Long Chieftains Poems
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Deep within Earthen bowels
immensely distant from sheltering sky
amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape
with here and there a projected
craggy, derelict chasm
precipitously crooked
rocky claws pointing toward
an infinitely wide yawning abyss
dwelt kindred spirits
comprising soul asylum
where grateful dead (albeit marked,
via weathered tomb stones)
hermetically sealed
once vibrant corporeal mortals
betook their eternal slumber.
One among their number
included a misanthrope
who sported long straggly hair
bushy eyebrows shield
ding cold eyes of steel
straggly bearded clammy chin
in tandem with a hairy body
which when alive (long time ago)
upheld upon unshod feet, a severely
hunchbacked cretin
Within dense pitch-black terrain
(Mother Nature enlisting
a menagerie of life forms
accustomed to hellish environment)
awash with unrecognizable
alien sights and sounds
mollycoddling bewitching warlocks,
mailer daemons, trolling trojan horses
imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery
long and fostered Golems
who called underworld
their private demesne
also alluded to Marcy's playground
holding hostage Alice in Chains
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
The Beastie Boys, Culture Club
The Human League, and
Village People a Crowded House
Emitting wisps of ethereal matter
appearing a small medium at large
chat snap ping, flickr ring
indeed joyus minions
exalting piety good and plenti.
Prone ounce sing proud purgatory
promoting protean phantasmagoria
hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms
highly distorted grotesque
silent 10,000 maniacs screaming
sinister semblance to banshees
slithering across escarpment.
Echoing one end of universe to the other
putting to shame initial big bang
ranking as a mere whimper
that original primordial blast
which cosmological exploits
generated heavenly sphere instantaneously
comparison viz Krakatoa times Googleplex
essentially reduced to insignificance
albeit on the analogous tinker toy
premised conjectures of brilliant minds
could gander feeble educated guesses
asper extraordinary natural phenomena
mortal mankind could never approximate
as belligerent threats punctuated,
via nuclear warfare
merely rates as a flickr
amidst uber kindle snap chat ting
tinder blinks, extinguishes,
snuffs out one lowly
Beatle browed bipedal simian.
In the bitterest of the cold polar north shadows of illusions dwell,
Reflections of light on ice, maybe so or is there more to these
Optical delusions, the natives say creatures hide amongst these
Rocky snow covered hills, and they call forth the power of the
Alpine peaks for protection!
These mountainous summits of elevation known as the
Thundering mountains, many men have gone missing here,
Without explanation or reason, without any evidences trace
Ever being found, as if just vaporizing within the alpine mists?
But legends say by the tribal chieftains, they were taken by the
Snow beasts the Yeti’s, the abominable demons for
Trespassing on their sacred icy lands!
These outlander's whom should have known better,
Warned were they not, to climb at this inaccessible remote
Elevations for this is the forbidden territory belonging to
The creatures of the rocks!
Many men go there and are swallowed whole by the mighty
Avalanches, called forth by the screaming howling of the
Mountain guardians, weaving through these ice and spray
Waves as if they were made of winter wisps’ of air, the creatures
Take these hikers, or skiers unware, than devour
Them later at their leisure’s pleasure afterwards!
These avalanche waves have another name given to
Them eons ago, the claws of the tiger, sweeping
Within their mighty claws, everything living or none,
Beneath their talons of devastation!
But what if there were more to this myths story,
What if these two legends were working together?
In a tandems precisions epic motion, beast and
Mountains, both struggling to survive, against
The onslaught of humanities approach!
Endurances basic instinct of survival, natural law
Prevails, that only the strongest of the species is allowed
To continue, but what if these two natural raw forces
Combine, to do whatever it takes to achieve
This final climatic extraction, brawn concurring
Intelligence, or maybe it’s the other way
Around!
In this wilderness only the whispering winds
Knows the answers to these questions of inquiry,
And there left unheard by the deafening ears of
Progress and mankind until it is too late!
But the native people know, and warn them
To stay away for this land belongs to the Yeti’s
And the mountain protect them beneath the
Claws of the white tiger, the mighty avalanche!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Brutus Iulius Trois Page 06
The defeated Pandrasus spoke out
his weary words weighted with wisdom.
Linus is as Greek as I am Greek and as a Greek
let him inherit the crown, I'll name no other heir.
take for yourself as bride my Imogen, my daughter
many fine ships shall be her portion
and peace shall be proud Imogen's price
Set sail Brutus, leave all that is Greek behind
take those who would be Trojans home to Troy
Grey bearded Membyr rapped his cane for silence.
Fools with hands still bloody from fighting!
What peace can live with the families of the slain?
Linus will wait for a crown he won't live to wear.
Brutus accept the kings tribute and let us depart.
light heart-ed Brutus danced long at his wedding
Ere he left Chanoia to sail home, home to Troy
happy Brutus was with his bride fair Helen's image
youthful Imogen, old Pandrasus's proud daughter
with his new ships Brutus went sailing , keeping to the coastlines
through the archipelagos, around the Greek peninsula
at every anchorage being joined by freedmen and escaped bonds men
at every anchorage being provisioned by small kings and unhappy chieftains
who hastily sent away this army of would be Trojans back to Troy
An unwilling wife was Imogen who wept for her homeland
her eyes turned to the shore while it was in sight
Imogen wept for her mother, her father, her fate
Imogen wept for her spinning wheel and wept for her loom
Imogen wept for her gardens, her gowns and her goats
Imogen wept for all that was hers, which was left behind.
Brutus soothed and kissed her holding her tightly
until weary with weeping Imogen slept.
At Sounion, Brutus climbed the cliff to Neptune's temple,
offering a spotted bull with passionate prayers for a safe voyage
As the sun set on the Aegean, a citizen came from Athens.
Philaeus, son of Eurysaces, the last king of Salamis.
An oracle of Apollo had demanded he renounce his rights to rule
and have Neptune's lost sacrifice returned to its altar
So he gave away his kingship, and came here carrying Hesione's ashes
Hesione, the stolen sister of Priam. The late payment of Laomedon's debt.
As Laomedon's heir, Brutus accepted the task
taking the veil covered amphora, he gave it great honor
placing it upon his own ship, fastened securely behind the prow
THE LAST STAND
Where have all my people gone, the Navaho, Lakota, and the Sue,
Smothered beneath the white man's blanket,
Chocking for a breath of airs life's sustaining oxygen.
The beating heart of native drums, are stilled frozen,
In the middle of it's rhythmic thumping, no pulses echo,
Can be heard on the open plain.
The weeping women kneel on sacred ground, shedding
A river of bloods tears, burning a permanent scare across,
A baron landscape.
Death's black raven shields itself, under it's crimson soaked wing,
Against shames immoral injustice.
Greed's insatiable hunger for land and riches fuels lusts desire,
Behold exterminations holocaust of the native inhabitants,
Nothing remains alive except ignorance blackened shadow.
How much blood can mother earth be forced to drink before,
She drowns herself or spits up everything undigested,
With sheer disdain and hatreds malice intent.
On a black and white chess board the winners takes it all,
Strategies grand masters playing with living pawns.
Treaties written in vanishing ink, promises disappear in thin air,
Revealing a liars sharpened tongue.
The odds have always been stacked against those believing in fairness.
A rogue tidal wave of humanity has wiped out a nation,
And it's culture within the blink of an eye.
Flights appendages are clipped on the dove of peace, leaving it
Unable to soar above it's own habitat.
Wreckage’s refugees stumble in the ruins after math,
Rapes victims of civilizations civilized,
Are left devoid of their heritages lineage and legacy.
Elders chieftains representatives of a great nation,
Smoke peace pipes in the white mans hunting lodge
In Washington.
As human beings are hauled like cattle's cargo,
Taken to reservations burial grounds.
Ancient ancestors lit up the heaven's vast expanse,
By torches flame,
To guide the souls of the dead unto their great spiritual
Plain beyond.
The pale horse gallops forward without a rider,
And the red people become a phantom tribe vanishing
Upon the winds shifting tides.
Giving one last final tribal battle war cry,
Why my father but the great spirit answers not.
Behold America's legacy, a world trampled beneath
It's heavy iron fist, all in the name of progress or for the cause
Of Manifest destiny.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Where have all my people gone, the Navaho, Lakota,
And the Sioux,
Choking for a breath of life's sustaining air,
Smothered beneath the white man's blanket.
The beating heart of native drums, are stilled, frozen
In the middle of it's rhythmic thumping, no pauses echo,
Can be heard on the open plain.
The weeping woman kneels, on sacred ground, she sheds
A river of bleeding tears, burning a permanent mark, across
A baron landscape.
Death's black raven shields itself, under it's crimson soaked wing,
Against shames moral injustice, humanity's inhumanity, towards it's
Own kindred.
The final verdict of the white man's justice, based on nothing more,
Than skin color, difference of beliefs, and sheer ignorance.
Extermination, nay a holocaust, greed fever, drives the white demons.
How much blood can mother earth be forced to drink, before
She drowns herself, or spats up everything, with sheer
Disdane, and hatreds malice.
Treaties written in vanishing ink, promises disappear in thin air,
Revealing a liars sharpened tongue.
The odds have always been stacked against those believing
In fairness.
Flights appendages are clipped, on the dove of peace, leaving it
Unable to soar above it's own habitat.
Wreckage’s refugees stumble, in the ruins after math,
Rapes victims of civilizations civilized,
Are left devoid of their heritages legacy.
Elders chieftains representatives of a once great nation,
Smoke peace pipes in the white mans hunting lodge, in Washington,
As human beings are hauled like cattle's cargo,
Taken to reservations burial grounds.
Ancient ancestral beings, lit up heaven's vast expanse, by torches flame,
To guide the souls of the dead, unto their great spiritual plain beyond.
The pale horse gallops forward, without a rider,
And the red people become a phantom tribe, vanishing
Upon the winds shifting tides.
Giving one last final battle war cry,
Why my father but the great spirit answers not.
Behold America's legacy, a world trampled beneath
It's heavy feet, all in the name of progress, or for the cause
Of Manifest destiny.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
VI
Deeds
Patrick traveled lightly,
He carried but his needed load
And made himself as useful
As he could along the road.
He aided all who asked him,
Offering a hand where'er he went
And they, pagan or not, knew in his form
A blessing had been sent.
He made it, at last, to Ireland
And saw that he was needed there,
For, by the tribal rulers,
Hope in life had been made bare;
In his Creator's will for him,
Patrick was most sure--
That in his steadfast faith in God
Would lay any problem's cure.
Patrick was a foreigner,
He had no wordly protection
As he wandered through the Counties,
Which were then tribal sections.
Gifts and money, Patrick refused,
For conversion God did send
Him among the tribes and chieftains,
this rarely made a friend.
(Patrick never knew
That by the Druids long before
A vision had been prophesied,
A piece of their fathers' lore
About a harsh reformer,
From whose table would fly impiety
And those, who chose to follow him,
In blindness would agree.)
Patrick preached the gospel,
Forgiveness and mercy
And taught the Irish people
Of the soul lasting eternity,
Though some would not hear or objected,
Some could not resist-
There were so many converts
With no need to insist.
The people told that Patrick
Truly loved to teach
And time flew from his awareness
When he started to preach,
(He carried a gnarled staff of Ash
Where ever he went)
One night he preached so long,
The stick, roots into the ground, had sent!
Once Patrick lit a fire
Upon Slane hill in County Meath.
Billows of smoke filled the air
And rose above the heath,
He did this in defiance
Of Leoghary, who was king
And through Patricks brave resistance,
Christ's teachings, through, did ring:
Many pagans hauled up buckets,
The whole hillside they drenched,
But Patrick's Paschal fire
But by him could be quenched.
It was upon this hillside
Patrick dispelled pagan divinity
By plucking the trefoil shamrock
To illustrate the Trinity.
Form:
The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse
by Michael R. Burch
“I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves [of 30,000 Irish men, women and children], and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there.” – Paddy Maloney of The Chieftains
There was relief there,
and release,
on Île Grosse
in the spreading gorse
and the cry of the wild geese . . .
There was relief there,
without remorse,
when the tin whistle lifted its voice
in a tune of artless grief,
piping achingly high and longingly of an island veiled in myth.
And the Celtic cross that stands here tells us, not of their grief,
but of their faith and belief—
like the last soft breath of evening lifting a fallen leaf.
When ravenous famine set all her demons loose,
driving men to the seas like lemmings,
they sought here the clemency of a better life, or death,
and their belief in God was their only wealth.
They were proud folk, with only their lives to owe,
who sought the liberation of this strange new land.
Now they lie here, ragged row on ragged row,
with only the shadows of their loved ones close at hand.
And each cross, their ancient burden and their glory,
reflects the death of sunlight on their story.
And their tale is sad—but, O, their faith was grand!
Ile Grosse means "Big Island" in French. The island, which lies in the Gulf of Saint Lawrence in Quebec, Canada, acted as a quarantine station for Irish people fleeing the Great Hunger between 1845 and 1849. In 1847 alone, 100, 000 Irish people traveled to Grosse Île to escape starvation, unaware of the hardships they would encounter upon arrival. Keywords/Tags: Ireland, Irish, Immigrant, Immigrants, Immigration, Refuge, Refugee, Refugees, Celtic, Cross, Grave, Faith, Religion, Christianity, Catholic, Hunger, The Hunger, Starvation, Great Famine, Potato Famine, Irish Famine Ships, Quarantine Station, Family, Families
Hear the lonesome whistle blow, it echoes across the vast
Continental divide, connecting the Pacific and Atlantic
Coastal shores, by the steel rails iron horse.
It raged in blazing thunder, leaving a storm cloud of white
Smoke in it's wake.
Lightning's hell speed, drives this devil's steed, with flames
Fire, feeding it's belly, by coal and sinews muscled sweat.
The wrought iron beast emerges, from the black pitch of night,
It's sharpen wheels of harden metal, cut, slicing through the
Raw flesh of mother earth, leaving her bleeding crimson red.
Bound and shackled, is this monstrous man-made beast,
Held captive, by the leg irons of progress.
Men covered in soot and ash, tend to the heart and hearth,
Of this demon bringing forth greed's prosperity.
Greased and oiled, pistons push gears, driving this seemingly
Living creation, of mechanical engineering, lit are it's eyes of
Fire, burning through the blackness of night.
The engineer holding the throttle to the floor,
Praying to God, he'll see the sun's dawning
Once more.
Tribal chieftains stand tall on a grassy knoll,
Observing the iron horse below, as the eagle
Soars above, shedding it's feathers in mid airs flight.
As the weeping woman cries, for her people,
For she alone, realizes what is it come.
The mighty buffalo, roam freedoms open
Tundra, as a herd of millions, soon to be
Nothing but dust shadows, phantom ghosts
Legendary beasts hunted by the native braves.
Around the sacred camp fires of old these
Ancient story's of the courageous hunters, shall
Be retold to generation to come.
The mighty Buffalo are brought to the brink of
Extinction by the long rifles of the white mans gun.
Yet these white devils still come, like a tidal wave,
Washing the prairies beauty away.
Hear the lonesome whistle blow, it
Echoes across the vast continental divides,
Connecting the Atlantic and Pacific coastal
Shores, by the steel rails iron horse.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
chieftains trade their loyalty behind the clouds
high mountain king Carrantouhil commanding his Macgillycuddy Reeks
men of begotten rank, scheming skulduggery
secrets hide out of sight, Comeragh mystery shrouds Coumshingaun
flighty earls flee from the Lough Swilly shore
priests conspire, a king, a queen, a lord-protectorate exact revenge
imported evil stalks the land and soul of Ireland
near-on half give way, massacre, starvation, transportation and slavery
annexation by stealth, abomination
exposed Shannon artery, remorseless draining through lakes of tears
solidified karst corpses dissolving
into central mireland, ringed by coastal ramparts and remnant towers
turloughs disappear where the ground is leaking
playboys drink from black frothy pools of humour where the craic is good
where sad refrain gives way to rhythmic distraction
where song, stories, poetry, plays and dance merge in murky island brews
native chiefs are stripped of their Ulster lands
to control, anglicise and civilise a rebellious region
the area most resistant to English rule
official and private plantation, top to bottom colonisation
Gaelic hands across the channel disrupted
Scottish and English incomers, presbyterian and church of England
town and country, protestant domination
Irishmen uniting for briefest moments on higher ground
descent into cold depths of history
the Cliffs of Moher plunging from The Burren's bald barren bleakness
disfigured fingers pointing blame, shame and guilt
like the peninsular lands, Beara to Iveragh, Mizen to Dingle
stretching out to a new land of migrating hope
escaping abuse and clutches of long-robed men and women
the stifling heavy hand of implanted culture
two main layers of tradition now overlaying an unfathomable past
I sat there as yet another
refugee looked at me
and ran me down
with the statement
Your ancestors invaded
Australia your ancestors
invaded New Zealand
yet what a racist statement
what is the difference today
with the refugees coming into
Australia what is the difference
with the refugees coming into
New Zealand
are you not escaping
the problems of your own country
just like our ancestors escaped theirs
my Ancestors where Scottish
wealthy landowners drove thousands
of Scottish people, off the land
thousands of Scottish people
Who had worked the land for centuries
had their land stolen from beneath their feet
"Chieftains became absentee landlords
interested only in the extraction of rents"
Blackfaced sheep were found
to be hardy enough to live
in the harsh conditions Of Scotlands
highlands
Thousands of Scottish people
that had ploughed the fields
and tended the crops
were driven from their homes
and had to face the daunting
sea voyage in cramped and miserable
conditions to face an un-tamed country
where people had no laws
where one wrong step
could destroy a persons life
New Zealand, where the Maori
had the own warriors skills
their own type of martial arts
where the welcome of the Maori
the Harka would scare a football team today
having been driven from their land
We all need food to survive
New Zealand was known as
the cannibal Islands of the South pacific
Now perhaps you want to re-write history
Yes it was your country
you have a right to be proud
of your Ancestors
wars broke out because
both sides did not understand
each other, wars broke out
because of greed, anger, love
but we also have a right
to be proud of our Ancestors
Men and woman going out to face
impossible risks
because they had no choice.