to the strong tripods used for rapture.
Who can't view river stones as viable paths?
A scad of scramblers on spurs stoning laths.
To slay fair faces, who bartered leaden blasts,
And weapons because of their leopard casts.
Who inflicted lasting wounds upon the land,
Those who pursued the avian crowns stand.
Fetched to flatten fascinating flesh but failed,
Who still flies above "fallen Tomahawk," veiled?
From my awakened gaze, I view a world,
Across eyes that bear a black shade furled.
A confined space, restricted and stretched out,
Then I cast a velvety gaze over a dumb doubt.
In a shadowed visage, this is how I mumble,
These walls, built by oppression, must crumble.
I must quit as I gaze upon my unique form,
Through opened eyes, no longer blind corm.
And behold, my unique hands create,
The space exists within my mind spate.
Nonviolent activists avoid causing friction,
Path for discovery, not building any tension.
Yield your tension a flight and let it depart,
God will never strain you over skills to impart.
Stress is only a reaction, probe not to worry,
Oddness from bodies and beliefs is blurry.
Not all stress stems from having a lot to do,
It originates from a lack of follow-through.
The potential increases with increasing strain,
Growth comes with a sense of life's innate pain.
I'm feeling hollow, not due to any sorrow,
Yet, in a sense of relief, each knot fades hollow.
The most crucial factor in ensuring lifespan,
Is staying clear of tension, worry, and strain.
Life is not a rising conflict or a stressful scene,
Life ought not to be painful; it may be serene.
It's habits that induce tension and relaxation,
Cutting rituals and building useful tension.
Categories:
tomahawk, analogy, anger, mystery, time,
Form:
Rhyme
All we eat is elk meat, boiled elk, roasted elk, elk jerky
sometimes fried elk if we get bear or whale oil,
oh, and sometimes elk soup,
for four months we've subsisted exclusively on elk
except for occassional dog meat, candlefish or duck,
the elk have become our saviors, and our culinary suffering,
yet it keeps us nourished like some kind of ape predators,
Clark has officially named the massive boulder at the front of the bay
Cape Disappointment on account that its now March 1806
and since November no one has spotted a merchant vessel
nor has any trading post been discovered along the coast in either direction,
frankly its astounding, has the world done gone forgotten that the Columbia exists,
everyone is gettin uppidy as bull frogs
and we've had enough rainy hours here to last ten lifetimes,
to hell with the sailors, we've gotta race to finish
and we ain't gonna get beat by a disappointment or by a sinister suprise,
Load'em up!...
Since coming out of the Rocky Mountains
like a migrating pack of wolves pursuing the scent of a bloodied den
I've been spending more time away from the river's rigors
providing fresh meats for the mission that we leave hanging along designated banks,
for the first time I feel liberated from the fear of failure
winter can no longer hurts us,
the great mysteries of the continental crossing have been revealed
through their savagery and splendor
the tribes have been touched with a new spirit of survival
animals ferocious and exotic have been tasted and classified
we have learned what these landscapes can lend to farming legions,
the mountains no longer menace us, we know how to travel their pain,
as my horse feeds on the grass of unowned soil
I reflect on my moments of intemperance with the natives
when I thrashed a Chinook thief into bleeding shame,
the order I gave to burn their village to silent ash when my dog and saddle were stolen
fortunately that was not necessary because I got them back,
the time I was meanly mocked by a Nez Perce Indian for eating dog meat
and threatened to split his skull with my tomahawk if he ever insulted me again,
J.A.B.
Categories:
tomahawk, adventure, introspection,
Form:
Epic
Deep in the woods I can hear a twig snap
A bird goes into flight that was sitting on a limb beside me
And it just so happens that right now we are at war with another tribe
But I must remember the cries of the mothers and children
Yes I heard them, with a determined look as I left the village this morning
It is in mourning for the lost of our Cheif who died in starvation
He would not eat because our village is hungry
He had the greatest Heart
For he gave his food to the children
But I cant resist it
I put my warpaint on
I dip my finger in it
And run it under my eye
I no longer sit and listen
For an Apache Warrior is now on the War path
After I kill my enemy
I will take his horse and feed the hungry
I send out my thanks to The Great Spirit for this day
I'm so happy because a horse will feed more than a deer
Great Spirit i love you my Cheif is honored
So I set aside my bow, and instantly in my hand is my Tomahawk
I love to stalk 'em before I chop 'em up
Categories:
tomahawk, society, soldier,
Form:
Free verse
Something comes to mind;
It is no evil thing.
Objectified it stands,
Sings loudly with open mouth,
Nearly speechless.
So is the volume turned up,
Turned on
When frogs croak
In muddy ponds
And tadpoles wink the day.
The field is all clover--
Pure;
It feeds the sky,
Pleases the eye,
Is false
Like some lovers.
Frogs are lovers,
Hopping.
People hop too--
Skip, jump, dance
Nightly by the moon,
Restless as sin.
Then they croak.
Where do they go?
They inhabit the hollows;
Their breath is fire.
Personification is no
Evil thing--
A gift, perhaps.
Out of the mud come frogs
In their season.
People inhabit the mud
As well--
Splattered and spotted
Like freckles
They come.
Random is the field of clover
Growing,
Eating the mud,
Feasting like vultures.
The body lies down in clover;
It is covered,
It is decked out in glory
The glory of clover,
All fresh.
Out of the mud
comes a phantom.
He drips with slime.
He carries his pride
Like a tomahawk.
He is clean shaven.
There is no regret.
Wanting peace he comes,
And she the wolf-hound
Is waiting.
Categories:
tomahawk, allegory, imagery, metaphor,
Form:
Free verse
A problem to most men and A dynamic explosion to anything I paint orange
The missing link is always overlooked, of course I'm Intellegent enough to say it loud, I never fear the unknown and the way I started here was unexpected especially to the purple power I be coming In A Cherry Terror . AS I screamed them words I woke up and IT Echos and it's sick faces
My enemies make they cant believe Im bold they question my sanity but in truth I sanitize in troops of men i am the line with a hook on it, Not with a rifle and scope no! with a ****in tomahawk I kill the hit sticks and i feel the Assasins. A team so strong they laugh in the face of danger, they master the statosphere she creeps as mr backup I cant believe she paints a masterpiece and the enemy retracts in fear, As the Power is the utmost respected, not one man with sense would toy with it, i just like to strengthen things and make them strong, no easy target here, no abuse of power, respect the blue i paint myself in, we're all in agreement i think, i love the feeling of course its an enviroment where understanding is appreciated, for The Law is Love untill you seek her life, I dont play Assassin games, Im a Alpha Dog unilke you demosicated Officer at Parole, I be risking my life for this girl i saw, she be several delights in my heart as we connected She sees exceptionally well cuz i make it very clear
Categories:
tomahawk, business, caregiving, strength, together,
Form:
Free verse
Jack Horne
He whoops a war cry,
New tomahawk in his hand,
Earns his Brave feathers.
For Michael’s Sounds of a Cry
Categories:
tomahawk, native american,
Form:
Haiku
I can’t look back; too many tears are there.
The woman that I used to know and love
is someone else now, and much less than fair
is what my God has given me a part of.
In Banshee I must use a different name
or leave this town and leave the woman who
has left me cursed, and yet it’s all the same.
She can’t be mine no matter what I do!
By some I’m called a beast; at least I’m no
damn coward, for I rise up from the dirt!
And since I have no roots where I might go,
I stay and face all foes and swallow hurt.
By violence one day I’m bound to die
but here in Banshee, I keep getting by.
Written April of 2016
Inspired by the Lyric contest of Rob Carmack and one of my favorite cable shows
Lyrics shown in the contest were from ‘God Hates a Coward’ by Tomahawk
Categories:
tomahawk, hero, boy,
Form:
Sonnet
fire god cackling
marshmallow sacrifice charred
chief tomahawk grins
Categories:
tomahawk, adventure, children, fire,
Form:
Haiku
Yes, it’s you God's favorite daughter
Just my luck, you're out of luck, I see
Prowling the human backwater
You sure don’t need no luck with me
Luck with me
Luck with me
Love’s fertile water purifies
Your paper thin charade, a sin
You know that God hates pretty lies
God wants you to let the divine in
Divine in
Divine in
Just let go of the living hell
Sniff the scent of spirit freedom
Inhale deep and ring my bell
Take a deep breath of what you needin'
What you need
What you need
No Angels, no Devil nonsense
Look deep, you know it’s what you see
Dropping the demonic pretense
Wallow in God’s muck with me
Muck with me
Muck with me
My backwater soul rundown shack
Dear Lord, don't you misconceive me
Your gray mind starts to fade to black
Naked truth, you must believe me
Believe me
Believe me
My patience it wears so thin
No more games, it’s love’s time to be
See the white skull beneath the skin
Take me as I am or leave me
Or leave me
Or leave me
4/19/16
For Contest: Lyrics
Sponsor: Rob Carmack
Lyrical response to:
Partial lyrics from the song ‘God Hates a Coward’ by Tomahawk
(Lyrics vary with this song among the sources)
I sow my seed where the mandrake grows
No footsteps go beyond it
I eat the dirt
Where the rooster crows
Fresh rodeos, behold it
Check your pulse in your teardrops
Make you a cyclops
Breakin' the branches off your family tree
Keep you up like a fluffer girl
Ain't that enough, sir
Look in the sewer for my pedigree
Your truly cause repeats its pulse
And makes your tears, if you need it to
Make me blow my brains out or I'll point it at you
Is all I'm thinking to do
But I'm hangin' tough
Day, by, day, by, day, by, day, by
Day, by, day, by, day, by, day, by
Categories:
tomahawk, god, lust, sensual,
Form:
Lyric
On this peaceful land where we live comfortably
with the neighboring villagers sharing the sun and moon,
stars and clouds, winds and waters, rains and snows;
we sow the seeds on the field, wander in the wilderness
to spot the games to hunt in the changing colors of the flowers
in the time of bloom and fruit and revolving seasons
One day, from the east, crossing over the great sea,
the white feathered gluttonous bird flew into this peaceful land
and took our land by force; the bird cruelly pecked us with his avaricious beak, cold-heartedly tore us with his sharp talons, kept pushing and shoving us eastward, and this vicious cycle drove us into tribal wars and at last, Illini
to extinct.
And this moaning butte throwing its shadow on the water
atop of encircling cliffs is the Starved Rock, the site where
the great tragedy took place, all Illini tribesmen lost their lives.
The water of the Illinois River mixed with the tears of the people
who lost everything in the east via this legion for further west,
now moans to ease the spirit of Illini wandering around
the Staved Rock, which is still hungry, in the evening glow
as a soundless requiem.
The water flows embracing sorrowful Rock where:
the mother jumped into the water holding her beloved child,
the village elders who collapsed while upholding tribal pride
followed by the war cry of the warriors who grabbed tomahawk and fought but, alas, fell to enemy’s hand, now is telling the story of their last day
it becomes whirlpool in the very middle of the water.
When the streams small and large come together the following paths
meet and form a pool on the top of this lonely butte on the other side of the river, and dashes into the basin of the waterfall;
some of them fall rapidly into the steep ravine with heartrending cries
some of them drift like slow moving time in deep sorrow
some of them descend to the rocks of level stratum one by one
singing a funeral dirge.
The spirit of Illini drifting along the river
carrying so many sad stories touches the tourists’
heart; stepping on the site of the tragedy
makes tears stand to casual sightseers;
the grief-stricken stories raise the ripples in the river
and leaves a lingering imagery in the eyes and ears of the travelers
Categories:
tomahawk, america, pain, people, river,
Form:
Narrative
MILITARY NAMES
Names are chosen to suggest aggression;
Anything smacking of peace is for suppression.
Soviet subs are Typhoons not Seabreezes.
The USAF flies Eagles, not Robins
And it’s a Tomcat, not a Tabby cat,
Real men fly a Hornet not a Butterfly.
The British prefer Harrier to Supporter.
Native American names can include
The Tomahawk but not the Prayer Bead,
And the Apache but not the Micmac.
No doubt a new aircraft carrier
Could be called the Charles Bronson
But not called the Oscar Wilde.
Categories:
tomahawk, humor, introspection,
Form:
Prose Poetry
He exists in the shade of the mandrake plant,
It is his only passion in this twisted world;
Face down in the dirt- drugged and delirious,
Does not care if he wakes up or who walks by;
Hey man, it is what it is, just keep walking.
Is he alive, better take his pulse, go away,
And in his hallucination, a giant with one eye;
Takes him up and away, to a high nasty place,
Who is he, who was he, of no consequence really;
His family tree is lost in a dream, forgotten.
He comes in and out of warped dreams horrific,
Tears and thoughts of suicide, maybe kill someone;
It seems like a real good idea, but he fights it,
Cause, hey, God hates a coward like him;
He used to play his music, once ..
Yeah, once upon a time, he had some pedigree . .
_____________________________
March 25, 2016
Poetry/Verse/Once He Had Some Pedigree
Copyright Protected, ID 16-771-949-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym
Inspiration - Lyrics - God Hates A Coward by Tomahawk
For the contest, Lyrics,
sponsor, Rob Carmack
Sixth Place
Categories:
tomahawk, addiction, drug,
Form:
Verse
God’s Cowards*
Sad demons roam mind’s endless plain
searching blindly - frightened prey
clinging to their earthly pain
waiting for the “cowards day”
Seek instant absolute redemptive
inclusion in the “Rapture”
lifted from their hiding places
freed from evil’s capture.
Sad demons roam mind’s endless plain
searching blindly - frightened prey
clinging to their earthly pain
waiting for the “cowards day”.
Shun the solace of the Saints
cold sanctuaries towered
creep about in shadowed fear
where God’s cowards - cowered.
3/26/2016
*Prompt for poem was based on the song ‘God Hates a Coward’ by Tomahawk
submitted to Lyrics – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Rob Carmack
Categories:
tomahawk, faith, fear, god,
Form:
Lyric