Long Butte Poems
Long Butte Poems. Below are the most popular long Butte by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Butte poems by poem length and keyword.
We Are The Ghost Dance Poets
by David Lee Herring (The Powwow Poet)
We come together from near and far
Like wise men following the star
from the sweet Grass Hills, We come to be filled
with the Spirit from on high
Holy Great Spirit in the Sky
Calls us to come together now
He’s our grandfather, he’ll teach us how
Peace and Love will prevail
For we are the Ghost Dance Poets
Summoned together by Great Spirit
Fighting this battle with pen instead of arrow
Taking the path that is the most narrow
Calling all humanity
to come together in unity
We paddle down the Zuni River
As through rusty red silt she slivers
On this quest to quench the thirst of our souls
we surrender all control
to the guidance of Great Spirit
We answer his Call as we hear it
With the rattle of the Gourd and the beat of the drum
We all come together as one
For we are the Ghost Dance Poets
Summoned together by Great Spirit
Fighting this battle with pen instead of arrow
Taking the path that is the most narrow
Calling all humanity
to come together in unity
Some begin their journey at Bear Butte
Others start their passage at Pahuk
All from different nations and tribes
For We are Great Spirit's Scribes
His poems pour forth from our tongues
We sing songs like our Fathers have sung
Prophetic rhymes of warning to mankind
earth is your mother, respect and love her
We all sprang up from her soil
Now we must all join in and toil
Gather and labor together to save her
For we are the Ghost Dance Poets
Summoned together by Great Spirit
Fighting this battle with pen instead of arrow
Taking the path that is the most narrow
Calling all humanity
to come together in unity
See, Wounded Knee could not stop the poets
Over a hundred years ago and We still hear it
The sound of the drum calling us to come
and all join together in the circle
And once again there'll be miracles
Bringing healing to our bodies and souls
As from all tribes together we dance
For Dance is a form of romance
It's Intimacy with the Holy One
As all of his daughters and sons
Worship the Father together as one
For that is how true healing comes
For we are the Ghost Dance Poets
Summoned together by Great Spirit
Fighting this battle with pen instead of arrow
Taking the path that is the most narrow
Calling all humanity
to come together in unity
There’s many a tale that spreads across the night
when the sun o’er the plains yields to campfire light.
Tales about cowboys, who once roamed the plains,
scratching a living using their rope and reins
A few were happy when it came time to tell,
but many of them were just sadder than hell
Cause most of them ended with some poor old soul
lying all alone in a forgotten hole
There's a story I recall about a man,
that made his way north from the wide Rio Grande
Arlie he was called by those that new him best
folks round the Rockin Bar J just called him Tex
When the punchin’ all played out Tex left his home
in search of somewhere with enough space to roam
He found Montana where mountains scraped the sky
with enough space where he could live right or die
Tex knew a few summers and could feel his age
whenever Montana snows covered the sage
He felt time too quickly closing in on him
his hearing was fading, and his sight was dim
Round the bunks they told of a stallion named Ghost
catchin’ him would give a man the right to boast
They said that horse can’t be caught by any man
so all through the winter Tex worked on a plan
Tex had studied that hoss and knew he was smart
the cunning of a fox with want in his heart
There wasn’t a horse that could match his pace
Tex knew he won't beat him in a flat out race
Summer had run long, this one hotter than most
Tex laid his plan to get that horse they called Ghost
With hellfire in his eyes and his nostrils flared
Ghost come down from the mountain lookin’ for mares
Now Old Tex was ready to play out his plan
he’d strung out three horses across the grassland
Twenty miles apart those geldings stood ready
for an eighty mile stretch Tex could ride steady
Tex spotted Ghost silhouetted 'gainst the sun
that horse stomped and glared then took off in a run
Ghost was in the lead and Tex brought up the back
but Tex’d studied his foe and knew where he'd track
Towards Rattlesnake Butte that stallion did run
was heading straight into that bright morning sun
'cross dried grass and sage Ghost never skipped a beat
Fast as a Chinook through that Montana heat
Ghost was fast and Tex saw him pulling ahead
but they’d reached the exchange and Tex mounted Red
Red was sure footed and as fast as the breeze
and he started closing up that gap with ease
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
But the sun beating down was taking its toll
Red started to fade though he'd given his soul
they reached the exchange both were ragged and sore
Tex jumped on Blackie and was ready for more
Blackie was a young horse so full of spirit
he'd catch up to Ghost or at least damned near it
Behind them the sun met the earth with a glow
casting long shadows as night started to grow
Tex was dead tired and sore and his blisters bled
lips cracked and dry and a spinning in his head
Blackie was lathered, winded and bout to drop
they both had heart and neither was gonna stop
Rattlesnake Butte was coming close into view
that's when Tex saw Ghost pick up a step or two
He must have thought there was a change in his luck
unaware Tex had saved the last leg for Buck
Now Buck was a good hoss though just a tad slow
could climb like a mule to where Tex had to go
Up the side of that butte they staggered and strained
Tex let Buck pick the way and gave him his reins
They had nearly pulled up to that stallion's side
Tex could see the defiance in that horse’s eye
He knew if Ghost reached the top this chase'd be done
any chance of catching him would be long gone
So Tex took to hope's chance and let his rope fly
to hell with the odds, he knew he had to try
That rope struck its mark and landed true and right
and Tex tied it off to Buck's saddle horn tight
They were near the crest when the sun left the sky
when Ghost lost his footing and slid down the side
Ghost joined Tex and Buck on that one final ride
Now all three are runnin’ that range in the sky
Tex is now just a note scribbled on life’s page
'bout how him and Ghost were the end of an age
There’s many a tale that spreads across the night
when the sun o’er the plains yields to campfire light.
Tales about Tex, who once roamed free on the plains,
scratching a living using his rope and reins.
Some tales are happy when it comes time to tell,
but the story of Tex is sadder than hell
My Poetry Soup Friends, what a journey I have been on since we last spoke. I graduated from Butte College with an AA in Social and Behavioral Science, Yuba College with an AS in Addiction Counseling, and Chico State with a BA in Psychology. I am now a State of California Certified CADC Counselor. Coming from my past of Methamphetamine Manufacturing, Prison Gang Member, and ex-con, I feel like a Phoenix. I think when I received my Pardon from the Governor in 2015, my transformation process was near completion. Then, when I went to work for the County where I live, I knew my journey was complete. I love helping others find their way out of the darkness of addiction and mental health disorders that plagued my own life; I now know my transformation is complete.
I continued to write while I have been absent from our poetry site. I plan on posting again, and more importantly, reading your poetry. I have missed being a part of our Poetry Soup community. Once I had told my story, I thought I had achieved my goal. I honestly thought I had nothing more to say. I focused my attention on school and then my career. Toni and I raised Michaela; she has become an amazing young lady. Our other children are also living very blessed lives, which gives us great pride. We now have nine grandchildren and get to enjoy sharing all of their lives as well.
My life is blessed, but I’ve felt something was missing, an empty hole that I’ve been unable to fill. I write poems for all of our Behavioral Health Events. While writing my Poems for this year’s Recovery Happens/Suicide Prevention day in the park, it came to me; Poetry Soup is what has left a hole in my soul, so I’m coming home to share the bright side of my story. There will be more poems to follow. Many people/clients see me as a hero figure, but I’m just an old-dawg who has learned new tricks. I’m trying to do the Lords work as best I can: One day, one person, and one poem at a time.
The Black Hills wept for Thee
East of the Black Hills of South Dakota,
On the Pine Ridge Reservation,
Live a proud tribe of Oglala Lakota,
Part of the Great Sioux Nation.
On saddled chargers rode half the Regiment,
of the Seventh Cavalry.
A tune they played on behalf of the GarryOwen,
was such a sight to see.
While climbing through Prickly pines, they spied,
near the summit of Porcupine Butte.
Spotted Elk with Hunkpapa Lakota tribe,
the chief of the Minneconjou.
Five miles West through the cold day they walked,
the Lakota and soldiers of the Seventh,
Where Wounded Knee creek's icy waters balked,
between hell and heaven.
The Colonel ordered all of the tribe's rifles confiscated,
while the braves danced the ghost dance.
For rumor had spread of a new religion, long awaited,
that would turn the tide of chance.
Then suddenly came the report of rifles fired,
as the women and children fled to a ravine.
From the heights the thunder of cannon, now inspired,
close quarter fighting and lead, now convened.
Who knows where Providence went,
on that cold December morning.
Both guilty and innocent, now spent,
lay dead with little warning.
Bodies of the fallen now sprawled across the snowy plains,
with faces frozen in a moment of violence.
One mass grave with all, is all that remains,
of tears and laughter forever silenced.
In the days that followed medals were pinned to chests,
who proclaimed victoriously.
Though God only knows why, ignoble and divest,
life taken in vain, ingloriously.
In the shadow of the land of Sitting Bull,
was now told the tragic story.
Passed down from Mother to Daughter were recounted,
days of lost glory.
“Let us put our minds together to see what life we can make for our children.”
-Sitting Bull
Sitting on a butte, howling at the moon… I fell off and landed on my head.
My Trolls found me, and picked me up, and hauled me all the way home.
They set me at the computer, all cozy, wrapped up, and wouldn’t let me go.
Said they wanted to hear some more, great stories, about themselves, of course.
Life just seems more fun with them, as those marauders wander, all over the place.
But that grumpy dragon, whose been pooping on my flowers, each and every day…
He’s simply, has got to go! It wouldn’t be so bad, if he didn’t bury them, so deep.
And I think he’s only doing it, cause he wants to make me, freaking, crazy, insane!
He’s become jealous of the others’ stories, and he wants to be the very first, in line.
Leave it to a dragon, to do ANY THING, to try to hog, the very essence of my page.
For he knows that even the most serious poets, are prone to sneak a peak, at times.
Their comments are just, so much fun to read, as they comment on, the ensuing fun.
It seems if I write sonnets about my self, I tend to lose that steady stream, that’s mine.
You see, it’s not as much fun, to hear… how I’m blessed… again… and again, again.
And those wild Trolls do so many crazy stunts, till I simply, can’t leave them alone.
Of course, they’re patterned after my sons, who cringe, run, and hide, when I am near.
But, embarrassing my children, can be seriously, so much fun, with, my Hubby near.
But I’m beginning to wander, again, I think, as my friends start lining up at, my door.
But now I wonder: have my poems become me? Or have I become a part of them?
Its getting harder to tell, now-a- days… But I don’t really care… as long as …
You read and make comments on what I write… and laugh, a little, along the way.
Devils Tower
Millennium ago, the elements exposed
A magma-formed monolith protrusion;
Nine hundred feet high without obstruction,
On the rolling plains of Wyoming.
Hexagonal columns of igneous rock,
Gird the intrusion around;
Where at the base scree accumulates,
As pieces fall off the monument.
Legend depicts a bear climbing the formation,
In pursuit of children huddled on top, frightened,
Columns etched in by the scrape of its claws
As it fell off, and raptors carried the children to safety.
***
Notes:
Monolith: A ‘monolith’ is a geological outcrop of a single rock or stone.
Igneous rock: ‘Igneous rock’ is formed from the cooling of magma or lava. As the magma that formed Devils Tower cooled, it condensed into columns. Most of the columns that make up Devils Tower are hexagonal (six-sided). The tower is 867 feet (264 meters) high with a flat top covering 1.5 acres (0.6 hectare).
Scree: ‘Scree’ refers to rocks, boulders and, other debris accumulated at the base of cliffs or other tall rock formations.
Devils Tower (Bear Lodge): ‘Devils Tower (aka Bear Lodge)’ is a laccolithic butte that was formed around 50 million years ago in an area north of Moorcroft, Wyoming, U.S.A. First Nations People considered the rock formation sacred. Devils Tower derived its name by an incorrect translation of the native name as “Bad God’s Tower” which eventually became “Devils Tower.” The missing apostrophe (Devil’s) was a clerical error.
Like a burnished silver concho, from Pancho Villa’s boot
That ol’ Spanish moon comes slidin’ over Encantada Butte
Then the Chisos they go stealin’, down Coahuila way
Montaña mariachis and they’re comin’ out to play
Baile con mio M'hijito
Señoritas, come dance and sing
Dance por mañana acechanzas
And soon the long shadows grow wings
The boulders make a circle as the sagebrush clears a path
And I thought I heard poquitos try to hide a little laugh
Por los gringos son mas grande, and they lumber as they waltz
While the chicas curtsey daintily and try to hide their faults
Baile con mio M'hijito
Señoritas, come dance and sing
Dance por mañana acechanzas
And soon the long shadows grow wings
As he plays the bajo sexton, the big one starts to sing
With a low and throaty whisper Mochuelo takes the wing
El coyote joins the chorus, amarillo cacti glow
Y los mestizos vaqueros, lie sleeping down below
Baile con mio M'hijito
Señoritas, come dance and sing
Dance por mañana acechanzas
And soon the long shadows grow wings
La Luna slides down in the saddle of Serranias del Madre
And the Chisos they go stealin’, back up Tejas way
They tiptoe cross the river, Rios Bravos y Grande
Soñoliento bailadores, they lie dreaming for the day
Baile con mio M'hijito
Señoritas, come dance and sing
Dance por mañana acechanzas
And soon the long shadows grow wings
His policy views shift randomly
with the ever changing political winds
Whatever he ousted yesterday —
tomorrow, presto change-o ...
tweetle de dum, it’s blowing back in
Mirror, mirror chimera,
a thousand faces that constantly change
Mirror, mirror chimera,
your countenance of pride remains the same
In a planning Session,
he vows to stand by you
Promises are arbitrarily given
Then in a tweet message,
he labels you a disloyal recuse
Agreements are willfully broken
Mirror, mirror chimera,
your kaleidoscope faces they constantly change
Mirror, mirror chimera,
the reflection of your vanity remains the same
Opposition butte and chasm of criticism,
doesn’t deter his fickle meanderings
Always able to sway
the base support to walk his way
In one direction he will never stay,
his spirit is cursed to stray
Though their unwavering adulation spurs him onward,
his inclination to gyrate wildly is self-sustained
He’s a leader without any purposeful aim
Mirror, mirror chimera,
a thousand goals that constantly change
Mirror, mirror chimera,
your mutating priorities never stay the same
Chimera changeling,
spawned from an unstable genome
The crooked path of volatility
always leads him back to his chaos home