Best Tribal Poems
Blessed by God as a full-blooded Filipina
I’m endowed with great cultural heritage of Asia
Distinctively that of the Benguet “Kankana-ey” tribe of the Cordillera
Enriching my country, the Philippines, of her unique role in the global agenda.
Grateful am I to the Lord for my tribe’s awareness of the Deity
Shown by my forefathers’ acknowledgment of the Supreme Being’s authority
Thru their festivities and rituals revealing their trust in the God Almighty…
Igniting my faith toward genuine Christianity and biblical spirituality.
I salute my tribe mates for their respect to creation and steadfast preservation of nature
Affirmed by their diligent gardening and productive, yet prudent farming venture
Making them stalwart guardians of their environment, their bounty-pasture
While invoking the Divine Providence against calamities thru sincere offerings’ gesture.
Gladness* couples my appreciation to our tribe’s close family ties and intimate engagements
During bonding moments over cups of coffee and meals along conversation merriments
Especially in clans’ get-together for weddings and feastings’ enjoyments
Aside from reunions in funerals filled with reminiscences of varied sentiments and predicaments.
My tribe with its peculiar culture is commendable indeed
Steadfastly strong in its identity of tenacious influential creed
As it welcomes changes of betterment and prosperity’s seed
Midst technological development toward progress-breed!
*Psalm 4:7 Thou (LORD) hast put gladness in my heart...
December 1, 2018
3rd place, "TRIBUTE TO NATIVE CULTURE" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier; judged on 12/15/2018.
A tribal War
In a small clearing it stood
dark and majestic against the sky
small silver like veins run riot
across its pitted scarred surface.
Glinting in the sun it sparkled
seeming near alive at times.
Two tribes considered it a god
and warred for the sole rights
to hold their ceremonies at its base.
indifferent to man kinds folly
it stood sentinel to only time,
all this it had seen before.
Two from opposing sides fell in love
and war once more flared up
their love being considered taboo.
No happy ending to this tale
alas they fought 'til all lay dead
And still the meteor rock stood tall.
septets
Rain fills our lakes with rich resource
on which the fish and fowl rely.
Their life flows with the rainy clime.
Mankind requires rain too, of course,
precipitating fear in time
as tribal dances testify.
Drought brings man to his last recourse.
Flooding of rivers, lakes and seas
causes damage on the game reserve.
Plants and animals lose their ground.
Tribal dances seek to appease
a god whose grace and mercy abounds
when deluge takes a nasty curve.
Prayers are poured out in hopes of ease.
Environs’ balance is no easy task.
as mountains, valleys and forest streams
supply nature with health and growth.
Human nature, somewhat selfish, basks.
in give-and-take which stirs a two-faced oath -
if God can hear and will my life redeem,
I’ll dance and wear his sacred mask.
For hundreds of years, the skies were dry;
a mist met all that nature needed.
Creation failed to meet God's mark;
confidence in Him went awry.
Noah roused by notions of an ark
was engulfed by scorn. Contempt receded
as rain starts to dance. Rain hears no man’s cry.
written 28 January 2016
Storm coming, madam
Me-- I’m going up country--
Lay low and stay sweet*
*stay sweet--stay alive
Victoria Anderson-Throop
Nairobi, Kenya
November 26, 2012
Note: Political unrest near Nairobi, Kenya due to election strategies. Polish nun told me that she was warned by a local moonshine runner to hide. Too late. She was pistol whipped by local police who wanted more protection money. Didn’t get the money (it was a free clinic, so nurses had no money) Police beat the nurse/nuns and absconded with the very rare and precious AIDS meds to sell to the hospitals.Free AIDS clinic was forced to close.(Kenyan government does not have free health care for the poor) Nuns are recovering then being transferred to other clinics. Three went back to Europe forced into early medical retirement due to permanent injuries sustained by police and/looters. The care program(education and/or placement) for the children whose parents were AIDS patients is gone. Children have taken to the streets in desperation. Count your blessings.
I wish you had ears, so I could whisper to you how you’ve been on my mind
Ever since i was brought into your world,
I had only a single wish, for
The stories my mother tells, in real sadness and grief to come to life,
She remembers when she swam in your ocean,
She still feels the water beneath her palm, rushing up to her fingertips, and vanishing before she could even utter a single goodbye,
Tells me tales of the times that she snuck out the house to go to your picture shows,
And dance under the moon light, curly hair wrapped in turban,
Clothes reek of unnsi and grandmothers perfume
With no music playing, tells me she sang her little infant brothers to sleep,
And cooked breakfast at just 5, when grandmother worked
She remembers the simple things,
The fresh colorful flowers swaying in the wind,
Children kicking their soccer balls on the beach,
Laughing as If the only happiness they will ever taste,
Lays on the motherland.
Your motherland.
My motherland.
Our motherland.
She rose this morning, only to wake up to an unrealistic dream,
Our mothers cry helpless tears,
Choose which child to feed and which to not,
Our rivers aren’t rivers, and we don’t have a motherland.
We have a tribal-land
They host parties and play your song,
Talk about when they were children,
And dream of a better land,
They say they want to be AS ONE,
But remain forever separate.
This isn’t the peace my mother spoke of,
Our schools aren’t schools, and our kids became skinner than the women i see on theses western covers.
We don’t have a motherland. We have a tribal-land
His voice is as a still whisper, a hushed sigh
Rippling through the evergreen mountain pines,
A spiritual being calls in native tongue, come unto
Me, my chosen people of the sacred plains.
The drums beat in the setting sun, as the tribes
Join together in one bands march, the Dakota, Shoshoni
And Cherokee, these wondering nomads, of the open plains.
It is time for the great migrational transitioning,
Heeding the great spirits, seasonal warning,
These tribal gypsies, become a unified people, of the vast
United beneath the vast grasslands Prairie.
Instincts driving force urges them ever forward,
Across steeps terrain, and rolling hills, deep canyons
Depths divides, onto the open plains,
For soon the great buffalo will arrive.
To bowl and cup, do they carry all possession
Necessities, leaving behind only Mohicans prints,
In the dust.
Legacy's children play, and run beside the caravan's,
As warriors on horse back, boast of adventures
Of seasons long ago.
Mile markers of trails woven into the earth itself,
The wilderness wild country lies ahead, in this big
North American Continent, yet undiscovered by
The so called civilized white men.
At night falls rest, a small village emerges, where
Nothing stood sense last years grand journey.
Canvas tents, fill with families warmth and laughter
For freedoms people, live by the great spirits calling.
In ritual dance, do these indigenous tribe give thanks
And praise unto he whom provides substances life,
And liberation’s autonomy.
As the suns rises and dawn approaches, the earth rumbles,
Shaking, beneath the hardened hoof, thy brother the buffalo,
Has come once again, the promise kept, assuring
The tribes winter survival.
Evergreen's pastures, lure these creatures of thunder,
Ancient beasts covering the great plains, as a black
Cloud descending, as if massive locus’s onto
The flowering fields below.
The hunters rejoice in the abundance set before
Them, the harvest of meat and blessings promise,
Taking only what is needed, wasting nothing,
Yet giving thanks praise for everything.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
The tripod stand of the three major tribal
domains;
Stands forged by force in 1914 by the
British ambitious chains.
These stand's can't be undone now without
rocking the pot uneasily,
Unless broken into pieces, they are already
knitted, though unequally.
United we stand Nigeria, divided we fall,
Nigerians, hold refrains.
Tribal beauties, all lined up,
eyes cast to the ground.
Young breasts bare and feet not shod.
Only natural beauty found.
The Zulu prince walks back and forth,
perusing for a bride;
While hopeful father's look on, tense,
Each displaying their loin's pride.
One of these will be a Queen,
Birth a Nation's next proud Chief.
With result, a father can live on....
Mortality's Relief.
How much longer
Language vs world
Culture vs world
Economic vs world
Appearance vs world
Religion vs world
How much longer
Wearing our tribal skirt
I’m reminded of my grandmother
who has bequeathed me rich distinct cultural heritage.
Adorned with our traditional costume
my heart is pleased, imagining my Lola*, my Mom’s mother
smiling delightfully, beholding her granddaughter proud of her roots.
Midst the nostalgia brought by such clothing
I see myself beside Lola’s bedside, listening to her
as she would vividly narrate heroic acts of fellowmen during the war.
Having in my possession a so-called “heirloom”
my gratitude to Lola is intensified through virtues instilled
by Mama, reverberating with, “I learned those from Nanang**.”
Praising God for His blessings
I’ll value the piece of treasure I inherited
my Lola has passed on, along legacy of a good name.***
*Lola-the word we use to address our “Grandmother”
**Nanang-My mother’s term of endearment for “Mother.”
***Proverbs 22:1 A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favour rather than silver and gold.
March 15, 2021
1st place, "I Remember" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Malabika Ray Choudhury; judged on 3/17/2021.
O why do you walk through the green fields,
Are you looking for something special?
O young tribal lady don't you need any windshields?
Why do you walk through the green fields,
Is it for the purposes of agricultural yields?
Why are you shivering?
O why do you walk through the green fields,
Are you looking for something special?
Time is different in its fulfilment
Yoruba status is unique in its path
Western education isn't enough reason to activate its abandonment
Black soap is good for bath
Worthy is informal education
Which equips the brain scans
I am made unique in its adaptation
Well enriched in the history of my clans
Face of the earth
Mask of heaven
Ritual to death
Done in seven
I fell to Earth , one of many with an army to begin the mission of hope, that their is a future here on Earth , listen to her heart beat ... Our Rainforests are burning , our church of medicine , without our heart of our eco system there will be no Earth for Heaven...
I hope and pray that quantum sparks a thought and asks the question soon ... there’ll be no quantum to discuss if we can’t see the moon.
Did Jesus choose his avatars to be connected to the cross ? Christ Consciousness is a choice .. free will I believe , it comes at a cost .
I am looking at the world through the eye of a lens and am concerned about what might be coming through me garden fence ;
Being a countryside tribal witch, a matriarch of hedgerow craft , I listen to Mother Earth the rumblings of her wrath ... The Lens I see in my reality , the question I then ask ?
Who are the avatars did Christ choose in his teaching class ?
Once jailed and bailed
Virtually mental saw scaled
Angry aggressive and hyper
The crotalinae hypnotic striker
Cold blooded terrestrial Sanseki
Whitish echis carinatus sochureki...
Life is a game with snakes on every level..
Young the tribe with
all the caring of the wild,
consume the weak,
dance to the beat
of bone sticks on
drums of skin
asked,
“will you let a blue boy in”?
He enters
wheeled in, in his cage
built of love by caring hands
and mourning eyes
seeing beyond panting breath
through purple lips,
they squint at death
which this tribe knows
in tiny form
they slay in games,
"sans" empathy
and weak defame.
Envious of wasted care
on one who is not of the tribe,
the hunted not the hunter he,
no warrior to play beside.
He stares ahead to some far place
where the sun’s warm
on straight smooth limbs
where he is prince of
strength, and loved
so there’s no fear
of tribal spears.
Soon he must go,
short winter day,
leaving a star
to light a way
away from dance
with bone on skin
to let the beat
of conscience in.
.