Long Papoose Poems
Long Papoose Poems. Below are the most popular long Papoose by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Papoose poems by poem length and keyword.
Long tennis matches stretch on and on for love of deuce,
While endless freight trains mercifully end with a little red caboose.
Domestic snits could be shortened dramatically with a fruit juice truce,
Though kids keep on playing 'Super Elite 4' when they might be watching
'The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle the Moose.'
Some highly-paid accountants play with their clients' numbers, fast and loose,
As weight-loss specialists do patients' expanding waistlines fail to reduce.
More and more often gynecologists must early labor unexpectedly induce,
So that a healthy, social-media-acceptable baby be rapidly produced.
Romantic poets with winsome words do their audiences seduce,
Since philosophers do airtight, logical conclusions no longer deduce.
Injun squaws are still known to carry their young ones in a papoose.
Whereas a hanging by a noose is a custom quite understandably out of use.
And, of course, the current Oval Office Occupant continues to rule the roost
By tweeting, texting, and twittering a refuse-storm gallopingly profuse.
Which all leads to the inevitable, inescaple, perhaps irrefutable con-cluse
That some people will and others won't throw up their hands, saying
"What's the Use?!"
A porcupine, when threatened, will
Let loose upon his foe a quill
Or actually, I have a hunch
That he’d release a giant bunch.
I always knew about that use
But never knew that a papoose
Could find what every baby needs
Where quills are used instead of beads.
Yes, cradleboards and moccasins
And shirts or cloaks made out of skins
Were gussied up with filed-down quills
By Indians with awesome skills.
A new exhibit at the Met*
Has beadwork that I won’t forget
By Natives living on the Plains
Where porcupines shared their domains.
Or that is what I must assume
For every ornament and plume
They used to sew with (all by hand)
Was found nearby on native land.
That’s how it was in times gone by;
The local life could satisfy.
Those Indians, now mostly gone,
Today’d rely on Amazon!
*Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC
'Tis fascinating to read epitaphs that upon stones are etched;
Some are rather appealing, some are tragic, others a bit far-fetched!
'Neath this stone lie at peace a husband and his wife
She a Republican-He a Democrat-both now free of strife
Here rests Bruno Snipes the founder of our fair city
He slipped on a banana peel and died-Oh what a pity
Lion trainer Dave was brave and famed
'Til he met Leo who refused to be tamed
Uncle Bob died so young and we wondered why
Seems he tried to drink Canada Dry
The plane's controls Pilot Horace failed to recoup
Alas he spun out doing a double outside loop
Cowpoke Hank should've known as a matter of course
That it was futile to borrow a judge's horse
Here sleeps Senator Claghorn the wiliest politico around
He was so crooked they screwed him in the ground
Here lies the prolific Chief Many Papoose
Who with brave's wives played fancy and loose
She met her doom as over the cliff she did traverse
Instead of shifting to drive she shifted to reverse
Cowboy Pete was so bow-legged from riding his horse
That he lies in a double-wide coffin as a matter of course
I have grown old and twisted with all my living;
my limbs gnarled and arthritic,
my skin rough, sometimes peeling,
turning dark beneath the sun.
Bunions and corns decorate my feet.
What a life I have lived!
In my youth, young natives sat on tender grasses at my feet;
i sheltered them in coolness,
i listened to their vows of love.
Months later, they returned to me holding the joy of new life.
I rocked their papoose in my arms,
the wind sighing lullabies through my evergreen hair
making the silver moss, hanging on my tresses, sway.
I saw them leave before the growing strength of new settlers,
weeping as they walked away from this beloved land.
A wealthy man settled the grounds where I spread my roots;
I grew and wrapped my arms around the home he built.
I was young then, strong and full of vigor;
I was the watchman at the door.
I enjoyed many years with the family,
playing with the children,
giving shade and shelter.
Early one morning, the sounds of war disturbed my sleep;
all day the battle raged.
Cannon balls ripped through my flesh;
I heard the anguished screams.
When the sun set,
the ground beneath my feet was littered
with the broken bodies of men,
dead and dying,
soldiers uniformed in both blue and gray.
Our beautiful home was nearly destroyed,
our land ravaged.
If men could only learn, as I know,
to respect and care for one another.
As time passed, my limbs healed,
through scarred, just as my heart is scarred.
Generations have come and gone,
each one passing close to my heart in fleeting succession,
but I live on.
Age shows on my body, yet I cling more tightly,
stretching deep into the ground, sucking the earth's sweet nourishment.
My arms droop low, hanging heavy with sad and happy memories.
I do not want to leave this dear, fair earth,
the tears of heaven fall,
trickling down,
bathing me in dewy sadness.
A thousand years is not enough.
Copyright, August 22, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
Just a big overgrown kid, my Bruce
Wanting to hit the road and vamoose
Dreams of conducting a caboose
Go all the way up to Toulouse
Bruce refuses to grow up, what’s the use
He can rhyme off one of many old excuse
And sometimes swears to All and to Zeus
Bruce wasn’t always this way, something came loose
He’s become simple yet ever so abstruse
Can’t differentiate a moose from a goose
Doesn’t have a clue what to do with his papoose
The best we could do was come to a truce
Now they both get an afternoon nap after their juice
Sometimes I feel like a recluse
But never a victim of abuse
Or that life dealt me a deuce
When Bruce smiles he can still seduce
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
*Image of Algonquian Papoose by Wikipedia.
Algonquian Papoose
A tribal warrior searching for want
The great abyss secures the tale
A hawk dives down to retrieve what is lost
Returns without, it was a fail.
Pursues the quest, perchance a dove may help
Its genteel spirit might awake
Like the hawk, the dove dives down the abyss
The time is longer, so he waits.
The dove returns, and what was sought, it brings
A man child that was fast asleep
The tribal warrior attempts to wake
Yet, like the abyss, sleep is deep.
He ponders a thought and calls the white doe
In a blink, it stood before him
It drops its head and nibbles the fresh herbs
Saunters and licks the child with vim.
Trails of herbs criss-cross its face as eyes pierce
A mouth yawns and body stretches
An Indian born enlarges the tribe
Tradition pact hereof sketches.
2019 June 21
A BRIAN STRAND 1095
~~Brian Strand
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
I once lived in an Iowan county called Appanoose.
Yes, there were women and babies, called the little Papoose.
We drank lemonade, coffee, tea, and some carrot juice
Nothing exotic like escargot, or salmon mousse
Our lives were so ordinarily simple in Appanoose
We ate hot dogs and drank beer, and made our own apple juice
We shunned saying words like healthy, glutton-free, and carrot juice
We were common salt of the earth people in Appanoose
A nice, friendly new farmer came to town, and tried to sell us his great produce
But we all had our own gardens, with plenty of vegetables, and a lot of use
Our veggies were tasty, and our red strawberries made some fine fruit juice
So I am sorry to report that he barely broke even in Appanoose
A Short Indian Tale
I look out of my window
As my leaves blow across the lawn
Some go into my neighbors yard
I laugh, lean back and yawn.
We seem to be now having
An extended Indian summer
Dec 4 with local temps
Mid 60’s now they hover
But that brought to mind
Our recent Thanksgivings day
And the sturdy Indians bucks
Some say came that day
They couldn’t have been all grown
Nor wearing a big head-dress
There would have been some ladies
Dressed proudly in a doeskin dress
Strapped upon their sturdy backs
A youngster safe and sound
His tan cheeks and tiny eyes
Just looking all around.
This lead me to a tale
Of a young papoose buck
Who lived a privileged life
With almost daily luck
But yet at times
Things may not work
Sometimes there’s just
Some silly quirk.
A warm, herbal beverage
As he went to sleep
Settled him down
Without a peep.
He went to bed
In his mom’s wig-wam
But woke some mornings
In his own “tea-pee”. :o(
Written by oldbuck Dec. 4, 2017
as a change of pace from all the Holiday themes