Long Headdress Poems
Long Headdress Poems. Below are the most popular long Headdress by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Headdress poems by poem length and keyword.
while eagles soar high
over rugged mountains
of south carolina
through writings shared
WolfSpirit takes shape
my mind pictures the man
in all his wisdom
half human half spirit
i hear his deep voice
gentle with tones of
clarity and insight
the philosopher speaks
with intensity and
full gamut of emotion
from depths within
he wears his name like a headdress
more than a mere badge of honor
he pays tribute to both
land and its creator
behind him a noble lineage
of a proud peaceful people
his code is truth and honor
delving into life
and its many meanings
pondering the implications
of beauty and the beast
his poetry reflects on
dreams alive and broken
past hurts and scars
life and love interwoven
and all the rest
that binds mankind
through harmonious melodies
of visions of brotherhood
AP: 1st place 2020, Honorable Mention 2023
The old indian chief had seen much
fought in many a battle or raid
he had fathered seven children
with his four fine young wives
Now he took his ease
sat smoking his pipe
with the other elders
spent time in dreamland
He knew it would not be long
before the great white spirit
came calling out his name
he had made his peace with all
His children and wives wept
when he departed in his sleep
they carefully dressed him
and laid him on the platform
His favourite spear and shield
thick fur rugs and some pots
his faithful horse battle dressed
some gold and his finest headdress
When all was ready the witch doctor
Set the platform ablaze with fire
wailing his wives mourned his passing
as the fire died his ashes blew away
Now in the after life
he hunts once more
riding the ghost horse
he races through the skies
10/31/2013
contest: Native American People
Oh Africa, my Africa
You have the birthmark of civilisation
But shaped like a question mark of nations
Asking us why we flee
When we claim to be free
Your skies are the earth's brightest
But your land swallows the most innocent
If the wounds of slavery have healed
Why do we still run for the hills?
Those you gave us to lead
Have abandoned us to bleed
They dig your land for mass graves
They trade your stones for blood shed
My Africa, you are the pain under the headdress on a woman
My Africa, you are an empty bowl in the hands of the poor
My Africa, you are the empty words of a politician
My Africa, you are sailing and lost on the Mediterranean
What happened to your drums of victory?
What happened to the pride of your history?
We remember your dream on the 25th of May
And forget about it on the next day
Oh Africa, my Africa
One need only open an old chest, or turn on a light in an attic, to journey back in time. Every scrap of clothing, old photograph is a life and a history. Essence remains.
As I often write at night, while many of a more rational world slept -- pacing, muttering poetic phrases aloud in a possessed manner, to keep my marriage intact, a seldom-used backroom of our house has become my addiction sanctuary. Soon it was a habit of mine, exhausted after composing for many hours nonstop, my psyche too spent to carry myself the distance needed to reach our conjugal bedroom at the other side of the house, I simply stretched out on a tattered sofa adjacent to my writing desk, and quickly dosed off. Strangely I began having a recurring trance-like dream of an ancient tormented soul beseeching help. He seemed trapped. For it was male. Distressingly disoriented. I asked what was wanted of me, tacitly aware that our languages were foreign to each other, yet we clearly communicated through some indeterminable articulate mysticism of the mind? His replies were confusing, mostly speaking in haunting, meandering riddles. After this went on for several more consecutive nights, somewhat spooked, I finally told my wife of the strange happenings. Swearing to her that the encounters seemed ultra real~ too real, dreadfully fearing that it could not be merely sleepy imagination alone, but perhaps, manifestation of a demonic entity. Following lengthy, involved research, it turned out that my wife harbored some old Indian artifacts, long forgotten, saved in a file cabinet near to the desk where I wrote, a headdress and eagle claw necklace her cowboy uncle had acquired somehow in the late 1800's, obviously sacred items that once belonged to a powerful medicine man. Well, the next night, in deep prayer, in consultation with higher divine elements, I helped the suffering deceased Shaman, whose spirit was firmly yet attached to his personal earthbound paraphernalia, ascend to a metaphysical realm long awaiting his overdue blessed arrival. His spirit was the size of a mountain as he lifted from the earth into a seeming celebrating night sky.
Spawning
The children, in the street near the factories, looked unfriendly
avoid them, and my brother said their mothers where whores
spawning Nazis during the war.
Their mothers had haircuts at the police station, bald as eggs
serves them right they and their children should be
sent back to Germany.
The street, also ours, was typically working-class no gardens
no colour anywhere like living in a maze of greyness and damp.
My brother had his knowledge from listening to the adults,
men who had done nothing under the Nazi occupation except
trading with the enemy for cigarettes and booze and using
their wives as bait.
Now they were heroes pulling the headdress of the unlucky
calling them whores, but like so many things that too ended.
Hair grows back beautiful women in the street, and the Norwegian
are blessed with short memories.
She did not like attention, so she sat in a corner, hugging a wall.
The room was dimmed, not dark, but her loveliness permeated.
Men and women of a variety of ages were led to her corner.
She was unassuming, bordering on bashful, they liked her countenance.
.
So quiet, so delicate, so lady-like, they agreed in quiet tones later.
Respectful and polite. She was the best listener on the planet.
Several asked for her name, but it was not given to any.
I knew she was here, the hostess said. They described her perfectly.
Her daughter had been killed in a freak buggy accident years earlier.
The flowered headdress described was the one they buried her in.
I wish I could see her myself, her mother said.
When it is time, replied her spirit guide.
The feather had started its life as part of a bird's plumage
until one day it was preened out and left on the ground
A warrior chief finding it added it to his headdress
where it rode into many bloody battles with him
until it was wrenched out by a tree's branches
trapped there fluttering in the light breeze
it was found by a man who took it for his wife
she added to her Sunday hat and wore it to church.
Starting to look very bedraggled she took it out
she was going to throw it away but her daughter
pleaded to be allowed to have it for her collection
and there it rested for many years as a trophy.
The feather had started life bright and jaunty
now in its last days it had faded and become shredded
I wonder what tales you could tell us, the lady thought
as with a sigh she took it outside and let the breeze take it.
written 08/05/2014
contest: LEAF, FEATHER, SHELL or FLAKE
Morning thoughts of you roses full of dew
gardens full of summer love, sweet romance
here inside your arms we rebirth brand-new
like the morning sun when it starts to dance
Aborning sunlight cortef hours .... loved,
like the pied colors of a rainbow burst.
glancing tinted shades two petals englobed
to the loving hands of time, we come first.
Inside this garden youthful hours of truth
reborn like the seasons we live nonetheless
despite of the winter mulched in vermouth
we pair up nicely, ... to nature's headdress
Morning blushes her cheeks and we turn right,
like airborne angels, at the cusp of night.
On an ancient sea cave wall appeared a drawing,
of a tribal leaf clad pair awash with eros.
Fingers, hearts and hands in swirling patterns,
chronicle their wonder world enchantment.
Deep blue eyes that eerily engage,
another’s longing send a shiver.
Red tinted headdress overblown,
tingling charcoal member’s sensual form.
Creepy atmospherics, hollow sounding echoes,
phantom drip-drop puddles only,
whet my sense of wonder.
Goose pimples from the union of another age,
mills and boon back dated,
mirror on the past beyond imaginings,
well outside the compass,
of our gadget-ridden zeitgeist.
Me, unshrinking era gazer peered,
for other clues and likely plots.
Happily a haunting ever after caught my eye
(translated)-
“This picture tells a story for all time.
Our secret lies within the lines we scrawl.”
NB Reflections on a civilisation that has passed.
like peacock,
her hair
ostentatious - diamonds
in her fearless lair
quietly…boldly…divine
human, yet
impregnable
pregnant
with perfume
pulse point spitfire -silk of moon
her countenance beams
lights up the stars of heaven
gate of pearls
luminescent
prettified
princess
outshines the knight. his armor
crimson and cherry
he lowers his shield, lays down
his bloody sword…
petrified
like tin man
he creaks
he reeks of oil, dead man’s spoil
valiant in battle
yet he cannot penetrate
royal spirit
of beauty
many moons
sail o’er
the cleansing pool, deep skimming
of flesh, breath and beast
the sun puts new clothes on him
he looks good as gold
shining
at the ball
eyes lock
key to her heart in his hand
she recognizes the night
they first met…he bows…she bends
her knees weak
for prince charming
diamonds,
like stars
well wishes…new beginnings
sparkle of rainbow
no more cries of war…wells tears
mad in love
drops her headdress
7/3/2023