Long Tomahawk Poems
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All we eat is elk meat, boiled elk, roasted elk, elk jerky
sometimes fried elk if we get bear or whale oil,
oh, and sometimes elk soup,
for four months we've subsisted exclusively on elk
except for occassional dog meat, candlefish or duck,
the elk have become our saviors, and our culinary suffering,
yet it keeps us nourished like some kind of ape predators,
Clark has officially named the massive boulder at the front of the bay
Cape Disappointment on account that its now March 1806
and since November no one has spotted a merchant vessel
nor has any trading post been discovered along the coast in either direction,
frankly its astounding, has the world done gone forgotten that the Columbia exists,
everyone is gettin uppidy as bull frogs
and we've had enough rainy hours here to last ten lifetimes,
to hell with the sailors, we've gotta race to finish
and we ain't gonna get beat by a disappointment or by a sinister suprise,
Load'em up!...
Since coming out of the Rocky Mountains
like a migrating pack of wolves pursuing the scent of a bloodied den
I've been spending more time away from the river's rigors
providing fresh meats for the mission that we leave hanging along designated banks,
for the first time I feel liberated from the fear of failure
winter can no longer hurts us,
the great mysteries of the continental crossing have been revealed
through their savagery and splendor
the tribes have been touched with a new spirit of survival
animals ferocious and exotic have been tasted and classified
we have learned what these landscapes can lend to farming legions,
the mountains no longer menace us, we know how to travel their pain,
as my horse feeds on the grass of unowned soil
I reflect on my moments of intemperance with the natives
when I thrashed a Chinook thief into bleeding shame,
the order I gave to burn their village to silent ash when my dog and saddle were stolen
fortunately that was not necessary because I got them back,
the time I was meanly mocked by a Nez Perce Indian for eating dog meat
and threatened to split his skull with my tomahawk if he ever insulted me again,
J.A.B.
The Jehovah of Armies, Angels all around me, this world so filled with evil
we need a Savior to save our Country, and He's watching all the corruption
inside the course of action that it has taken, just to inform you I carry swords too,
Live by that ,die by it its all the same, to do evil is sport to an evil man, but my creed
Loyalty, honor, integrity, and i struck awe with that one, i been around some, blew a couple towns up, and even though it sounds nice it was no fun man, i never thought
it would amount to a couple hits i took some for a good cause, as rich men relax in mansions i get random help you know it comes from above, hands down no skills
sticking with the steel, sticking to my field, bright minds polite eager to show my kindness, a humble mans silence is sweeter than a proud mans boast, her drinks on
me toast, passion so strong , they say shes so beautiful, Mil besos, a thousand kisses presto, she treasures the moment, I met up with a hawk and i never shot one, always watching like a hawk, still Apache warrior tomahawk, and i can feel the treeline, at this moment it seems fine, freeze hell over with my force it came from God,
Your most powerful weapon is your mind, I'm bleeding out intelligence sweet as melody
a breath of fresh air i dont know what to do with my felonies, no guns no passports,
falling stars disaster,
He exists in the shade of the mandrake plant,
It is his only passion in this twisted world;
Face down in the dirt- drugged and delirious,
Does not care if he wakes up or who walks by;
Hey man, it is what it is, just keep walking.
Is he alive, better take his pulse, go away,
And in his hallucination, a giant with one eye;
Takes him up and away, to a high nasty place,
Who is he, who was he, of no consequence really;
His family tree is lost in a dream, forgotten.
He comes in and out of warped dreams horrific,
Tears and thoughts of suicide, maybe kill someone;
It seems like a real good idea, but he fights it,
Cause, hey, God hates a coward like him;
He used to play his music, once ..
Yeah, once upon a time, he had some pedigree . .
_____________________________
March 25, 2016
Poetry/Verse/Once He Had Some Pedigree
Copyright Protected, ID 16-771-949-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym
Inspiration - Lyrics - God Hates A Coward by Tomahawk
For the contest, Lyrics,
sponsor, Rob Carmack
Sixth Place
God’s Cowards*
Sad demons roam mind’s endless plain
searching blindly - frightened prey
clinging to their earthly pain
waiting for the “cowards day”
Seek instant absolute redemptive
inclusion in the “Rapture”
lifted from their hiding places
freed from evil’s capture.
Sad demons roam mind’s endless plain
searching blindly - frightened prey
clinging to their earthly pain
waiting for the “cowards day”.
Shun the solace of the Saints
cold sanctuaries towered
creep about in shadowed fear
where God’s cowards - cowered.
3/26/2016
*Prompt for poem was based on the song ‘God Hates a Coward’ by Tomahawk
submitted to Lyrics – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Rob Carmack
When visions crawl into his dream
to grate against a hilltop’s ire,
a sheriff flicks like soft campfire
where hazy winds dip low ,midstream.
Bandit frays stab a roguish past…
he gazes at Time…in lone sojourn
as plucks of hummed guitar return,
to soothe a mind now calm, steadfast.
Though old wounds bite the edge of glow
a hundred stars bathe eyes quite whole,
and moonlight kindles to console
the raid of dark through glazed halo.
From where he rides, the visions fade
in homage to a pure moment…
that on warm breath of contentment,
morning knights his final crusade.
4/18/2016
For Rob Carmack’s Lyrics Contest
Inspiration from lines of the song,
‘God Hates a Coward’—Tomahawk
Fierce fighting raged, but surprise was gone,
the Americans rallied and pushed hard,
the Indians fell back, out of the ravine,
the patriots driving them that far.
Hand-to-hand combat broke out brutally,
with knives, clubs, and rifle-stocks,
Iroquois would wait until patriots fired,
then while they reloaded, charge with tomahawk.
Herkimer saw his people being killed,
so he ordered them all to pair off,
one man would fire, the other would load,
now It was the Indians who felt sharp loss.
The killing continued, on through to morn,
until a thunder storm broke over the field,
the fighting quieted but neither side budged,
neither side put down powder or steel.
But as the storm passed, back at Stanwix,
the garrison heard of Herkimer’s plight,
they charged out into the near empty camps,
putting the few British still there to flight.
They plundered and pillage all that they could,
ransacking and stealing their supplies,
when word reached the battle, the Indians turned,
now it was their turn to be surprised.
The broke from the field, ran for the camps,
but when they arrived they saw it was too late,
the garrison had retreated back to the fort,
with their spoils behind a barred gate.
At Oriskany, Herkimer held the field,
so by the standards of the day he had won,
but neither side had gained that much from it,
despite all the bloody work that was done.
The patriots were too savaged to continue on,
to damaged to hope to lift the siege,
they retreat back east, to Fort Dayton,
to see to their wounds and their needs.
St. Leger found himself in a terrible spot,
supplies dwindling, his camp ransacked,
to make matters worse, mad Indian allies
started slinking off, not to come back.
Not long after another relief column,
led by a general who’s name won’t be said,
marched for Stanwix, convincing the Brits
they had little chance of not being bested.
St. Leger ordered his forces to retreat,
back to Canada his troops did go,
and the British plan to split the colonies
suffered from its first heavy blow.
Herkimer didn’t live to see that day,
his wound quickly became infected,
when the time came to amputate his leg,
it was botched up, and quite freely bled.
At least the brave man got to die in his home,
and his name is recalled in glory,
he remains a hero in upstate New York,
for his courage at Oriskany.
Ken Mattingly is mad
about being cut from the Apollo 13 crew -
now no one will see his zero-gravity backflip
until a later time, by then no one will care.
Tom Hank’s Luna capsule spins out of control;
ever since the Da Vinci Code
he has been wrestling with his inner demons.
Gravity has put a few pounds on George Clooney
no one notice, as he gracefully spins
around the space junk of a starry firmament.
The Redcoats attack, and his son is taken.
He runs through the woods
tomahawk and musket akimbo.
Mel Gibson is not ideal for the part,
but sober 18th century Indian fighters
are hard to find.
Lord Cornwallis has lost his pet dogs
and will soon lose Virginia -
he will miss his dogs.
The movie star is on fire. Denzel
has gone ape-s...t,
he thinks the little girl is dead,
but she has a long career ahead of her.
The Last of the Mohicans
have built a casino in Connecticut,
and are now living in Hollywood.
The soon to be legless Lt. Dan
is absolutely not a loser
according to Gump.
Gump, like many Americans
could not find Mexico City on a map.
Gary Sinise does his backflip
as crowds of Mexicans look to the heavens
watching alien spaceships
perform their well-documented
fly-by.
Cherokee chamber,
where a pow wow stampeedes preconceptions of inheritence,
from Her beaded neck charms of chance & chains of change
glisten from opulent offerings of roots, corn & lavender ablaze
on an alter of unworked stone mantled with skins strong beasts knew,
She is a " Stomp Dance " Queen with an owl as a friend and a spider as assassin,
with rattlesnake ribbons around Her wrists and prayers in Her braids thick with traditions,
the walls of Her teepee painted with the pigments of buffalo blood & sunflower pollen,
portraying a history hewn from customs known to Spirits and men alike,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen speaks for Her People and sings from the stars,
I found this Tribe, not in Appalacia nor on a prarrie stage but in the smoke of ceremony,
the Cherokee Princess has rattlesnake teeth tied to Her thigh & turtle shells upon Her hips,
She played the rabbit on the scene, then the wolf, if you know what I mean,
celebrated by the warriors as a tomahawk maker,
praised by the medicine men for Her Visions,
and feared by the Elders because of wrath that may follow Her steps,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen is a Princess, She is a Cherokee with a song Her own -
J.A.B.
The winter winds moan among those forlorn monuments to death,
Marking the spots where brave men fell gasping their last breath.
Upon bleak Calhoun Hill where Seventh Cavalrymen gave their all,
Now lie 225 souls in hallowed graves awaiting Gabriel's call!
The battlefield that once echoed with the screams of dying men,
And the war cry of the Ogala, Sioux, Miniconjou and Cheyenne,
Now teems with the restless spirits of troopers and Indian braves,
Listlessly roving about the Little Big Horn, the gullies and the graves!
On that Sabbath day in June the piercing bullets, lance and arrows flew.
Avenging braves pounced upon hapless victims as they counted coup!
As the sun settles in the west, heard are bugles and phantom steeds are seen.
The moon rises and casts its mellow glow o'er that cold and eerie scene.
Captain Keogh's horse Comanche, the sole survivor, though badly bruised,
Can be heard plaintively neighing for its master, alone and confused.
The curses and cries of men are heard above the clash of tomahawk and steel.
The battle played again and again on that tragic stage seems so surreal!
Yellow Hair Custer, dashing yet impetuous, had made his final stand.
Not a soldier survived the carnage since the Indians held the upper hand!
It seems that these restless souls are ever searching in an endless quest,
Perhaps seeking a fallen comrade or, yes, for well-deserved eternal rest!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Written: February 15, 2024
______________________________________
I ultimately rule over these stunning valleys,
Elm trees with mossy brows line the alleys.
Where distant peaks arise, calm and azure,
Akin to the strong tripods used for rapture.
Who can't view river stones as viable paths?
A scad of scramblers on spurs stoning laths.
To slay fair faces, who bartered leaden blasts,
And weapons because of their leopard casts.
Who inflicted lasting wounds upon the land,
Those who pursued the avian crowns stand.
Fetched to flatten fascinating flesh but failed,
Who still flies above "fallen Tomahawk," veiled?
From my awakened gaze, I view a world,
Across eyes that bear a black shade furled.
A confined space, restricted and stretched out,
Then I cast a velvety gaze over a dumb doubt.
In a shadowed visage, this is how I mumble,
These walls, built by oppression, must crumble.
I must quit as I gaze upon my unique form,
Through opened eyes, no longer blind corm.
And behold, my unique hands create,
The space exists within my mind spate.
Nonviolent activists avoid causing friction,
Path for discovery, not building any tension.
Yield your tension a flight and let it depart,
God will never strain you over skills to impart.
Stress is only a reaction, probe not to worry,
Oddness from bodies and beliefs is blurry.
Not all stress stems from having a lot to do,
It originates from a lack of follow-through.
The potential increases with increasing strain,
Growth comes with a sense of life's innate pain.
I'm feeling hollow, not due to any sorrow,
Yet, in a sense of relief, each knot fades hollow.
The most crucial factor in ensuring lifespan,
Is staying clear of tension, worry, and strain.
Life is not a rising conflict or a stressful scene,
Life ought not to be painful; it may be serene.
It's habits that induce tension and relaxation,
Cutting rituals and building useful tension.