Long Arrowheads Poems
Long Arrowheads Poems. Below are the most popular long Arrowheads by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Arrowheads poems by poem length and keyword.
Effortlessly now as we battle the darkest battle with those known as the greatest powers
The race is not won by the stronger or swifter, have you ever heard of the one who is called The Deliverer
God has handed the poor man a plot out of poverty, And He has heard the cry of the widow
And the young girl who cries out for vengeance, an Angel tells her, it is the Lord who fights your enemies
So before you come to This place swollen with pride and drunken on your plans for my future misery
Disguised is a blue ninja inside these pictured and captured memories
Defiantly freed for a lifetime and completely treating this as a matter of discretion
Undeserving of nothing, worthy friends are not really what I call my friends at all its unlikely
Because their boast of loyalty is like false fronts and I come up behind them and say why even comment
For it is your words that betray you and despite the lip service that you give me when you preach to me forgiveness
It is not my way to condemn you as judges do when they sentence you for the rest of your lifetime in hell
No I’m like come to a conclusion do away with your false views of me
Land on this solid ground step away from that place all they’ll do is sacrifice you to save themselves
A wrath has descended like storms of destruction the forces are darker than lights when they blackout
The forest is creeping with every creature that is pulled into a place of safety and hiding
Broken arrowheads poisoned with venom are crying out all I need now is a target
Sonic boom sound breaker is broken and long forgotten frozen and composed in music that throws it
Children here the voice of reason, Men are full of deceit and crafty because they are from the devil
Teachers please come and listen for you will teach well after you hear the voice of the Master
Beware! Take heed do not be greedy for a mans life is not consisted of material possessions
By your patience possess your souls, It is expedient that I leave you and go to be with the Father
Because then I will send you the Spirit of comfort and he will bring all these things into remembrance
Lo I am with you all the way to the ends of the earth, and be watchful because no one knows the hour
Not me nor the Angels in Heaven, that time is only known by the Father
And when I say Watch, WATCH! Because I come as a thief in the night!
Misshapen limbs of the Palo Verde trees add an artistic touch to the landscape. While
Honeysuckle twine about the old rail fence and the spiny Ocotillo flash scarlet plumes.
Mesquite trees, older than the homestead, reach out and cast much appreciated shade.
Saguaro's flank the hard packed drive. Desert poppies lead the way to the home.
Built of stone. Hand laid by calloused hands. Topped with thick rough hewned timbers
and clay tiles. The home welcomes all.
Windows sparkle in the late afternoon sun. Reflecting brilliance that hurts the eye.
Once inside, a coolness calms and refreshes. The native stone keeping the desert heat
at bay.
Beams hewn from the Mesquite adorn the ceiling. Stucco interior walls add a softness
and Spanish flavor.
Arched doorways lead to halls and bedrooms. Each with it's own distinctive fashion.
Soft beds with hand woven blankets. Each depicting a different Indian Spirit. Deep set
windows to let in the cool breeze of spring and fall. Thick draperies to block out the
summer heat and winter cold.
The kitchen, sparse and utilitarian. A soap stone sink, slate counters and open faced
cabinets. dried herbs, onions and peppers hang from hand forged hooks. As do the
pots and pans used to cook simple fare that fills the belly and warms the soul.
A blue speckled coffee pot with a chipped spout is always on the newfangled gas stove.
The old woodburner sit as before. Used in winter to warm the kitchen and bake the
daily bread.
A place of gathering, is the plank top table. With it's brightly colored cover and always
full cookie jar.
back in the main room is a beehive fireplace in the corner. It's bulbous form giving
character to the otherwise plain room. More exposed beams extol the strength and
longevity of the home. While wood and leather furniture offer comfort and rest.
Beautiful hand crafted wood cabinets and shelves hold antiques found on travels.
Shadow boxes hold arrowheads found on desert hikes. Pottery from the local tribes
finish out the decor.
Homes like this are becoming extinct. To find souls who appreciate it's honest design
and accept the happiness that simplicity can bring, is becoming rare. I am one of those
souls. My search is on going to find my place in The Valley Of The Sun.
Form:
In the setting sun the Sioux Tepees look like vandalized pyramids,
the Tetons themselves appear as though angels raped
by the savagery of centuries yet noble in barbaric beauty and warrior ethos,
a Scalp Dance is begun, torches up high on the outside
a bonfire big and heavy be the center spirit,
the drums awaken from the caves of ancestral courage
and the voices of a thousand Mothers plead for the pride of their sons,
drumbeats raise the heartbeats into the heat of glory
as the rattles rake the mind with the cost of blood,
warriors enter the pit with bravery to prove and fate to appease
feet pound the earth and scalps shake on power rods
the currency of victories swing wide and thunder smacks the stars,
Afterwards, Chief Partisan presents us with squaws
pretty in young passion and fertile to the touch,
there is a custom of strength transfer through intercourse
they desire the seed of our spirit,
indulging in their spells of native kiss could leave us vulnerable
to capture or even assassination
we can't afford to be reckless in pleasure or mindless of morals,
I am unwilling to father a hybrid pioneer amongst a probable enemy,
embracing these temptresses gowned in scanty furs
could even politically bind us to the Teton against their traditional adversaries,
we must avoid inciting intertribal conflict at this juncture,
Morning has arrived with a think fast attitude
the messages between our nations is unequivocal
the Teton are intractable in their belief of invincible independence,
they have their arsenal, warriors, and horses,
feeling that they own the thunder and the fear of their neighbors,
the Chinese and New York fur markets
along with taxing river passage have to date guaranteed them wealth
and the British have armed them for profit,
however, the arrowheads of the United States are aimed to strike their arteries
and we won't stop until they bleed out into oblivion,
the Sioux shenanigans have resumed as we gather up and get ready to push off,
exasperated, we convince Black Buffalo that it behooves him
to persuade his people to let us leave without hostilities
and they do as we toss them some tobacco sticks,
once on Destiny, anchor up,
the southerly winds lift our vessels towards autumn's genesis,
J.A.B.
Have you ever written anything without sub combing to tears ?
My Family portrait in my mind , 2 older sisters , 2 brothers
My Mother caring about all five in different ways
Just with Mom & Dad there having the best of Holidays
My sisters laying out on the deck of river bank for 4th of July ~
Listening to " Honkey Chateau " and all by Elton John.
music a great memory ~Disco , Donna summer , Grease ~ Jaws !
Dad's records to Tony Bennett , Hank W Sr. , Count Basie & Louis Armstrong.
The music takes me home in a wagon filled with children and a dog "Lucky "
My Older brother , athletic , always fishing & hunting.
My younger , my Rock , Swimming and netting for fish,
feeding our Fat cat Perch off the rocks patiently awaits her food
the yelling , slamming of doors , tempers Flare , passion
Our Parents , passionate love yet passionate Hate .
After being a Family of Seven , Divorcing their fate ..
Why did that show " Dallas " bring out the Divorce in all ?
Scottish ~ Irish ~ French Iroquois ~ Cherokee
No matter what the mix ..Our curse Alcohol ~
the Screaming , Drinking , this memory I wish to shut the door on .
Going to A & W or making Cheerleading ,The Bears of course~
Excited in Chicago ! seeing Elton John in the Summer of 1976 ~
Cubs , museum of Wax , Museum of science & History , Pizza !
Expeditions of discovery ,little brother & I finding arrowheads on the Shore.
Our Grandparents Faithful Celebrations ! Chiffon cake , Apple strudel `
Our Cousins on Holidays , going for ice cream cones ,
scent of wet rain on oak leaves ~Before Halloween was bought in stores.
~ That is the Family I Love ,
that is the Family I choose to miss ~
You always need to have the last word Eve,
what you fail to realize like a storm with no form
is that sometimes the first word has more meaning than the last,
as the first step begins the journey
where the last step achieves the applause,
you say I'm wrong about everything,
I say you're right about nothing,
Father warned me of your impervious innocence
being a defense for owning the backlash of judgement
the backdraft of your ego's firestorm has injured us both,
a whiplash that I feel in the arch of my wings,
you tell me, " I killed the Snake ",
a Princess of wrath, a child on the cusp of Lake Lonesome,
for love's sake woman pulverize your prize
with eyes enthussiastic for our future so fantastic,
I was always so fond of how you're perfectly prepared for battle,
no Poet Warrior would I choose over the war drums you use,
this nonsense of how, " I don't speak up " has got me angered up Luv,
I've got three arrowheads inked on my bicep
counting the foes flung to Father's fire for you,
but still you wanna fret for another rampage rep,
I wanted to take joy from watching you crunch the coward,
to not intercept you from winning your own war
prideful in knowin that you weren't rattled by the scream of battle,
And don't preach to me about secrets in sullen seas,
I delivered my grief straight to your trophied floor,
your mansion has many doors, countless scores,
but you are no menace of mischief to me Eve,
rather, you are the only Angel I've ever adored
I would slay eagles just to have you write songs of our love's might,
I'm gonna go build a home for us
on that ridge called Heaven's Bridge,
go and make us some clothes
from our captured game, and ponder the roots of our argument's throes,
I love you more now than ever before -
By Poet - Adam/J.A.B.
The old Spanish mission had fallen down from neglect.
Where it once taught of a different way, and housed anyone from the noble to
the derelict.
Now it houses only varmints and things that crawl in the night,
A place where man at one time could seek sanctuary when weary from the
fight.
They were lighthouses in the most barren of spots,
A place where troubles were brought in hopes they would be forgot.
This one had fallen because there was no water at all.
The river stopped flowing and was the reason for the fall.
For without the water no crops could be raised,
And it couldn’t support the animals which needed to graze.
The river itself had been a grand site to behold,
Teeming with fish and attracted all types of wildlife that was the story they told.
They said a quake must have happened the only explanation they had,
And from the looks of things it must have been bad.
Artifacts of all type still clutter the ground,
From broken pottery to arrowheads can be abundantly found.
Outback of the mission an old cemetery is found.
Such an uncaring looking place where no one ever comes around.
I found a date scratched on a stone that read sixteen forty three.
Maybe a marker on a grave left in hopes someone might see.
A sad and lonely place that has been forgotten through time,
Letting such an historical place go unattended should be a crime.
Where the eyes lost their sparkles
Through the prairies-shadow lie,
What is South Dakota
A collective of arrowheads,
Deers, or buffaloes' dried skin?
Is the great Sioux chief sleeping?....
Or watching us
With his racy soul?...
Or is he in the peaks
Tripping through the sky as a pine?...
Or in the front of the dangerous trail?
Or his pipe is still filled of ashes,
where the smoke gleaming cold like bubbles?
Or with the elegance of a horsemaster
Letting the wind to take all legendary away?
Not the uncertain is certain,
Long stream and grass-laden,
Nor the mourn shall cry with us --
against the Sitting rock
Of a legend --
the unseen Holy man
Watching the blooms
Of Paha-Sapa!
Where the eyes lost their sparkles
Through the prairies-shadow lie,
What is South Dakota
A collective of arrowheads,
Deers, or buffaloes' dried skin?
Is the great Sioux chief sleeping?....
Or watching us
With his racy soul?...
Or is he in the peaks
Tripping through the sky as a pine?...
Or in the front of the dangerous trail?
Or his pipe is still filled of ashes,
where the smoke gleaming cold like bubbles?
Or with the elegance of a horsemaster
Letting the wind to take all legendary away?
Not the uncertain is certain,
Long stream and grass-laden,
Nor the mourn shall cry with us --
against the Sitting rock
Of a legend --
the unseen Holy man
Watching the blooms
Of Paha-Sapa!
That day is etched in the back of my mind still
I was five yet I can still hear the screams and cries piercing in the clearing
My uncle Hodge was in the saddle on Babydoll
His best friend Wade was on a stud dealing with those problems
My uncle said " Timbo look theres Indians" then they both took off at a gallop
I look and at first I did'nt see nothing
I knew they was playing so I thought lets see if this pony can catch em
But wait now I can hear them
I look and I see women Indian and children running into the clearing
I was'nt scared they looked like innocent women and children
I figured I would see what they wanted
Then I heard the hooves beating into the earth
Then I knew their situation
I waited to see if I was mistaken
Then I seen a Soldier on horseback with a saber
cutting down a young warrior
I heard the cries of his mother
as she ran to her son who was slaughtered
I hallored at her
I told her not too
He waited till she got closer
He smiled his eyes lit up and he struck her
I was like if I had a gun I would help ya'll
But Im not a sheep to be slaughtered
I still go there, I have found arrowheads and pottery
I was baptized in the creek beyond the clearing
There I have made money
On Christmas I went to p[ay my respects
To that young brave warrior
I found a dead fox then
The cactus are black and dying
It is sacred ground
It is where I will face them
Form:
INDIAN INK
Indian Accent, form the whispers inside
Chanting from long ago
Echoes come and go
Losing time in a soft eternal glow
A beautiful and delicate autumn mountain scene
Dry blue eyes enchanting melodies!
Voices fall from the sky, rising hymns release
ancient demons CLINGING to the SOUL!
Darkness dwells under - gentle moonlight
Ancestors of the Spirit World!
Weaving Native smoke into the barren air
Indian spirits haunt the muddy Earth
Moccasin makers rise from underneath,
While guardians of dream catchers - print the Universe
Smooth thread from the outer world.
Arrowheads, Ivory gems, feathers, and illusions
I stumble upon a florid kiss....... My veins!
Run cold, like ice through a desert night.
Winds of enchanted drums - cry out for rain
Hollow chimes mesmerize, my ties, my eyes
An ancient rage begins to flare --- MADNESS!
takes place among the sanity of who I am
The spear of perfumed buffalo scrapes my skin
I remove the veil that covers my eyes
The hands that cover my ears
Drying the scalp that bleeds on my face
KINDRED IN EVERY WAY!
Raven silk braids and feathers on my hair
Dancing in a horrid hallucination of Peyote,
Waking up from the “American Dream.”
Holding out my arms, I am free, I can fly,
I AM A BIRD!
Homecoming at evening for her and the birds.
They settle in, she watches them, white whorls
on green, wreathing tree tops, as is their wont, until
sentries spot storm clouds, sound an alarm, (word-
wings their e-for evolutionary mail,) telling wary
ones to take flight, find other asylum, though
where is that in open sky? Only the brave remain
to witness wind chimes gone ballistic on a piggy-
back ride without which they cannot reach their climax.
Only the courageous stay to mark wild thrashing
of leaves, needing a conductor for their language. Yes!
trees must have this choreography, this knowing baton
to tell their stories, and she who comes to translate
takes out her pen, calling for Eros, not Erato to arm-
wrestle words to paper. Would that Michelangelo's David
be prescient in all his sculptural splendor, rated A for
Anatomy, or Saint David, patron of poets, as pure as
a saint is obliged to be, converting revelation to writ.
As the recorder makes haste to capture syllables
in the wind, small turtles lift their black arrowheads
asking blessing from their bread-crumbs benefactor.
As to what the poet asks? Who is there? Who listens?
Hold close the moment. No one escapes their
darkness. Therein, a cautionary tale.