Long Indians Poems
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I know it is tradition
But this year I have chosen a theme for Thanksgiving
We will not include turkey, ham, or beef of any kind
The theme is vibrant veggie
These instructions were given to my cousin Sue
From her brand-spanking-new-daughter-in-law Midge
So, you will be hosting? Deciphered Sue.
No, Midge told her. You may clean.
But I will be bringing the decorations.
We do not want Pilgrims or Indians or any of that rot.
Sue asked, “Can I still bake the traditional cinnamon cake?”
“Sorry,” Midge said. “Too much sugar.”
I am listening to my cousin and I have no comment.
She only has one grandchild.
All of her eggs in one basket.
She does not want to alienate that egg's mother.
“So, she is letting you clean!” I say cheerfully.
“If I do it right,” Sue says.
I have no other words.
The Puritans were persecuted for expressing their belief
These Dissenters in the New World worshiped, such divinely blessed relief
For the largesse of Native Peoples, on pheasant, squash, corn and beans they dined
As we fondly recall the first Thanksgiving, warmth and generosity come to mind
Yet these Pilgrims allowed no religious dissent
voice disagreement and poof! off you went
They erected their churches with iconic white steeples
As they turned on their new friends as savage peoples
But I shall file this unsavory history away
And thank my lucky stars for this most pleasant day
I am also thankful for kind folks I’ve known, both passed and living
As I wish all of you a genuinely happy Thanksgiving
The West
A gun, a holster, bullets…
A glass of whiskey and
a ten-gallon hat.
A horse, a saddle, a bridle…
and bags to hold it all.
Good guys, bad guys,
sheriffs, and hoods.
Shoot outs, long rides,
and even skinning hides…
just for a living.
Heroes and villains…
Fought caught and hanged…!
Eternally glorified,
all around the world.
Cowboys of fame…
never refrain.
You are who you are…
Spaghetti to hard sand,
a rare, uniquely, promised land.
Deserts and high country,
Indians and explorers…
Men of great pride!
Your word, your bond,
Your story,
will last long.
Forever.
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 are strange noises happening in my apartment. Voices groaning in pain, and crying in anguishing angst. I called the police, as I just thought my depression is talking in hallucination.
The police arrived in time.
I told him about the experience.
“There is nothing we can do to help you. I am not hearing any voices!”
He was looking around.
And I was still hearing the voices. Supplication within. Supplication without.
Supplication in an area claiming to be in the indigenous area. The different “INDIANS” than brown-colored Asian Indians.
And this is Death bed. I am selfish to own only me, there. And this is not an emotional blackmail. Not to you, not to them.
I am none other than just another among a mass, among a crowd, staring at life.
Poetry. Lullaby.
Whatever.
A crush I think not.
Lust me all you want.
One Sunday morning, I got a phone call.
the Kidster parent were going out as I recall.
A babysitter was in need .
I said no, but they started to beg.
Okay! I will be there at eight.
Instead I got there at six..
With my early arrival, the punk ran to open the gate.
Looking at me with his puppy eyes.
His parents head out to their date.
The first thing I did is send him to wash his hands.
Knowing he has a tendency to mast**bate.
Especially when I am around him.
I feel so sorry for the kid.
He plays cowboys and Indians all alone.
I call him the, Kidster do to his own insanity doom.
Poor boy has, Billy the kid posters all over his room.
I send him off to bed, he asked if I can tuck him in .
I replied with a "No!" He looked at me and started to cry.
The, Kidster ran up in to his room.
One hour later I hear my name "P.D.-P.D, marry me!!"
I open the door the bugger was at it again.
Playing with little wil*y under the sheets.
Laughing to the fact Will-I-am has the perfect name
.
His parent arrive, they give me a hundred dollar bill.
I told them, Billys at it again,
They said thanks P.D. no one dares come around .
Our Kido gets obsessed with every one in town
Maybe he'll grow out of it as soon as he stops wetting his bed
Until than we wonder if he's in to men.
He keeps dreaming of getting slammed all over and over again
This is no slam do not be alarmed Kid. I can write cute to.
By now you should know I am your favorite fan..P.D.
He who is silent is often the most brilliant of men,
He doesn’t throw his plastic bottles into the sea,
He walks in the forest, so as not to offend anyone,
He knows that under the stone there are vipers,
He who is silent, can build a castle,
Away from the world, in the black mountains,
In Naples or Veneto, in the Rhine valley,
It erects a keep that resists the icy winters,
Whoever keeps quiet, can limp across Arizona,
He finds the light hidden from the other puppets,
He writes poems for Indians and bears,
He sees what cosmonauts and presidents think,
He who is silent, admires the cruise ships,
He knows the value of the silence of the high mountains,
He knows how to rise above vulgar men,
And find a road that even the gods don’t know.
Back then, life for kids was harder than it should have been.
They say that kids had rights too, but I don’t remember when.
Back then, if there were child labor laws, they never told us.
If labor laws for kids were broken, none ever made a fuss.
Back then, I remember chopping weeds in the oven of the sun.
Kids had to work long hours, but we also played and had lots of fun.
Back then, kids played cowboys and Indians in the light of day,
And chased lightning bugs in the black of night.
Back then, I had a friend name Dennis, and no, he was not a menace
We played baseball, basketball, football, but not golf, socker, or tennis
Dennis and I lived on opposite sides of the busy railroad track;
and he had a big brother who rode a mule loaded with cotton sacks
Dennis and I were best buddies in our early days, but the years went by.
We grew older and went our separate ways. When I think of Dennis, I
remember the good times of our childhood, and how We kept busy shooting marbles and rolling rubber tires throughout the neighborhood; and most of the
time, we did the things we should. I haven’t heard from Dennis, but I would love to see him if I could. I once heard it said in a Christian song that friends
are friends forever. I sure hope to see my friend Dennis on this side of never.
Perhaps we could laugh and talk about farm life and the fun times we shared.
Perhaps we could remind each other when we bought ice cream for a dime.
Perhaps we could chat about when kids were free and fearless of crime.
Perhaps we could laugh about the gray hairs on our heads and under our chins.
Perhaps we could talk about the distant days and ask, “Remember when?”
Perhaps we could share our stories of how we changed from boys to men.
On this side of never, we would write a letter, email, or visit every now and
then. On this side of never, we would both recall when our money was very thin. On this side of never, we would reminisce about house roofs made of tin.
Yes, I well recall “The Perhaps”, “The Back Then’s”, and “The Remember When’s”. I do miss Dennis, and I hope to see him before this life is finished
Posted04192015cjPS
We kids from the fifties were always dressed as cowboys or cowgirls.
Our TV shows in black and white included guns, bullets and horses.
The men were the shooters, the women helpless, Indians died all over.
I decided at a young age I would be an Indian; I hated the cowboys.
Not fond of the cowgirls either; except I did like their fringed skirts.
I discovered that Indian women wore fringe, and decided to be one.
We had cap guns, and got to shoot all over the place, if we were boys.
I was a girl, and was encouraged not to shoot but rather to have a doll.
Wearing war paint, I scalped my doll and named myself Wise Eagle Woman.
The other girls avoided me, thinking I was the strange one.
The Magnificent Mountains of Maine
Mount Katahdin, Maine’s tallest peak
beckons to those who challenge seek.
and to the dare-devilish kind,
White Cap Mountain will blow their mind.
Though not among Maine’s tallest peaks
Mount Cadillac is one to seek.
Mount Desert Island’s jewel rare
This is the place to stand and stare.
Tumbledown Mountain steals the show
for those who mountain climbing know.
To see the B-52 crash site
you must scale Elephant Mountain’s height.
If you wish the speckled rocks to check
be sure to climb, Mountain Old Speck.
If you can ski with the best of them,
Sugarloaf Mountain is a gem.
Among Maine’s four thousand plus peaks
Bigelow Mountain has two Shieks.
With her West and Avery Peaks
she is a charm for mountain geeks.
For stunning views of Flagstaff Lakes,
bag Bigelow whatever it takes.
Saddleback is Maine’s favorite mount
So, be sure to her peaks surmount.
Though her height will not your muscles bruise,
Mount Battie offers picturesque views.
A stone tower upon its peak
of those who fought in World War I speak.
Her sister peak Mount Megunticook
looks down on blue Lake Megunticook.
Though trees upon its summit sway
One gap looks out to Penobscot Bay.
Precipice Trail leads to Champlain’s peak
but its short climb packs a mean streak.
Like the views that Mt Cadillac hosts,
Champlain gives epic views of the Coast.
The tallest mountain in Southern Maine
will not your hamstring muscles strain.
Pleasant Mountain is among the few
you can climb, with your child and pooch.
With her eight interconnected peaks
Sunday River attracts ski geeks.
In Summer, the nearby Frenchman’s Hole,
and eponymous falls will chill your soul.
Mount Kineo’s eight-hundred-foot cliff
can only be accessed with a skiff.
Rhyolite rock its surface rules,
which rock the Indians used for tools.
At less than seven hundred feet
Mount Agamenticus is a cheat.
But its bald summit lends to views
of landscapes that with beauty ooze.