Long Buckskin Poems
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His the archer’s bow, straight his arrowhead
on foot and trail swift as the running deer,
and long his hair the eagle feathers spread
in the buckskin war bonnet he does wear.
My boy the dreamcatcher, the hunter brave
in buffalo horn and porcupine quills -
ghost of the warrior chief in the grave
whose heart lies on the plains and in the hills.
Where beats a drum and burns a campfire -
a child of the Great Spirit in the sky,
like the roebuck leaping farther, higher,
chasing a dream in the wind and the rye.
You are the Indian bark, the sacred tree,
a totem from the depth and breadth of me.
Written: March 2013
If I were a painter, no not that kind
But I am kind as I let you crack into a crevice in my warm-blooded heart,
I would pick up those brushes and paint your flesh as a buckskin colt,
and analogy would float
through the chemicals in my mind-- those neurotransmitters, dopamine especially--erecting new memories hard-wiring images of experience-- of a boy who seems to run like like a colt
I see it now dessert sands in a blur off in the distance
I see the the sands billow in storms at the hooves and the scintillating sun outlines the penumbral essence of your radiant form
creating a motion picture of beauty so great, great enough to burst my heart and set fire to the sky
And my temperance will go challenged as I swim in your beauty.
Small train of pack horses walking slow,
five of them, to be precise,
on the shore of this rock-choked river,
opposite where I make my way.
Led by three men wearing buckskin,
one is Injun, must be their guide,
must’ve married into the tribe
or they wouldn’t be so friendly.
Their hoses full of plews, like mine,
a year’s work of trapping beaver
in icy pools by granite peaks,
all fringed by ramrod-straight spruces.
I ride one horse and lead two more,
fetlocks splash in the shallow water,
had to divert through the river
to avoid a stretch of rocky bluff.
Didn’t want too, I had no choice,
now three of them can see me plain,
see my year’s worth of beaver pelts,
out here where man makes his own law…
Maybe they’re the honorable sort,
but coin does strange things to a man.
grasp tight my big Hawken rifle
as one of them calls out to me…
The sun receded quietly on a relaxing siesta, as
Calm clouds of the mid-afternoon smiled henced,
The beat of the drums provideth dancing rhythm
As she moved in pure elegance with harmony, to
A style of danced buoyantly bouncing in melody.
Crafted beadworks accented her warmth charm,
Under her delicately brown-jeweled moccasins
The grass provideth such a natural cushion,
As Angular unique flexings of her gentle knees
Resonated like an eagle’s stealthy landing
Quietly in its nests with an eye on a nice prize.
She tingled as the sound of bells jingled
Sending pure melodic rhythm to ears—many!
Whilst she turned in an elegantly slow motion
Fringes from her shawl swayed air of warmth.
The balls of her feet moved in slight degrees as
Her heels touched Mother Earth softly in harmony,
She smiled as the judges watched intently. Like
A graceful dove she floated with precision—uniquely!
Her buckskin regalia trimmings—so singed softly!
As she danced in the sunset evening's twilight;
She created an energetic circle of life’s fire
Yet, never raised her ceremonial feathered fan,
Whilst in clear focus emerged from the dance
Regal styles of proud cultural Native heritage
A contrastingly exquisite fine female figure
Arousing sights in the soft evening’s twilight,
Dispelling the uncertainly to even look twice,
Elegantly noble and much marvelously nice:
She was naturally—First Woman!
~~~~~~~~~**********~~*~~~~~~~~~
Written During Oneida Nation Annual 2010
Independence Weekend Pow-wow Celebration
Host Drummers – Bear Creek
Oneida, Wisconsin, Bordering Green Bay
~~~~~~~~~**~~*********~~~~~~~~~
Won Honorable Mentioned Prize
Images Contest
Sponsored by Frank Herrera
7/15/10
~~~~~~~~~**~~*********~~~~~~~~~
The poker game wuz progressin' purty well 'til Iron Mike started a ruckus!
Seems he had some spare aces up his sleeve, that dirty, sneaky cuss!
One-Eyed Pete didn't cotton to them shenanigans and drew his forty-four!
Iron Mike jumped up, toppled chairs and tables a-skedaddlin' fer the door!
That started the biggest brawl that the town uv Buckskin Joe had ever seen!
The mob wuz yellin' fer Iron Mike's head but he had prudently fled the scene!
One-Eared Earl, the barkeep, fired his rods a-tryin' to restore some order.
Meanwhile, Iron Mike wuz racin' on a stolen hoss fer the Mexican border!
The pianner player kept playin', "A Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight!"
('Twas Three-Fingered Clyde who tickled the keys fer free booze ever' night!)
Big Nell, who belted out bawdy songs each night, wuz involved, fists a-flyin'!
She busted some noses and shattered some teeth, and I ain't a-lyin'!
A dozen er so uv Madam Rosita's soiled doves joined in the fray as well,
A-kickin' and a-scratchin' and pullin' hair and generally raisin' 'ell!
There wuz so many shots fired that night, it seemed like war had started.
Many drunks awoke the next day to find that thar hair had been parted!
Studs Flanigan, the bouncer, wuz trampled as the fight spilled out on the street.
This sensitive affair caused a deeper rift between the rabble and the town's elite!
So as not to hear the fussin' and cussin', moms covered their kids tender ears.
Old-timers claimed they hadn't enjoyed sech a show in Buckskin Joe fer years!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
The Indian brave rides all alone
Beneath the mountains made of stone
Under the clouds that go sailing by
With heavy heart and occasional tear he will cry
Lost many tribesmen during the Indian wars
Though white men he killed by the scores
A war of hate from both sides
That’s why a lonely path he now rides
A fearless warrior, a commanding chief
Who had to lead his people through all the grief
See women and children killed at will
Many terrible sights he see’s still
Now he wanders in his buckskin clothes day and night
With his feather in his hair an awesome sight
With his trusted pony his only friend
He will now roam until his end
Chawathka, a last remnant of the Great Plains war
Now he rides and thinks what was it all for
Was it worth all the sacrifice
His people paid a terrible price
As they fought for freedom from the whites
But he still has nightmares during his lonely nights
And he will wander until his dying day
Under the Sun and Moon, riding every which way
She wandered like a gypsy to Wyoming,
Where she settled in and sojourned for a spell.
She found herself a billet at the Hog Ranch,
And son, there weren’t no high-tone clientele.
It was just a soiled dove’s privy crib
Where Martha Jane set up her chicken coop.
She was a cowhand’s heartthrob,
All buckskin and sutler whiskey.
She could drive a team of oxen.
She could drive a man to sin.
Times she frequented Old Bedlam,
Drillin’ with them soldier boys;
Some were galvanized Yankees,
Some were mere tenderfoot lads.
When she wasn’t barkin’ at a knot,
She’d be somewhere raisin’ sand.
She considered each calamity
That buggered her contentment
As just another maverick to brand.
Faith
is it a feeling like a soft spring breeze early in the spring morning,
Faith
Is it birds singing on a sunny summer day,
Faith
Is it knowing without a doubt that GOD is always near us no matter what life brings our way.
Death
Growing old
Grieving
Tough times
A loss of a broken friendship
Envy
Loss of trust
A painful childhood
Family separated by sadness
Faith
Is knowing derp in our heart that God will never leave us, He never promised it would be easy.
Faith
IS loving one another in good times and bad.
Faith
Is seeking Gods word in prayer and deed,
Faith is never being so discouraged that you no longer ask for help..
Faith IS living as Christ Jesus lived in the best way we know how, buckskin g each and every day as it’s our last.
Faith IS and always WILL BE being the person GOD made you and I to be, a living loving human being who can change someone else’s day by simple kindness deeds
We Are One
Dear Ancient Sister
I hear your distant calls finding me on a gentle breeze
You have lived in my dreams for many seasons
My voice
Your voice
My soul
Your soul
And our Coming of Age
I have always known you...
I have heard your
Quiet whispers echoing in
The night coming close to me
I call to you ...
Let me be a part of your breath
I have always known your wounds and sorrow
I see the light and magic in your eyes...
The pain you carry so eloquently
I see your reflection in the clouds above
Carrying your soul wound on your sleeve
I see the deep crevasses and lines
In your grandmother’s hands
I hear the secrets beneath the earth of
Your grandfather’s footsteps
I see your reflection in the twilight
Of the evening... against pink watermelon hills
Your voice beckoning me onward closer to you
I see you in the moon and stars
Your buckskin dress adorned with
Ceremonial beads
Abalone shell against your forehead
The dirt beneath your moccasins
Grateful for the kiss of your dancing feet
I hear the echo in the distance of songs
The Elders sang...
During their passage here
You are born into a woman
Before my eyes and heart
Before your tribe
Before nature
A wise new feline
A mystical power with endless allure
A force that lifts and unites us all
As one
Your rays blessing us and leaving
A welcome imprint on our hearts
My Ancient sister
I drink in your wisdom and grace
I fly on your wings
You have shown me your world
Watching you dance
Becoming you for moments in time
Your silhouette etched by
The wild flames behind you
A glow radiating into
The night sky
The stories of your Ancestors
Filling the air with
Words and lessons and song
Notes sung into clenched fists
With bloodstained hands
The children and animals
Sensing all that was
And all that will ever be...
The call of a distant bird
The thumping of your cane on
The hungry earth
Keeping time with
The movements of your body
You will look back on this
Day as you walk with the
Same cane down the path of
Old Age...
Your wisdom
Cupping your heart gently
Ancient Sister of mine
I am in gratitude for
Your strength and courage
The kiss of your words and
The teardrops of your loss
Susan Lawrence
Copyright 2020
Original Artwork
Susan Lawrence
The End
Death
steals all perspective
no looking forward
or looking back
Finality
zero — sum — zero
relativity
lost in its tracks
***
One Final Question
Bending the circle
inward
Pushing dimension
out
Finding true value
where logic defies
One final question
— all answers in doubt
***
The Wages Of Sin
When the forest is gone
and you’re sitting dethroned
Where the trees and the animals
once freely roamed
Tomorrow comes crashing
through yesterday’s gate
The present transporting
— the guilt and the hate
***
Sentenced Unnamed
Alone with old thoughts
my past on the run
And cornered distraught
with fate zero-sum
Secluded sequestered
and sentenced unnamed
The court jester’s chattel
— a minstrel of shame
***
Bartering Fame
Renting the future
in debt to last year
Tomorrow defaulting
unpaid in arrears
Pawning each memory
bartering fame
Trading lost moments
— for wishes reclaimed
***
Set Free
Speaking
without words
Painting
without rings
Walking
without steps
Flying
without wings
Beathing
without air
Feeling
without touch
Hearing
without sound
Knowing
— without such
***
The Fire Of Change
A path between
conflicting worlds
He walked a road
of hope
The product of a
captive raid
Quanah sought
to cope
His spirit caught
between the folds
In buckskin born
of lace
To dance around
the fire of change
Blue eyes
— and painted face
***