Best Tribesmen Poems
Great Spirit whispers on breathing breeze; 'It is time',
puce plume in saffron noon signals hunt's aborning,
ThunderBeasts' harrowing hooves erupt Great Plains grime,
soon will ail, widow's wail like a wild dove's mourning...
Ancient wisdom, ebony eyes, high cheekbones wide,
buffalo, he knows, mystical foes who fight back,
astride, he rides his Spanish horse with native pride,
his soul cleared, spiritual prayers 'fore the attack.
Timeworn trails, bison beaten by shaggy stampedes,
hunting grounds feared and revered, tribesmen o'er the brae,
power potent, cloven cloud, hastened heart proceeds,
ambush laid, panicked herd, embrace the bloody fray.
Casualty's chance, horseback dance, drum lethal hoof beats,
thunderous trample of ample prairie crocus,
Sioux and beasts' sacred throes, their crimson flows 'neath feet,
death has a way of bringing life into focus.
Susan Ashley
October, 24,2017
~ Third Place ~
Contest: Tribute To Native Culture
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Poetic Licence
I've been granted my Poetic Licence,
Which allows me to write as I find.
Exaggeration here, embellishment there,
A free spirited open mind.
With vivid inspired imagination,
I see clearly the world around me,
Never letting the truth spoil a good story,
My pen writing the things I see.
As I look from my bedroom window,
An apartment in an industrial town.
Wildebeest migrate to the Serengeti,
Silhouette of Giraffe, as the sun goes down.
Fishing boats come to safe harbour,
Greedy Seagulls stealing their cargo.
The full Moon appears over the horizon,
Illuminates the seascape all aglow.
Stonehenge is in the far distance,
A Spiritual place of ancient times.
Eagles and Red Kites soar up above,
I’ve added this line because it rhymes.
Camels roam the hot dusty Desert,
Tribesmen take fine goods to trade.
Crocodiles in Wetlands, South Florida
At home in their tropical Everglade.
Bluebells are singing in the Meadow,
Tulips and Daffodils harmonise.
How wonderful, thoughts so inventive,
A world seen through imaginative eyes.
Her sharp nail cut away the muscle from the bone
Each tormented scream of his was heard by her and him alone
He panted between screams and shouted, “Do you know who your father is?”
“It was the medicine man and I’m his son, you brother, please”
“I… know,” she whispered, “Now catch your breath, I want you alert,”
“Because this is where things are going to really hurt.”
The pain he felt from the boiling water sent him into a blackness so thick
A blackness he could feel against his skin that made him sick
At least the pain was gone, he thought he was dead
Until he heard her voice echo in his head
"Come back, come back to reality," it said
He heard whimpering and cries
From the demons cowering with “I’m glad it’s you,” teary fire red eyes
Just before, he was dragged back to consciousness
That moment he would dell on as a painless heavenly bliss
His nose was filled with the stench of his own flesh
He threw up at the sight of his bloody chest
The excruciating pain reminded him of reality afresh
This time he lay there, he was not alone
There were a thousand of his tormented tribesmen and she was sitting on a throne
Next to her was an eagle and a bear riddled with maggots to the bone
They were in the land of the gods, a hell he would call his new home
The village lies desolate, a village that once thrived full cheer
It took one little mistake which imprisoned with fear
And one by one they began to disappear
This is the story I was told by a man
Who hides in the town begging for food, when ever he can
I don’t know where he goes or where he has been
But since last month he disappeard… never to be seen
** Sorry P.D I didn't know how to end it but there is your Coyote**
Ten years past since Coyote deceased
The land became fruitful, with the help of a new priest
It was the time of the crescent moon
When the boys would be sent out across the desert dune
To kill a coyote and return with the skin
And from that day forth their life as a man would begin
On this particular occasion the crescent moon shone bright
Casting shadows of the boys as the priest bless then in the light
One at a time they were sent in different directions
With a two inch blade for their protection
As they wondered off into the dark, out of sight
Suddenly their screams brought a chill to the air and the tribe was consumed by
fright
The medicine man rushed to their aid
Carrying his crescent moon shaped blade
Behind him were the tribesmen, twenty strong
To back him up incase anything went wrong
They found the boys laying, in a row
Alive but in a lifeless trance surrounded by snow
The ground was hot but around them as cold as ice
Everything was methodical and precise
The medicine man stood for a while looking afar
He saw a female figure near the missionary camp called “The Starr”
The ordered the men to take the boy back to the camp
As he walked off into the night just with a night lamp
He reached a huge boulder
When the air became colder
His curiosity overcame his fear as the female figure drew nearer.
He called out to it to identify itself
As she pounced majestically onto an icy shelf
She said you will remember who I am
Once a female sacrifice which should have been a man
He lifted the light to see her form
Her body perfect, a picturesque goddess, however, a bit pale
And around the thigh curled and uncurled her coyote tail
Her face, a face that every woman would admire
Except for the coyote fangs, he found that she was his desire
Like perfect mountains were her firm pink breasts
Her belly button the shape of a moon crescent was what intrigued him, his thought
confessed.
She moved close slowly and touched him with a hand that was cold
But the touch made him feel a warmth and he knew his heart was sold
To the desire to have and to hold
He kissed her gently and he felt more bold
To be continued….. P.D. Pt2
Wherever I stand,
It will be my holy land!
Wherever I stand,
It will be my holy land,
Listen to what I say,
And read my lips Friend!
The world has dramatically changed,
And became difficult to re-fix or amend!
The world of double B, Bush and Blair,
The just, the right became wrong and unfair,
But who would question it now or care?
This reminds of the first boar,
Their entire war machine,
And camel's **** and sand,
For what?
For a Bedouin, who can neither read?
Nor understand,
The ethos of civilised manners,
Of what was once the Arabian nights' land?
Now, if you are referring to tyranny,
I can feed you with a torrent of tyrants,
In the age of globalised plenty,
These are many here and there starting from you,
From where it all began,
From where you are now dictating and
From where you right now stand!
Uncle Sam made a partnership pact with Arabian Sheikhs,
And suddenly these unholy duos call each other ally and friend!
If you are after a might destruction,
Here you have Iraq, Libya,
And now Syria and Yemen,
Difficult to re-fix, or to amend,
And Afghanistan long before them,
Suffered, fell down to its knees and
Sunk into the bloody sand!
My brothers are not biological anymore,
My brothers are not genuine like before,
My true brothers are now those who stand
By me, firm and denounce, protest,
And shout hands in hand!
For peace, justice solidarity that may blend,
Into one world motto and convey the message
The mighty message, to the tribesmen,
The villager, the perceived enemy
And the friend!
An Independence Day Poem written by John Sorie Conteh
I am Mama Salone, the crying mother!
A mother to millions of children.
I am a freedom fighter who fought for the freedom of my siblings and home:
3 scores and 1 year ago, I and my senior kids fought against the English strangers for freedom;
We shed tears and many types of blood were lost, but we never lost.
I'm now 61 years independent but I am not absolute independent.
Today is a remarkable day that is worth commemorating,
But I am not happy, and why should I be happy?
This day needs to be celebrated, but why did I need to celebrate it?
When my efforts have sunk into the ocean;
I regret giving birth to some of these disobedient children
When I look at the Lion Mountain, I remain the crying mother!
I am a one-year-old retired woman,
I can no longer fend for myself and my vulnerable children.
So I only rely on those I made landlords look after their sisters and brothers,
But since I placed them there, they have become dishonest.
They only care for themselves and their tribesmen
When I think of the needy, I remain the crying mother!
I am disappointed with these selfish offspring,
They adapted the greedy man's culture
Corruption, tribalism, nepotism, and regionalism are part of their attitudes.
They make fortune from the needy to enrich themselves
They are living in luxury while their companions are living in poverty.
My tears will never dry, I remain the crying mother!
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
Asking tribe’s future to the totem pole that grew higher
with the stock of fogs, drizzles, snows, suns, moons and stars,
that Haida laid one at a time from the day of their first step
on the sands, they followed the school of fish riding on the wavelets,
chased the fish plowing the surge of waves, hunted the big fish
buffeted by the billows because their home is the sea and the winds.
When heap of Haida’s days,
the days made through with the waves,
the days that lived through with the winds, turn into gray cloud,
and the time when this dismal gray cloud turns around the hillsides
over this village, drifts along the riversides by that village and falls
on the water’s edge as a drizzle, the villagers come to the village square
calling moon and stars above the sky while stepping
on the fallen leaves on the path that links to tomorrow.
When the moonlight wanes to fall on the water and become ripples,
the stars close their twinkling eyes overwhelmed by deepening night
and fall to sleep in the depths of water, the lads sit around the bonfire
sharing their body temperature with all the tribesmen
to hear the elder’s story regarding relationship
for the forefathers’ forefather with totem pole.
And as time goes by, the night falls deeper and deeper
the good-hearted artless Haida converse with carved image
that flames in the bonfire light on the top of the totem pole
wearing the masks created with a whole spirit
and utmost devotion to the Spirit
that lives within the totem pole.
Note: The reproduced Haida village on the backyard of Museum of Anthropology, University of British Columbia.
DEATH OF KING HUSSEIN February 7, 1999
Uncertain wings, Hawk of the Qureish fly
out of the night to meet the coming day
of certain mourning, he is set to die
as is uncertain peace that was his way.
Amman is crying, streets are washed with tears
of followers and tribesmen of his own
who've prayed for miracles down through the years
but he is all the miracle they've known.
The powder keg is primed, and set to blow
what peace he's made now hostage to the past,
and still the Jordan makes it's dreary flow
through all his world and time that can not last.
divided tribes are joining, aiming for
a swift, decisive act of holy war.
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..............
the side hunt of another being distracts from the main goal the bigger picture new blood in the tribe all ways brings new thunder in the lighting storm of a cloud to rest tribesmen warriors questioned on there Integrity coucils held in different ways non
traditoal ways many societys in the past life many crumbles many edgeings craved in stone from past generations in the over all lifeform many civalazations crumbled before the one being build before the eyes of the laborers the laborers of the temple the foundation of the
lifeform The structue of which u create for ur self the old carpenters saying mesaure twice
cut once comes to mind we all might not come out square every mock up but the
ability to adjust and measure up time and time again to become the master piece
we all want to become is the test of the builder within
Journey
Dirt, grass and wildlife govern
The Savanna
Elephant, lion, hyena
Roam the land
We pride on our livestock
Of goat and cow
There’re all we’ve got to survive
Our journey on foot
Will leave our mothers worried and shook
For the bold and untamed
Claim the terrain
They hide and poke their heads out
The giraffe is a beauty
Yet rough and daring
For we’ll risk our lives
To get to the other side
An unknown territory presides
Of freedom, literacy and discipline
Early into the morning and late into the night
A young Kenyan boy makes a fire
He’s on the watch
To run off every beast and critter
Who seek to feed on the flock
I will learn Swahili, English and math
The leopards hang by the cliffs and rocks
They’re vicious
They’ve attacked our tribesmen
Going there is forbidden
There are snakes in the bushes
And monkeys in the trees
Though I see elephants and buffalo
I must do what I was told,
Walk where the wind blows
Marckincia Jean
Free verse
06/18/19
Use my name with conscious
I love care and safeguard all
Those of the opinion
And those of the contrary opinion
I unify tribesmen from different tribes
Advances interests for all
I cultivate culture of unity and harmony
Truly, a mother for all
Slaves can’t insult kings
But they will never be slave’s eternity
As time to usher new will come
I guess you are because they are
Honesty is source of pride
We are tired singing praise
Even when you fail
Use my name to build not insult
Yes mother is supreme
Dusk, prone for a head-on collision
For the trees brace themselves
Huddle as tribesmen to swat away
The human dirigibles taking laps
Around this pathetic attempt
To rape nature for commerce
With intimate kiosks acting as
Mini brothels looking to get laid (and paid, at 70% off)
I hear the trees whimper slightly
Marginalized for the margins and cracks looming
Inside each retail fish* tank
Let's choose to ignore them
Let's oxidize together
For the trees need this more than us
Because guess who's left standing
When the brothels close
From diseased indulgence
And reddish overuse
When the game's over
After last rites granted
And the lights go out
When we simply need to gaze
Towards the heavens and
Honor these angelic trunks
Of tantric glory.
(10/23/14)
*replacement word; actual is not allowed by site standards.
DEATH OF KING HUSSEIN
February 7, 1999 Amman, Jordan
Uncertain wings, Hawk of the Qureish fly
out of the night to meet the coming day
of certain mourning, he is set to die
as is uncertain peace that was his way.
Amman is crying, streets are washed with tears
of followers and tribesmen of his own
who've prayed for miracles down through the years
but he is all the miracle they've known.
The powder keg is primed, and set to blow
what peace he's made now hostage to the past,
and still the Jordan makes it's dreary flow
through all his world and time that can not last.
divided tribes are joining, aiming for
a swift, decisive act of holy war.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet