Long Native american Poems
Long Native american Poems. Below are the most popular long Native american by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Native american poems by poem length and keyword.
Pretty like the crystalline canyon rocks -
Fair like a deer wandering in the morn' -
With the Great Spirit as a faithful witness
A baby girl named Red Feather was born
And for her onyx eyes and ruddy cheeks
An angel was sent with kisses to adorn.
Her misery began with John Martin -
A white trader of uncouth demeanor
Who took one day a Navajo woman
As payment for whiskey and gunpowder
And soon his bride realized an inheritance
But in so doing died young in labor.
Red Feather lived - lived with a cruel father
Who cursed her and of her did not boast -
Withholding not his friends who laughed at her
And was ignored by passersby the most -
Irretrievably lost between two worlds
That scorned red highlights and native clothes
Until one day when grief overwhelmed her -
She ran away - against the blinding tears -
Where else but to the village of her mother
But discovered that they too made jeers
At the sight of her and there enslaved her
And instead of love - realized her worst fears.
But solace found Red Feather at moments
When she'd steal away to Spirit Canyon
To gaze upon the weathered petroglyphs.
Silence touched her heart every now and then
As she'd sit among the lonely rifts
And consider the Earth with the heavens.
There among them was one where an artist
Told of the wish of an ancient warrior
To jump the cliff and join the gentle spirits
That captured Red Feather's awe in particular
And since the life ahead held not her interest
She soon desired him and her mother
So it happened during one nice spring day:
The wildflowers breezed as she took the path -
Eagles circled above her at midday
And Red Feather stood on the edge with wrath -
Embraced the sky and Sun and leapt away -
Seeking what the next world might have.
Since that time many a wayward Navajo
And traveler alike claim to have seen
Red Feather come to them - white with glow -
And swear wholly it was not of a dream
But that she lives - she lives as a ghost
Wandering along the cliffs and beneath.
So should you come to Navajo Country
Look sharp - Red Feather's spirit takes flight.
She may run silently with a clan of coyotes
Or dance in the shadows of your firelight.
She may be the breeze that blows softly
Or the silver mist that rises at night.
Marked in heaven by games we play,
Of rhyme we teach or sheep astray,
Before Glory’s horse can be mounted,
“Can we have recognition?”
Hey friend, attention!
Stand up and be counted!
One, little two, little three, little Indians …
Childhood is somehow lost in sleep,
Discolored by darkness with voids that creep,
Sacred may be our own fields of clover,
“Can old souls redeem?”
Hey, I have a dream!
Red Rover, Red Rover!
Let the black man overcome …
We teach our broods of Divinity,
To praise and raise stories of His Majesty,
Diverse we are and are all the same,
“Is this only a test?”
Hey, He wants the best!
Hallowed be thy name!
Thy will be done in earth ...
Moral - Children reflect what they learn about diversity
Contest: A Delightful Children's Fable
Sponsor: Carol Eastman
Results: 1st Place
Sand Creek
Dawn arises
And a line of good, blue-coated American boys
Sit astride their horses
Just outside the camp.
They wait
Outside the Cheyanne camp:
Those animals they were here to hunt,
For Country, God and Glory:
They took no mind
Of their own flag,
Fluttering in the breeze
Just behind them.
Who now will prove to be the animals?
With one sharp bark,
And a toss of his hair
Their leader charged forth to kill everyone
In their path,
Panting in the crisp winter air;
All howling and baying.
To kill the innocent Indians there.
They knew not what had happened
As they heard the guns;
Running through the snow in rank confusion,
Men, women and children alike
Felt the sting of hot lead
Invade their bodies,
And fell hard in the grip of merciless death,
Painting the snow with
Great patches of bright red.
And those not so lucky,
Died by the cutlass and the bayonet.
Those who escaped for a time
Were cut by the ice of a frozen creek,
But those cuts were as nothing
To the cut of losing loved ones.
While the bluecoated Goodboys
Robbed the bodies of their clothes
- And limbs -
The hidden still living waited,
And hated,
hated,
hated
The bluecoated wolves were heroes,
So it was said,
But not heroes, only wolves
Would do such in things-
At least wolves do so to survive.
They claimed the Cheyanne were savages,
But it seems they were the best of teachers,
In this respect.
What to do with such beasts as these?
Kill them, surely.
After that, the Cheyanne tried,
And many died, but they tried
All the same.
And in that place,
The bluecoat stench
Shall evermore reek.
Shed a tear,
Shed many,
For the victims
Of Sand Creek.
Monuments of distraction,
portals from hell
The gates, the temptation,
where the misguided dwell
Three dimensions the material,
where emptiness hides
The lions all roaring
from cages inside
The pathways worn smooth,
the comfort is there
The direction indifferent,
when worn with a flair
The roads have all ended,
turned in on themselves
And darkness locks tightly,
all souls on the shelf
The shadows of lateness,
behind monuments fall
Where seeds never sewn,
grow heavy and tall
In an orchard of indulgence
the trophies are stained
The fruit of the promise
rots endorsed in your name
The music is dimming,
there's darkness ahead
Those memories that haunt us,
escort us to bed
Where the covers are pulled back,
and the curtains are tied
All change now beyond us
. . . in mourning we lie
(Shiprock New Mexico: May, 1996)
Illahee. Awenasa, Mahkah.
The lesson Momma taught me
(which momma never taught me)
was -
No, is.
To not be angry.
To endure your pain.
To let be as things be.
To not multiply your pain
by fletching and loosing blame.
Bend the bow into a bow,
offer connection.
Seeing.
Welcoming.
The lesson Momma taught me
(which momma never taught me)
was -
Notice.
Endure the theft of self by other.
Endure ignorant and ignoring.
Endure the losings of the way.
Support it all.
Support it all.
Offer flowers where you can.
Feed the trees.
Carry the herd.
Invite the flock.
Wait with the stones.
One day one will listen.
One day one will see.
Will that one be one being?
One culture?
One day?
One may one day One.
Endure.
Support.
Offer, Feed, Carry, Invite...
Wait.
The lesson Momma taught me.
Wordlessly.
Unceasingly.
Inerrantly.
(Which Momma never taught me, ‘cuz Momma doesn’t do.)
Know this.
To earn, to see, to receive these the lessons.
Is on us.
Our active offering to the Great Receptive.
Listen. Love. Learn.
One may one day One.
One day no one will have won.
One may one day One.
Listen. Love. Learn.
"Inspiring them to seek more Light"
Zitkala-Sa ...Native American Activist
Nov. 1st. 1898
I shall not seek to profit from your
Roots, oh noble plants~
Twelve moons ago I ripped you from
Your precious earth, my eyes glazed
With greed~
Drumbeats echoed in the waters of my
Brain, separated from your clan, I filled
My chest with silver on the ash-heap of
Despair, under the watchful eye of the
Spotted Fawn~
Winter changed my heart, I shall gather
For my sustenance only, as you intended~
Honor renews my spirit, as I give thanks
To my Creator for your magical healing~
This is your land, I am but a traveler who
Must not trespass upon your memory~
Hallowed is this ground that takes years
To nurture your growth~
Gratitude, is the blessing you bestow~
Yiya was rest assured
a promising home, she had kept chary
hers a river teepee a breathing beast,
smoke flaps exhaling atop
warmed by fire burned low
hides of heliotrope hues aglow
animated painted horse and buffalo,
reincarnated shadowed figures
dancing to crackling embers
at start of every sundown
cooled in simmer summer
dry of sombrous rain runoff
trickling down a conical roof
her traditions evoked in ceremonials
coming of age, death, birth, Mother Earth
drum circles, collective heartbeats
sharing bean bread, three sisters, wild greens
connection, belonging
holding on ‘til the folding of time
torn from all she knew,
she is fused within tribes
pathfinder scorn to swamps
her moccasins worn thin by every hardship,
her spirit snagged through mud,
through icy terrain, through wilderness
stained by the weight of each step
bearing, carrying her forward
what had once been soft and whole
now bore the marks of survival,
proof the path had tried to break, yet failed
frailer, flailed beneath a strawberry moon,
frayed edges become less a sign,
ruinous of a quiet testament of endurance
seekers of unknown lowlands and lowly creatures
brutal summits, known as t h e
T
r
a
i
l
o
f
T
e
a
r
s
they fall with each turn each twist
of her bruised body
gash and fist, resist, resist
shed are fears,
resilient are broken dreams
salt sweat dripping,
rippling rivers of betrayals
tears of brooding beads frozen
Great Spirit hear her cries
through howling winds,
grueling are the spiky pines
nativized settlers ride along
an arduous journey,
‘escorts of prosecution’
starved crass riverbends
clogged with ice, shards
carved into bled hearts
her existence impermissible
bleak harling horizons
beyond unbaled wilderness
caws of carrion vultures swarm
calling the darkening sky
agony on the path of exile
the tour of trespassers
her nature and character
changed forevermore
her promises broken
in a distant land of the banished,
she had vanished
A young Native American boy was interested in his heritage
like many of us he wanted to know where he haled from
for he knew who he was and who he is…determines who he’ll become.
His father took him to an old cemetery…without any fanfare…without any frills
It was an unmarked private resting place…high up in the hills.
They sat silently for a moment…to allow old memories to amass
and so the spirits of their ancestors could join them in the grass…
He wanted his son to see for himself…he wanted him to understand
where so many of his ancestors were killed…by settlers who wanted their land.
He said this grass where we are sitting on…has grown here all these years…
nurtured by the sunlight…and a hundred years of tears…
But he also wanted his son to know…to make him understand
how his ancestors loved the beauty of the air…the trees, the sky…the land…
How they would talk to the animals…how they could walk without making a sound…
how the ground where they were sitting…is considered sacred ground…
“This cemetery is a reminder," he said, “of how nothing on Earth will last.
A place to look to the future with joy…while we grieve the sufferings of the past."
As his father retold old stories…his son felt connected…he felt proud
and on that hill-top cemetery…he made a solemn vow…
to carry on his culture…his traditions
to remember his history…
to ride on the back of his ancestors and be the best person he could be….
And he still remembers that day in the cemetery
listening to stories of hope and love and fear….
Sitting with eyes focused on the future
In grass softened by a hundred years of tears..
Vicks Mentholatum. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
I sometimes open the jar and stick my nose in for a little smell
Which turns into a big smell, a little on my nose, some around my
Neck, and finally I beg my husband to slather it on my back while
I saturate my chest with it.
This smell loves me, calms me, and nurtures me like no other.
I probably spent the first ten years of my life slathered like this,
It brings back memories of mother, warm cocoa, soft scarves, and books.
Nothing opens my soul up faster than Native American flute music. It brings
out my wolf wild side. I want to run to a cliff and howl at the moon. It takes
me instantly to Sedona vacations, turquoise jewelry, kachina dolls, bringing the
American Southwest into my heart, and healing the sad places.
Almost everything I see delights me – shiny things, natural things, new things. But the thing that makes my heart sing the fastest is the sight of my grandchildren. Any one of them. I have ten, and it does not matter which one is coming toward me. There is a surge of happiness that leaps through me in a boundless joyful way that cannot be described. It is a craziness that must be lived and felt.
Beans will be the death of me. My favorite tastes all include beans. It is a toss-up which one
I like the most – jalapeno peppers stirred in refried beans, barbequed beans, kidney beans, pork and beans, and ham and beans. I salivate when I think of any of these. It is a spontaneous reaction that I have never been able to quell. When I was a child we ate lots of beans, so maybe that is where this is coming from. I have no idea. But I know these are my favorite meals. I am a cheap date.
What do I not like to touch? The list is tiny. I am a tactile learner. To teach me, you have to let me grab it, shake it, spin it, toss it, catch it, and rub it. I touch wallpaper, woodwork, and metal file cabinets in offices. I touch ants, rocks, flowers, grasses. I hug trees. I hug people. I am a professional toucher.
Possibly my favorite touch is warm, sudsy bath water after a trying day. I immerse myself, washing off sadness and disappointment, thinking of the Vicks Mentholatum which I will slather on when I get out.
Written: July 27, 2018
Entered: My 5 Senses Contest Sponsor: Viv Wigley
Spirits of unnatural forgiveness
for past bullying behavior
and sacred redemption
from internalized shaming,
self-blaming
Begin in our shared multiculturing
co-empathic nature
uncomfortable with win/lose historic
and contemporary choices,
ecopolitical system analyzed
and deep ego-centrifugally felt
Longing for an interfaith return
to win/win healthy solidarity
as part of regenerative
indigenous TurkeyWisdom Earth
with all Her multiculturing
multigenerational
organic and energetic
matriarchal fore-giving
indigenous life systems
Democratizing
co-operating
co-empowering
co-enlightening
Skills with verbal and nonverbal,
left and right hemisphere,
non-violently laid down listening life
communication
Not playing shame
and self/other blame
win/lose judgmental competition games
embedded in negative emotions,
not positive win/win regenerate motions,
notions,
songs and impulsive dances,
positive analogies
and deeply complex metaphoric
healthy
wealthy
wiser experiences
When our gratitude remembers to ask
Is this my best
shamelessly ecological EarthPatriotic/Matriotic self?
Does this theologically reflect
our healthiest ecosystemic
ecotherapeutic wealth
of perennial win/win communion meals
ego/eco-balancing EarthWisdom?
I want to produce a Thanksgiving InterFaith Feast
that extends my feeling
and awareness of graced multiculturing family,
verbally and nonverbally communicating
gratitude for healthy compassion,
But, even more deeply,
we long to become a polyculturally deep feeding
and breeding spiritual paradise naturally pleasured
Thanksgiving Banquet
of win/win blue/green
secular/sacred loving
wide/deep listening communion,
Not so much triumphalistic
and communications empirical;
More deeply EarthEvangelic,
co-messianic
as purple mountain Wonder
Awesome majesties.