Long Cherokee Poems
Long Cherokee Poems. Below are the most popular long Cherokee by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cherokee poems by poem length and keyword.
Erasure Poem
So many fake Indians these days
Elizabeth Warren is one
And according to my DNA results
I am too
But my grand-parents spoke Cherokee my mom claims
And they disappeared into the hills
She claims
Is the DNA test wrong?
Was I adopted ?
Or is it possible
That I am a real deal
A real Cherokee
Or am I fake Cherokee???
A Cherokee weighed in on this on Quora
First, I would never call them “fake Natives”.
They are 99% white,
mostly Blue-collar, and New Age Hippie,
Anglo-Americans
who are simply
lost without their own specific identity
that they can proudly Claim,
so therefore,
they search for a certain Popular,
Romanticized segment of Indigenous People
that will “fit”
into their Family’s historical Lore.
Second, it just happens to ALWAYS be …
the Cherokee …
sometimes,
either Blackfoot or Lakota.
AND, “My GGM was a Cherokee Princess”,
as an add-on VALUE.
This is primarily
because of the vast area
formerly inhabited by the Cherokee.
However, the tribes’ interaction
with European immigrants since colonial times,
led to a great deal of intermarriage
with non-indigenous populations.
In many cases people have limited knowledge
of the other Native American nations,
that inhabited the areas in which they live.
However, a lot of this is wishful thinking,
and these people have African American
or other non-European ancestry.
It is fashionable to claim indigenous ancestry ,
in an attempt to legitimize t
Their sense of belonging on our lands.
The reason is simple,
they don’t know the names of the other tribes.
There has never been a song called
“Indian Reservation” about Apache People
or any other tribe but, the Cherokee.
“Indian Reservation”
by Paul Revere and the Raiders.
So if those people aren’t Cherokee
by blood at least it’s in spirit.
And so I conclude
I may be part Cherokee
Part of the lost tribe
Of the Cherokee
But who really knows
My mother took many things
With her to the grave
Lots of family secrets
Things I will never know
But in my heart
I know
That I am part Cherokee
And so I will proudly
Claim I am part Cherokee
In spirt
If not in blood
A long time ago when I was a little girl
I heard a story told by my family about
a Cherokee tribe who once believed it
would be better if there never was night.
The great creator heard their mournful plea
and took away the night and now day time
it would forever be. Soon the heat took its
toll and plants from the heat did not want to
grow.
Once again the tribe asked for relief but this time
of the light and spoke out loud to the creator for it
to be always night.
Darkness came upon them and still plants would
not grow. Warmth had disappeared and it was
always cold. Never a warm sunrise to meet and
little by little, nothing left to eat.
Once again the tribe spoke to the creator and asked
for the day and the night to be as it should. The weather
became more pleasant and gardens started to grow. Hunting
was good so there was always food to show.
The tribe thanked the creator for making every thing good
and they forever lived in gratitude for the blessings of this world.
I heard those who passed away during these times of change
the creator placed their souls in a new creation called
the cedar tree. They are now protectors of this tribal family.
So if ever in the forest and you smell a cedar near, know your in
the presence of those who lived long ago here.
The loss of perfection is hard to comprehend until it no longer
brings to one a fruitful end.
Now do I believe that this story is true? Well they say a piece of cedar
tree holds powerful medicine for protection. I still have a small piece
I have carried since I was 11.
When I was a little girl,
Mother said to me
on my dad’s side there had been
a pure Cherokee.
I felt so proud that I had
in my ancestry
blood of those who roamed this land
throughout history.
I’d been born with thick black hair,
and my nose grew long!
I supposed the Cherokee
in my blood was strong.
Mom is Welsh and proud of it,
saying I am full
of her Welsh vim and vigor,
plus a poet’s soul!
Of my sisters, there’s just one
with my long-nosed look.
I’ve got the results of the
blood test that she took.
By her DNA we see
Mom’s side very well -
Scotch-Irish, Welsh, Finnish too!
I think that’s all swell.
My dad’s side are the English.
That’s what I suppose.
There’s no Cherokee, so from
whense came my humped nose?
One small part Italian showed
on the test she’d sought.
For ONE percent is it that
Roman nose I got?
May 29, 2017/ Rhymed in 7/5 Trochee form
for the Ancestral roots Poetry Contest of John Hamilton
From my perch with a mountain view I try to understand
what this site was like when only the Cherokee roamed the land.
I have an affinity for indigenous people…their culture…
the way they looked at life…and living…
How they understood we are all a part of the land
and the value they put on sharing, community and giving.
They understood everything on this Earth is equal…no one portion is greater…
and how the entire universe shares in the immortal perfection of its Creator.
The way they lived, the way they worshiped, the unique way they thought
If only we had let them be our guide…
They had so much to teach us…
instead…we callously brushed them all aside.
We threw them off the only land they ever knew….
We were barbarous, merciless and cruel…
We tried to change the essence of who they were….
We took their children and sent them off to boarding school.
Where to their parent’s and these innocent children’s sorrow and surprise,
they were forever changed by they way they were mistreated, abused, and brutalized.
But as I sit in a cabin that sits on what once was Cherokee land….
and rue the way those before us have sinned…
I can still feel the Cherokee presence in the trees….
still hear their messages floating on the wind.
To those who have forgotten, disregard or never listened to their message…
It’s not too late to start…
There is still time to walk tall as the trees
live as strong as the mountains
and keep the warmth of the Sumer sun in our hearts.
We cannot go back and change the mistakes we made in the past
that course of history has run…
but if we heed the messages still clinging to the trees
still floating on the wind…
we can begin make the future …a better place for everyone.
His name was Tom, he was an engineer.
This was not his calling, it is amazingly clear.
He stumbled upon apples at a market one day.
And he said “listen to me, right away!”
There are lost apples, people have not eaten for a hundred years.
I am going to find them, and raise them up, in these mountain clears.
Arkansas blacks, and Rusty Coats that are soft like pears.
Sweet as honey, they will attract all kinds of bears.
Mr. Brown has an orchard, and he is a super sleuth.
He has tracked down many varieties, this is the truth.
An elderly lady led him to the very last Junaluska apple tree.
He now can grow them as well as the Cherokee.
Tom Brown, you are a hero, for your avocation.
We apple pie baking folks are glad you live in our nation.
Thank you for rescuing the Grimes Golden sweets.
That they taste of nutmeg is rather neat!
(7/5 Trochee rhyme form)
They’re coming. Listen closely.
Hear that distant thrum. . .
that steady thrum- thrum- thrumming
of a tom-tom drum.
There! Beyond the cornfield rows.
Tell me, don’t you see
the tops of feathers moving
forward stealthily?
They’re so close to the house now!
Soon they’ll reach the fence.
Where have all the cowboys gone?
War will soon commence!
Wait! I saw the bushes move.
Roger with his gun
spied a Cherokee and now
has him on the run.
But appearing on the scene,
tomahawks in hand,
those Cherokees have attacked
just to save their man.
Roger’s fallen to the ground.
Oh, my son is dead!
Indians now are swarming,
faces painted red.
Running toward the bushes, they
give a mighty whoop!
Cowboys must come out and fight
this most fearsome group.
A cowboy wins if he is
first one to take aim,
but, touched by a tomahawk,
he will lose the game.
When THE NATIVES ARE RESTLESS
it just isn’t cool,
and I’m counting off the days
till they’re back in school!
For The Catch Phrase Contest/ sponsored by Deborah Guzzi
(My catch phrase: The natives are restless)
In the Druid tradition an inspired Bard was said to possess "bird's knowledge." Druid shamans would dress in cloaks of bird feathers to perform certain ceremonies, and divination would be practiced by observing the flight of birds. In trance, the Druid would enlist the aid of his bird spirit-ally to fly to other realms, or would transform himself into a bird on the inner planes to accomplish a certain task. Each type of bird represents different qualities, evokes different experiences, and has different gifts for the Druid: the eagle brings renewal, the wren humility, the swan grace, the raven initiation. The hawk, whether kite, harrier, merlin, goshawk, or sparrowhawk, can give nobility and stature, dignity and pride. I once heard that a Cherokee shaman had to turn into a hummingbird in order to find the lost tobacco seed, in their mythology, it was brought to them by the hummingbird.
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There is a Cherokee proverb that can lead to our success or our downfall
It tells of how there is a battle of two wolves inside us all.
One of those wolves is evil…an evil wolf who cries
for ego, anger, jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority…and lies.
The other wolf is good…and throughout our life…in our maturity or our youth
cries out for joy, peace, love hope, humility, kindness empathy…and truth.
For every individual, every one of us,…the Cherokee concede
the wolf who wins the battle…is the wolf we choose to feed.
I believe our country is facing that same battle…
two wolves are vying for our heart…
I believe one wolf wants to bring us all together…
while the other wants to tear us all apart.
It’s time to cast our vote for the wolf we want to lead…
It’s time to look into our hearts and decide which wolf we’re going to feed.
I see this election as a battle for our soul, for our country…
for our democracy….
and now I sit and wait and hope…
a majority of people are feeding the same wolf as me.
Once upon a summer’s eve, when I was younger, I met a person over the phone.
She was the concerned mother of my daughter’s new best 14-year-old friend, Sandra Bone.
Our conversation led to psychical stories, when suddenly she asked, “What are you doing right now?”
Nothing, I replied. “Then we’re coming over,” says she, me and my dog, a malamute chow.
They arrived 12 minutes later, which did not give me any time to put the place back into place.
Twelve months would not have been enough, if I honestly had really wanted to save a bit of face.
I know you from another lifetime, she told me. I have eighty-four percent Indian blood, Cherokee.
I was curious, but alone too, and was hoping she did not have a weapon or the mean streak of three.
We ate cookies and drank lemonade ‘til she asked, “Where’s the wall that cannot be painted any color but pink?”
I was horrified at divulging so much to a complete stranger, wishing I’d remembered what loose lips sink.
It’s a mess, I warned her, but she was already running upstairs with her fluffy somber faced gray dog, a giant cuss.
The dog, Sky, shot straight up in the air as we rounded that dreaded cold-spot corner, and bound outside, past us.
The screen door slammed, we heard it loud and clear, but Sky did not stop running until he had reached the car.
“I’m a witch she told me,” I can sense stuff, and someone got hurt here, from awfulness, they got an awful scar.”
I was really feeling uncomfortable now, in my own house, wishing my uninvited company would go home.
They left two hours later, this strange woman and her sensitive dog, and I sat down and wrote out this poem.
We the People
Will disagree
On taxation and prosperity
On liberty and duty
We the People
Are every color of Christianity
Every Jewish prayer, every song of Islam
The puritans, the atheists and the Amish
Are neighbors here
We the People
Are Jamaican and Japanese
Swedish and Samoan
Cuban and Cherokee
Moroccan and Mexican
The Irish and the Inuit
And all shades of Africa
We are country hills and cityscapes
Suburban parks and downtown fire escapes
We are singers and stutterers
Daredevils and diplomats
Renegades and redeemers
The leaders and the lone wolves
The suits and the sarongs
We are the gun owners for gun control
The justice for unjust loopholes
We are the hands that struck the iron
And the backs that laid the tracks
Of trails of rails connecting
Sea to shining Sea
We are protesters and poets
The soldiers without peace
The nurses without sleep
We are the straight arrows and the skeptics
The gay and the god-fearing
We are Black Lives Matter
And we are the badges in blue
We the People
Are complicit and complicated
No freedom gave
To chains of slaves
We have conquered and colonized
Sacrificed and stolen
Pillaged and planted
To naturalize a nation
We are teachers of tenacity
Prophicies of pioneers
And the children of second chances
We the People
Speak for our land’s legacy
In every tongue, from every rung
On each stumbled stair, each crumbled chair
We demand democracy.
8/21/20
Poem of the Day
August 23, 2020