Long Indian Poems
Long Indian Poems. Below are the most popular long Indian by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Indian poems by poem length and keyword.
Mister Tom Turkey says gobble gobble
Mrs. Tom Turkey’s head goes wobble wobble
Zig-zaging through yards of grass they meet
Hen teaching her younglings 'bout how to eat
Tom gathers, his tuft dangling from his breast
His wingtips dragging, along with all the rest
Our feathers that we fan out are fabulous
A wattle hanging from our beaks are sabulous
A sign of power, we are just like the omnivores
Our relatives, are the dinosaurs- Buitreraptors
Fierceness and courage are our personality
We stroll about with our plumes, like royalty
Cocks prance ‘round like an Indian Sundance
Our totem spirit animal symbol is abundance
The main stars we are, during the holidays
Butterballs, cooked in many delicious ways
KellyBronze Birds, 16 lbs. are the Rolls-Royce
We are a source of nourishment, for your choice
As you zest us, and massage us use a rind
Of Valencia, naval, or blood orange of a kind
Try a pink, or white coarse salt as a brine
Take a minute with Chablis, a glass of wine
A seasoned cornbread stuffing of Italian sausage,
Golden raisins, walnuts and herbs freshly grown
Stuff us, seal us in foil and into the oven we're 'goin
Uncover us in the last hours until we're bronzed
Golden tan on the outside, then let us cool down
Juicy is our white meat and as tasty as our brown
When you give thanks today and put us on display
Don’t forget to show us gratitude, s'il vous plaît
We are noble birds!
my neighbor Vi is a personable woman with determination in every action. The day I met her she came over, introduced herself, and told me that where I know live is land that was called "Indian Village" fifty years ago. The Wyandotte came down here in the summers, and all you could see was Indian tents, she informed me. She proceeded to point out a variety of plants, naming them one by one. One day, she said "I turned and my blood ran cold". I jumped when she said this. "What was it?" I asked, barely breathing. "An iris," she told me. "I knew it was from a bulb salvaged by an Indian maiden." I never fully understood her story, but I have never forgotten the fear that I felt as she told it.
renegade plants
iris planted by natives
my blood turns cold
I was renowned as Chief Buffalo Chips, a great leader of many tribes.
I was given that pathetic name by my father resulting in a heap of gibes.
But with a name like his, Chief Tater Chips, what else could I expect,
So I had to count many coup in battle to gain my braves' respect!
I rode my pinto pony as free as the wind, as free as the eagle soars.
I smeared my bronzed body with colorful hues to enjoy the thrill of wars.
With bow and arrow true, I supplied my tribes with plenty buffaloes,
To feed and clothe the old and young to see them through winter snows!
I smoked the peace pipe with blue coats but they were wont to deceive,
But I got my revenge at Little Big Horn where I won my tribes' reprieve!
Many moons later The Great White Father set up a fund for Indian Relief.
(For some reason Libby Custer refused to donate due to a spiteful beef!)
My humble teepee housed many papoose and Red Deer my prolific squaw,
Plus her grumpy mother, Black Widow, my miserable mother-in-law!
When this mortal shell I shed, I thought I'd escaped eternal reprobation,
Only to find Black Widow in the Happy Hunting Ground! Oh! Such damnation!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 3 in Carolyn Devonshire's " Past Lives" Contest - June 2014
Azure hearts turn red when oxygen hits
Yellow mood today, submarine, Beatles, sunshine.
Gypsies, tramps and thieves.
Cher in my mind, song ends, rewinds, repeats.
Her Indian outfit by Bob Mackie, pure wow.
How you dressed Cher and Carol Bob. Pure Diva.
As if we could have loved either of them anymore.
And yet we did.
Thanks to your clothes.
Green eyes. Only seven percent of the world
Reportedly has them. Hazel? Maybe. Green? Unsure.
But mine have gold flecks. Multi-colored.
No one’s eyes are exactly the same.
Mine are fading a bit, not the same as yesterday
Or maybe even two hours ago.
Tula Rula Rula. Azure hearts turning red.
But blue under the skin.
You can see that when you look at your wrist vein, right?
Dendrites are on fire today,
Free-basing, not needing any input from me
As they do not have to deal with oxygen or
Reality or anything else.
Rapidly spinning into a red and blue mood.
Patriotic feeling, in spite of things.
You proclaim that every woman here is a paragon.
Isn't women's subjugation still a phenomenon?
Only a small minority of women might feel well.
Isn't the life of a rural girl here often a hell?
"They're in aeronautics, you say; they're in astronautics."
"Aren't they epitomes in the empire of robotics?"
Thus, you endlessly recount the progress of politics.
I see the rustic girls carrying hard crucifixes.
I've come into existence, having escaped foeticide.
To all, I looked like a piece of debris from a landslide.
They tried to kill me many times, even after my birth.
Could this feather be a heavy burden upon this earth?
My brother looked good to them in sleeping and waking.
I had to work hard to the extent of my back breaking.
He's sent to school. I was not. I had to take care of him.
I had to stand, smile, and say yes, as per everyone's whim.
I work from the time I rise till the time I go to bed.
Most of my life is spent in the kitchen and cattle shed.
How many eagle-eyes of men gape at me each moment!
Within me, I ferment with a yeast of embarrassment.
I wear a veil in adherence to societal norms.
Thoughts of disgraces and rapes awe me like summer storms.
I feel like prey and am unsafe from human predators.
I'm harassed often like a debtor by the creditors.
I am auctioned and sold in a fair called arranged marriage.
Who's worried, even if my spouse is my grandfather's age?
I am a machine for his carnal pleasure and childbearing.
Who appreciates my nature of caring and sharing?
I obey my father, my husband, and my son.
I know; I'm weighed down by the burdens of men who seek fun.
I do not pity myself, yet I live up to my goal.
Though they're harsh on me with their wrath, with love I fill my soul.
Anxious in Ancona (2)
The Doge has apportioned a fleet for his use,
but is proving an Indian giver.
A pope with a navy (and with a screw loose)
is no-one’s idea of chopped liver,
so Venice, delaying and playing obtuse,
is selling the pope down the river.
A Christian army, devoted to God,
is what Pius imagines he’s shaping,
but this one is riding distinctly rough-shod:
Ancona’s awash with the scrapings
of Europe: and here, where the Caesars once trod,
they are busily looting and raping.
There ain’t going to be any ardent crusade,
and Pius is dying, for certain.
They’ve all came to nothing, those plans that he laid,
and his project has gone for a burton.
To stop him from seeing his “army”, his aide
has fastened the litter’s gauze curtain.
He thought to have fought at the head of a host:
but reality isn’t like that.
We babble and squabble, we brag and we boast,
but our fantasies always fall flat.
Poor Pius was no Alexander. At most,
he was sort of an Anwar Sadat.
We curse our ill fortune and, wringing our hands,
we wail at our undeserved lot.
But is it so rare, as we formulate plans,
to end up with diddly squat?
If that’s how it goes with the Number One man,
what chance have the rest of us got?
Mohtarmaas!
Not just titles,
Titans of change,
Revolution’s rhythm,
Pulsing through time!
Tricolour dreams—
Sewn with the might of women,
Saffron courage,
White truth,
Green hope,
Their spirits spin tales,
Defiance in diversity!
From Jhansi’s fort
To Delhi’s gates,
Rebellion echoes,
In the roar of battlefields,
In the silence of prison cells,
In verses of poets,
Who knew no bounds!
Lakshmibai to now—
A journey carved in blood and ink
Sarojini’s song,
Freedom’s Cry,
They fought, they led,
They soared!
Progress flows—
Like the river of their unwavering will,
Carving paths through patriarchal lands,
In councils of revolution,
In rallies of inspiration,
In homes ripe for change.
Yet, prejudice looms,
and Challenges whisper in the dark,
But we—
We are the daughters of these warriors,
Our hearts beat with the rhythm of their resistance!
Mohtarma!
A whisper, a roar, a beacon,
Generations of fierce freedom—
Bold, brave,
Barrier-breaking!
At this moment,
Between their sacrifices and our aspirations—
We stand,
We remember,
We continue!
Indian Women—
Not just fighters,
But fierce flames,
Not just supporters,
But a storm!
Of dreams, determination,
Destinies redefined!
Countless years
And their story flows—
Through our veins,
In every heartbeat,
In every breath,
We rise,
Uncrowned Queens,
The legacy continues.
There is a phrase of words be praised
I’ve heard somewhere before;
Down amongst the dirt and weeds
Of things we most deplore.
Which rob us of our rightful place
In the shade of dignity and warm sun:
“Forever to endeavor,
Persevere and overcome.”
It might have been a movie scene
With Clint Eastwood as I recall
Listening to a displaced Indian
Recant their final fall.
Dispensing with philosophy
Of a life lived on the run:
“Forever to endeavor, he said,
Persevere and overcome.”
Or perhaps another book I’ve read
Or a whisper in the wind;
Those words imbedded deep inside
My memory, like good friends.
Down in the brain beyond the strain
Of races lost and won:
“Forever to endeavor, they say,
Persevere and overcome.”
All the slings and arrows
Once released upon us all;
Sorrow and deceit caused by liars and cheats
While struggling over mountains wide and tall.
Bringing occasional relief but more often defeat
As if trapped inside a spider web well spun:
“Forever to endeavor, they say,
Persevere and overcome.”
Indian Princess
This woman laughs and makes others laugh too.
She comes to church with her sweet husband.
He is kind.
They are a breath of fresh air, from yesterday.
Age has touched the edges of their life, but their spirit…
protected, cherished and loved by Our Lord.
It is easy to see.
She makes wonderful dolls, dressed in bright yarn.
Skeins of color, every shade including crisp, stain-less white.
This woman makes sweaters, doilies, hand scarves, and head scarves.
Treasures from wool and cotton, that are all imperfect…, on purpose.
Only “He” has no flaws.
Her hair is dark, and a little gray.
I wish we could be friends forever.
She is moving… not close but far…away.
The place she is going to, they are lucky folk.
They have no idea. But soon they will find it hard to do without…
the air of sweet kindness, one in the same… just as her name.
Light travels faster than sound... that's why
Some appear bright till they speak
I'm sure we've all met some people like this
They're not all totally unique
The main reason Santa is always so jolly
He knows where the bad girls reside
Never really thought Santa could be naughty
Sure like to go with him on his ride
A psychiatrist once told me I was crazy
Told him I wanted a second opinion
He said well then, you're quite ugly too
Ain't no cure for that condition
Men have two emotions, hungry and horny
If you see one without an ********
Make the poor man a sandwich, he's hungry
Later you can show him affection
A fortune teller once told me I would marry
Into a very famous Indian tribe
You'll surely become one big Hopi family
And live in a teepee with your bride
The world's fattest man should be a hockey goalie
He'd be famous and go down in history
For never allowing even a single puck past him
The reason is certainly no mystery
I received a degree in Calcium Anthropology
The study of creatures called milkmen
When asking for something on sale at the store
Surprise, it's not available. Amen!
© Jack Ellison 2015