The globe is a shrubbery we must safeguard like our own world,
World of women’s physiques with un-upkept in between,
In-between growing huge shrubs untended and jamboreeing silent bugs,
Bugs spread as weeds when a savannah of hair buckskins the sun.
Sun vanished in thickets can distress the peace of hubbies,
Hubbies ramble like agrarians looking for grounds that respire with health,
Health produces where spotless rivers run and razors clear the trail,
Trail through the wasteland teaches that shaving is pruning.
Pruning protects both soil and skin from pungent shade,
Shade over basins or over women offers unseen diseases,
Diseases cautions us that negligence of earth rears regret,
Regret dwindles when we shield every allotment with affection.
Affection describes such a woman who never weeds her land,
Land producing human beings should not be that bushy,
Bushy and causing it smelly, a condition able to generate germs,
Germs that spoil the body and the feelings that repel lovers.
Poem by Mugisho T.N
Their bridled haunt, each day may be their last; yeehaw.*
The narrow way, down mountainside, and clop of shoes.
The saddlebags dip left and right in gait and gnaw.
The spirit wind and pouring rain their hoofs refuse.
Begs me to ask, “Are horses as brave as cowboys?”
Lights’ heads bowed low to the path of perilous sight.
The kick of spurred heel, a “Giddyap,” of steel, “Go boy!”
They’re made to trek down mountainsides as stones ignite.
What’s turned ‘round the head of Roy, his slack rope in lead?
This corral dust, no it is fact, the slip and slide**
of horse-hide, ain’t no dignity of his tan breed.
No grave for him, his service blow is bonafide.
The cowboys “yip” and “holla” spittoon-chew and cussed.
Ornery snorts, flyswatter tails replay course sounds.
The clinch mountain, after hazardous ride, kicked dust
in snout of grieving herd; and buckskins stood their ground.
1/20/2021
Cowboy Poetry
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
*yeehaw - used to express delight. Here I’ve used sarcasm.
**corral dust - lies and tall tales
***clinch mountain - rye whiskey
HMS used for 12 syllable count. Site was off on 2 lines.
There are monsters in the seas and forests.
It's obvious that this is not our home.
Volcanoes and earthquakes try to shake us into reality.
That we're greedy stewards- the Earth's ego ogres.
The natives say we came from the stars.
That we're star people.
The night sky is our path to a distant shimmer.
It's time to gather up our spirits and buckskins.
Climb aboard a speed-of-light time ship...
And glide across the cold black river.
Half-Eleven Form Contest/Nina Parmenter
THE ETOWAH INDIANS
The Etowah indians, tribe of redskins,
trading their buckskins.
Mississippian mounds base of temple grounds —
history astounds.
Spaniards kick dust, sitting high on each horse,
with winds changing course.
Silver helmets and harquebuses - tribe stared —
the thunderclap scared!
The Etowah Indians tribe of redskins
leave Georgia with wins
and young “bucks” with grins.
10/28/2018
harquebus - type of gun that sounded like thunder
young buck - a young person, child
shocked, as hair cut short
buckskins burned
praying,
in the darkness for rescue
all our gods forsaking us
pics of Him in pain
Teacher demanded belief
after all
somehow
died for our sins
what is sin?
A bright girl asks
later teach replies
now forgetting gods
of earth and fire
and dressed up in
lies of white man
kind lady
with love in heart
circles my neck
with crucifix
Realize
all our gods
are one
still praying
to great spirit
the one with
wild deer playing
in her heart
Rite Of Passage
*
My Walk to Remember
My father takes my hand,
tucks it in the crook of his arm
and smiles at me as we walk through
the old pasture that has been transformed
into an outdoor chapel
Tears roll down his face
with each paced step we take,
towards the alter, the pastor
And the hopeful face of my
of my husband to be
His grip tightens on my hand
as the congregation stands
and all eyes turn towards our progression
as the clouds give way to the
warming April sun.
I recall the pungent, smoky scent of
the tanned buckskins we wore,
see the blue cone of the tepee with
lodge poles reaching towards the pale blue sky
the red and white bunting my sister
so carefully wrapped around the fence posts
My Beloved’s eyes shining with
promise, hope and love
and the Indian flute music that
drifted on the tangy spring air
marking my rite of passage from
Daughter to Wife.
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