Best Wigwam Poems
Fun With Puns*
A shepherd and his sheep once took
A shortcut across a frozen brook
The owner charged a very high price
For pulling the wool over his ice
I didn't know if I were a wigwam or tepee
So I was really depressed and sort of weepy
Then a psychiatrist with very good sense
Explained I was just a couple of tents
Benny was rescued from a terrible place
And lived out his life in a silver vase
Thus he was a guy who finally learned
That a Benny saved is a Benny urned
A man bought an expensive new car
And stopped for some drinks at a local bar
Soon after he picked up some of his friends
Who quickly learned how a Mercedes Benz
Snow White felt weak and unsteady
When her photographs weren’t ready
She chewed on some gum and felt less glum
Certain someday soon her prints would come
Palm fronds are very relaxative
Swallow them; they’re a very good laxative
They won’t hurt you; they’re not venomous
So, with fronds like those, who needs enemas
It would be nice to have four more puns
Because a total of ten would be fun
Maybe one of them upon humor depended
Or it's very possible that no pun in ten did
*Of course, I would have given credit to the authors of these puns, but they are unknown.
She rose up, great green turtle of mystery
From chlliy depths of sapphire blue.
Drenched in a rich history,
Centuries of legend, lore and tales true.
Her shores are cloaked in limestone,
Ledges of jagged natural protection.
This grand Turtle Island alone,
Is Gitchii Manitou's perfection.
From her Eastern Shore,
Where the Arch rock stands tall,
To lover's leap and its lore,
Where Lo-Tah leaped at her lover's call.
Devil's Kitchen where wen-di-gos did
dwell,
When the winds come lashing in
Screams of their victims still echo well,
Washing over the Turtle's shores again.
North it's a great pillar of stone,
The very wigwam of Gitchii Manitou.
It stands tall, proud and lone
Watching over the Isle in the jewel sea.
Near the center is the crack in the island,
Where the Giants fingers grasp.
For when he loses grip with his hand,
The great turtle will sink once again, alas.
whispers promenade
this earthly wigwam of life
silence like the moon
Our Terry was a wonderful Lad,
today the family are so sad
He passed today and we don't know why
the angels have taken him up to the sky
He was a cracking son, who loved his mum
a brother, a friend, to everyone.
but most of all he was a cracking Dad
and now his daughters are so so SAD.
He was loving and gentle and a practical joker
ohhh yes he was a smoker
his wit and humour put everyone at ease
always willing to help and please.
Sport and gaming were his passion
occasionally keeping up with fashion
in footy training you could hear his voice
But Man United was his team of choice
I'm sorry Terry i have to say goodbye
but save me a place in that sky
watch over us that you've left behind
its a sad sad loss you were so kind
All the best Marra in your new home
and i know that you are not alone
Your memory will always remain in our hearts
in reality we are not apart
God bless you Tez or is it Wigwam
tell you what mate you were a real good man
now don't you be laughing at us up there
i know that you really do care.
(to be read out loud)
I'll eat the nibble naggle nooky nickel
nipple nappy mum mum mum
I'll chew your gooble gobble giggle gaggle
gimpy grampa's gum gum gum.
I'll call the wimpy wappy wiggle waggle
wacky wobble wum wum wum
I'll drink the wiggin' wimple whoopy whacker
wookie worker's rum rum rum.
Woo wow wee wah
Geegaw mee mah
Hee haw hoo har hey hey hey.
Mao moo mud muck
Wigwam poobah
Mad mook mick mack yay yay yay.
I'll have a murky muddle maple maggot
monkey marbles chum chum chum
I raised a ticky tacky tinky tonka
tailor's tiny thumb thumb thumb.
I'm really punky pickled pooka puckers
pitter patter dumb dumb dumb
I hear my diggle daggle doggy dingle
diddle daddled hum hum hum.
When I was very young
All I really wanted
To be was an Indian.
My mother always read to me -
Stories of fairies and elves,
Of princesses and ogres, witches,
And brownies who did good deeds.
Poems, “Wynken, Blynken and Nod”,
“The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat”,
And “The Sugar Plum Tree”.
Books, Alice in Wonderland,
The Little Colonel stories, and
The Five Little Peppers.
(I wonder if my grandchildren
Have ever heard of any of the
Old-fashioned stories and poems
Which were all magic to me.)
But, most of all, I loved
Longfellow’s poem Hiawatha.
“By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining deep sea water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis…”
I hear my mother almost singing
Those magical words from
“The Childhood of Hiawatha”.
I could see Hiawatha growing up
And learning Indian ways in
The woodlands of his youth.
I wanted to live in the woods,
To learn to talk with animals
And know their secrets.
I wanted to wear moccasins
And build a birch bark canoe!
One Christmas my brother got
A cowboy suit and hat and holsters,
But I, wonder of wonders,
Got a “real” Indian dress
With designs of tiny beads,
A fringe on the skirt,
And a headband with feathers!
I told my friends I was part Indian,
That my great grandmother
Was a real live Indian!
When it got back to my mother
She just said, “What stories you tell!”
Although I outgrew the dress,
The dream stayed with me
Throughout my childhood -
Sort of wishful thinking.
I always wanted to
Be close to nature.
Much of my childhood
I spent by myself, somewhat
Of a loner, climbing trees,
Making hideouts in the woods,
Walking in streams
To “cover my tracks”.
That “Indian child” I was
Still lives on in the
Recesses of my memory.
Maybe that’s why now, “grown up”,
I love walking in the woods
Or foraging by the ocean,
Why Stalking the Wild Asparagus
Is one of my favorite books,
Why I love picking wild blueberries
And grapes and making jam, or
Digging for clams and mussels.
Why I HAD to experiment with cooking
Slipper shells and making
Seaweed pudding and “Sumac-ade”.
Of course, I realize,
As well as anyone, that
The life of an Indian was not
As idyllic as I had once believed,
But, even now, after
All these years have passed,
It appears that
My “inner Indian”
Is alive and well and
Living on Martha’s Vineyard!
In our wigwams we hear tom-toms
Like hearts beating out a greeting;
Seasons in tune with thirteen moons.
In the moon of red grass.
Let the white man come.
There is room enough for all.
In the moon of green grass.
Let the white man come.
There is grass enough for all.
In the moon when ponies shed.
Let the white man come.
There are ponies enough for all.
In the moon of strawberries.
Let the white man come.
There are berries enough for all.
In the moon when lilies bloom.
Let the white man come.
There are blooms enough for all.
In the hot moon, we will sweat.
Let the white man come.
There is heat enough for all.
In the moon of wild rice.
Let the white man come.
There are bowls enough for all.
In the moon of falling leaves.
Let the white man come.
There are leaves enough for all.
In the moon of rutting deer.
Let the white man come.
There are deer enough for all.
In the moon when deer shed horns.
Let the white man come.
There are horns enough for all.
It is the hard moon of strong cold.
Let the white man come.
There are lodges enough for all.
In the moon when wolf packs run.
Let the white man come.
There are more than enough for all.
In the moon of sore eyes.
Let the white man come.
There will be enough for all.
The prairie wind is blowing chill,
Wildly waving through the grass,
Erasing signs of Indian trails.
In the moons of the white man,
Strong hearts seek Indians return.
Is there room enough for all?
Will our wigwams hear the tom-toms
Like hearts beating out a greeting;
Seasons in tune with thirteen moons?
Winter walks on water
To greet us each year
In the great north of Great Lakes--
Though not as far as
Old Nikomis' wigwam on Gitche Gumee's
Upland shore.
Fisherman's bird flies in snow-
Falling on brown waves.
White caps sing to the
Frosty blanket from afar,
"Hiawatha, can you still hear me?"
Warmth in a wigwam on a December afternoon.
The sun was going down, but it was cozy and hot inside.
my invited dinner guests would be here soon,
so, I began organizing things I wanted to eliminate or hide.
My early bird friend caught me and helped me out a bit.
What are we eating tonight? She asked in her curt way.
Tidbits, meats, cheeses, fruits, things to make us fit.
I brought fudge brownies, she told me “Hope this was okay”.
The brave seemed ferocious to many
He wore a scowl that fended them off
Unfriendly and unapproachable
Until the right woman discovered him
She tamed him into a new man
Protective sure, but there was a loving side now
The neighbors were not fearing his wigwam fire
Especially after he became a new daddy
He was a real person after that
Approachable and friendly
Thanks to the love of a good woman
And a handsome young son
An Aunties Wedding
There was an empty Players box
flattened beneath the dancers
a scent of receding tide on the quay
swept, green, slick as hair oil
bound by ginger sideburns
your dress shaped like a rocket to the moon
a wigwam to play in days before the day
I was five in a white wool suit
bony kneed refused to board her train
or travel the cold tiled floor
to her shining altar
I bet she never noticed the tramps outside the door
or your sisters child that day
now you are chatteringly old – still unhappy
I met you last Saturday
a little boy from nineteen sixty four