Long Indians Poems
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They once lived here on Hudson River shores;
Lenape Indians of long ago.
Beneath our home, an underworld with scores
of spirits, that perhaps, still here abide.
An arrowhead was found and brought inside,
and, from that day, they've wandered to and fro.
For years we've seen the shadows down our hall
and darting figures rushing past each door.
A fan that starts to whirl, and that's not all-
lamps light and dim at will in random rooms.
To know that they once lived here, one assumes
their spirits are entrenched forevermore.
No harm has come to us, just puzzling, though,
in never knowing why this came to be,
except that tribes once lived here long ago;
their roaming spirits making sure that they
impress us with each unexplained display;
they lost their land- yet spirits still run free.
Slim was an old Texas cowboy
had traveled cross this country some
Said he roamed the range all his life
and to 'Montana he had come
Cause down south it's hard to figure
what caused so much stink and shoutin’
Wanted to see for he got old
this big sky, prairies and mountains
He'd heard about Little Bighorn
where Custer fought them Indians
The Great Continental Divide
and secret Gates of the Mountains
There's this here place called Glacier Park
with its Going to the Sun Road
By being that close to heaven
could it really be all that cold
Then there's them three rivers where the
Missouri waters gits her start
And that Russell fella who paints
all them pictures of western art
Sure would like to see Yellowstone
they say that's quite a sight to see
Where water goes a shootin’ out
the ground hotter 'n ole Hades
Not to mention all them critters
like wolves, moose, elk and grizzly bear
Goats that can climb straight up a cliff
perch like a dab blamed eagle there
You folks got this here Chinese wall
a sight that I just gotta see
Thousand foot tall in the center
of a million acres of trees
Got some mountain canyons that are
bigger 'n most cities around
Herds of wild horses runnin’ cross
the land making a thunderous sound
At night they say a trillion stars
Twinkle over where thousands of Buffalo graze
Those critters move along so graceful like
through warm and sunny summer days
I said let me warn ya ole Slim
we got things here you won't believe
But once you lay your eyes on them
you sure ain't gonna want to leave
Pert near twenty winters have gone
since Slim came to Rockin Bar J
I placed bitterroot on his grave
when we laid him to rest today
Slim might have been born in Texas
and that is quite all right by me
He died a Montana cowboy
in this place where he chose to be
There goes Pochahontas bent.
Sent with flaming arrows.
All that anger's meant to vent.
Just for faming harrows.
Lost to others who were sent.
Darrring Blaming sparrows.
Cost of all who met their fate
sought for claiming parrows.
All that land was meant to be.
Tribes of mainly darrows.
Lost to others much more fit.
flagrant ignorant farrows.
Brought to wrecken what they did.
Trading Indian Marrow.
Welcomed family to their nest.
Blaten Christian Narrow.
All for honor to the West.
English broken Saroh.
Brought back daughter to the East.
England's married ferro
Host for others who would seek
dangerous paton barrows.
Tsenacommacah Queen to take her crown
to English ratten tarots.
Beloved by all who'd sheikh the name
of English Cotton-Keurro.
Forsaked by all who'd come to claim
her Pochahotas Buenos.
Echos of long past
haunt my thoughts
as the verdant valley
stretches before my light dazzled eyes
I imagine the pioneers
forging ahead
and what I see now
are the remains
of these trails they forged
marked
as wagon wheels
indelebley upon the ground
I imagine the women
in their hooded coverings
stirring up pots of baked beans
but Annie Oakley
probably was never indited
for stooping to that low
the wild west was not for the faint hearted
as Indians rode roughshod over
soldiers
who wore their brave hearts upon
muskets of forged steel
hammering out triumphant blissful sounds
of conquest
these days were both exciting and grueling
testing
the mettle of women and of men
as they eaked out their existence
time and time again.
My Valley
Tucked away in the north-central part of the state, about ten miles or so from where the clear and slow-moving water of the Grand River mixes with the quickly rolling mud of the Missouri River. Was my isolated valley. A tiny insignificant place dotted with small farms and rolling pastureland of bluestem, switch, and Indian grass. Somewhere just off the beaten path and a little left of “where the hell am I anyway”. From high up in the hills where the Crabapple and Cottonwood creeks merge just outside Log Cabin Station, there is a small creek that begins to snake its way south for thirty miles or so along the northern boundary of that rich Sugar Maple bottom land. For seventy centuries the Sioux Indians fished, hunted, and thrived there. They were the first to speak its name. The abundance of wildlife in the area led them to believe that that small waterway was the ‘River of the Great Spirit’, and they called it…Wakenda.
Life moves in circles,
Like the oceans ebb and flow,
There are no shortcuts.
Riders
Rumble and thunder,
here they come,
no one dare, ask...
from where.
The bikes, their trikes...
their toys for adventure,
seen on the horizon,
like a storm.
Freedom in their banners,
their plates made of;
gold, silver... winged,
Indians'
and Victory'
at hand.
Harley and friends,
well-represented,
in all the land.
Real men, and tough chicks,
enjoying the ride...
like cowboys on the range,
like speeding clouds
in the sky.
Hard rock, no rock,
just talk, or real...
the real deal?
(Heroes?) Whispered...
Depends on the banners,
and the men and women
that hold them up,
---high.
Pray, friends,
and remember...
to always love Our Country,
and American Pie.
Ann Foster
BooksbyAFoster.com
Have a truly blessed day!
Free your mind from everyday shackles
they will only hold you bound in chains
forget all the things you have been taught
like there are no fairies, no unicorns
Try to remember instead the wonders
of what you accepted as fact in childhood
let your imagination have full flight
see what is hidden from plain view by veils
Do not limit yourself or be afraid of scoffs
from those unblessed with freedom of thoughts
it is all to easy to give in and to believe
in what is so everyday and yet so utterly mundane
Think once more like a young child, set yourself free
imagination is a wonderful thing, a wondrous gift
aboriginals have it right with their dream time
red Indians know it too and believe in their visions
So let yourselves be free, dare to dream your dreams
make them part of your life, indeed part of your soul
lift the concealing curtains of your earthbound minds
run free and wild, we ourselves constrict both mind and life
This is not a recrudescence of sexism and racism
In America or in the entire world, but rather
A continuum of malfeasance, antagonism
And hardcore cruelty of the systemic horror
That Blacks and other minorities have endured
As slaves whose future was obscured or uninsured.
From the nascence of this evil and odious society
Filthy cowboys have killed Indians and Africans selfishly
And inhumanely. Horse mounting agents or criminals
With police or law and order credentials
Hoisting or twirling whips and menacing deadly weapons
Have acted like obnoxious western movies actors or fripons.
This is not a bit surprising in this day and time
Where old images have stained their brains
Hardened their hearts made of acidic stains
And their internal organs are nothing but slime
We all have seen the racist, ugly, repugnant and grubby picture
Of these devils who blatantly violated the laws of nature
Thinking that they will get away with murder and sins again
While bragging that the innocent migrant victims are not human
They were wrong yesterday and this morning: Black Lives Matter
Haitian Lives Matter and American Indian Lives Matter
These coward cowboys will go down, as scuzzbags, in history
And they'll be punished for being cruel, aggressive and creepy.
Copyright © September 2021, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Do not go out west her parents warned Jobeth.
There are savages there; they will harm you.
Her man was there, so she went anyway.
He was killed in autumn, and she was alone.
With snow came additional grief.
They had always spoken of living in the cabin together.
Now Jobeth was alone and running out of food
There was a knock on her door.
An Indian was standing there, holding a basket of food.
Jobeth was astounded; surprised, speechless.
He handed it to her and smiled.
She murmured an almost unheard thank you.
Later she felt angry with herself.
Jobeth never saw the man again.
But he was God-sent.
Brought enough food to allow her to live.
She wrote to her parents
asking them to never call Indians savages again.
How I look forward to October the thirty-first each year!
Though the autumn be chilly and the weather a bit drear,
I have the pleasure of meeting strange little imps by the score,
As they visit, lisping "twick or tweat" at my front door!
The door bell rings constantly it seems as I leap to me feet,
Wondering about the wierd characters that I shall meet!
Will it be a devil or an angel or a frightful ghost?
Whoever it might be, I must be a generous host!
Hordes of fairies, cowboys and Indians grace my stoop,
Along with sheriffs, desperados and soldiers by the troop!
Ferocious pirates, scary skeletons and dreadful witches,
Leer and grin at me, nearly scaring me out of my britches!
Standing regally is a king and queen, each wearing a crown,
Along with their court jester, a gaudily bedecked clown!
There's a sweet little princess decked out in ribbons and lace,
Smiling demurely with cute dimples on her pretty face!
A little secret with which those little monsters I'll never share,
But I'll clue you in on my own little Halloween trick if I dare -
I dole out bubblegum, candy corn and stuff I don't care for much,
But keep the Snickers bars, Babe Ruths, Hershey Kisses and such!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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