Long Tribesmen Poems
Long Tribesmen Poems. Below are the most popular long Tribesmen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tribesmen poems by poem length and keyword.
Goodmorning my dearest ones
I have a confession to make today
One day I was thinking about life
The struggles one has to endure before success kicks in
The investment one had to draw and rewrite before you are branded successful in life
Many millionaires are trying to become billionaires
Yet the poor are trying to become rich
To get food one has to work very hard for the rich for the powerful wants your money to
If a rich person tells you jump from a twenty meters apartment in exchange for a million many would do it
The richness of the soul is no longer classified as success but its joy is traded with money
If money could buy immortality then would God hàs value in our lives
But am glad a choice to live is in God's hand for if it were in human hands
Few black people would be alive,for racism would have won the day
My dear reader awake to the fact that we are busy with life problems
Then we neglect the everlasting soul
I would love to preach but my gospel is not sent but my own composition
Do wife submit to there husbands as st Paul said in Colossians?
Do husbands love there wives as it is the fairest gift one can give his wife
Do today's children respect there elders
In my tribesmen is there any elder who can lead an offering to God and God answers immediately
Long drought was common just like today but elders prayed for rain in faith and God would answer
Today the elders have a new role with the young girls in the society
The young to have an appetite for all liquor brands
The joy to serve Christ is compared to the crowd turnout and money prosperity
My brothers do not work hard as the ground is cursed for you lack faith in Christ
My sisters the joy of earthly wealth depends on how well you know Christ
My children ....the righteous elders have spoken
Heed the word of God and you will be successful in the land
May joy and peace be yours forever more
Moccasins crunching on crusted snow,
wolf-fur hood warming what I breathe,
jogging with lance and tomahawk,
other friends spread out, left and right.
The wapiti run before us,
big elk, eight or so moving,
no chance with fleetness of foot
to run down or diner out here.
They approach a wood bound by steam
and a corral we built last night,
funnel into a single, beige line,
when arrows slice through cold air.
A half-dozen of our tribesmen
let loose with stone-headed shots,
elk bleat and scream, some go down fast,
living ones trample them to flee.
Frantic milling, blood and hooves and snow,
then they’re gone, dashing through the spruce.
Eight lay on the ground, two alive,
I plunge my lance to end one’s pain.
Send a prayer to the creator,
words are vapor in the winter sky,
obsidian blades start to cut,
a runner is sent to the village.
All will help butcher this meat.
My name is Abioye
Into royalty i was born
I stand here today
Lost, forlorn
But the time has come
For me to stand up for my rights
To return to my Kingdom
Watch my enemy run, take flight
We of Ghana
Are Warrior Kings
My tribesmen and i
Into battle we will sing
But there lies ahead
A journey we must undertake
To reconcile my rightful Kingdom
For my peoples sake
We head along the coastline
Admiring the spread of golden beaches
Backed by plains and scrub
To our coast the greenery reaches
We cross several swollen rivers
To reach the Kwahu Plateau
Forested, rich and lush
Our lands of me, to you
Our followers grow in number
Ashanti, Kwahu and Akyem
Warriors of their tribes
Teenagers to men
We hear in the distance
The sound of beating drums
As we amass on a hillside
Boys to men, we will become
Our shields and spears are raised
Tribal chants resonate
For down the hillside we charge
The enemy at our gates
The battle lasts for hours
Many tribesmen are lost
Our Kingdom has been reclaimed
As we look around to our cost
Generations have ceased
No longer will they go on
Wives will mourn
Never to born
Many years have passed
As our Kingdom thrives and grows
No one will ever retake it
As our tribes unity, showed
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-6.php
Ten years past since Coyote deceased
The land became fruitful, with the help of a new priest
It was the time of the crescent moon
When the boys would be sent out across the desert dune
To kill a coyote and return with the skin
And from that day forth their life as a man would begin
On this particular occasion the crescent moon shone bright
Casting shadows of the boys as the priest bless then in the light
One at a time they were sent in different directions
With a two inch blade for their protection
As they wondered off into the dark, out of sight
Suddenly their screams brought a chill to the air and the tribe was consumed by
fright
The medicine man rushed to their aid
Carrying his crescent moon shaped blade
Behind him were the tribesmen, twenty strong
To back him up incase anything went wrong
They found the boys laying, in a row
Alive but in a lifeless trance surrounded by snow
The ground was hot but around them as cold as ice
Everything was methodical and precise
The medicine man stood for a while looking afar
He saw a female figure near the missionary camp called “The Starr”
The ordered the men to take the boy back to the camp
As he walked off into the night just with a night lamp
He reached a huge boulder
When the air became colder
His curiosity overcame his fear as the female figure drew nearer.
He called out to it to identify itself
As she pounced majestically onto an icy shelf
She said you will remember who I am
Once a female sacrifice which should have been a man
He lifted the light to see her form
Her body perfect, a picturesque goddess, however, a bit pale
And around the thigh curled and uncurled her coyote tail
Her face, a face that every woman would admire
Except for the coyote fangs, he found that she was his desire
Like perfect mountains were her firm pink breasts
Her belly button the shape of a moon crescent was what intrigued him, his thought
confessed.
She moved close slowly and touched him with a hand that was cold
But the touch made him feel a warmth and he knew his heart was sold
To the desire to have and to hold
He kissed her gently and he felt more bold
To be continued….. P.D. Pt2
Asking tribe’s future to the totem pole that grew higher
with the stock of fogs, drizzles, snows, suns, moons and stars,
that Haida laid one at a time from the day of their first step
on the sands, they followed the school of fish riding on the wavelets,
chased the fish plowing the surge of waves, hunted the big fish
buffeted by the billows because their home is the sea and the winds.
When heap of Haida’s days,
the days made through with the waves,
the days that lived through with the winds, turn into gray cloud,
and the time when this dismal gray cloud turns around the hillsides
over this village, drifts along the riversides by that village and falls
on the water’s edge as a drizzle, the villagers come to the village square
calling moon and stars above the sky while stepping
on the fallen leaves on the path that links to tomorrow.
When the moonlight wanes to fall on the water and become ripples,
the stars close their twinkling eyes overwhelmed by deepening night
and fall to sleep in the depths of water, the lads sit around the bonfire
sharing their body temperature with all the tribesmen
to hear the elder’s story regarding relationship
for the forefathers’ forefather with totem pole.
And as time goes by, the night falls deeper and deeper
the good-hearted artless Haida converse with carved image
that flames in the bonfire light on the top of the totem pole
wearing the masks created with a whole spirit
and utmost devotion to the Spirit
that lives within the totem pole.
Note: The reproduced Haida village on the backyard of Museum of Anthropology, University of British Columbia.
The Indian brave rides all alone
Beneath the mountains made of stone
Under the clouds that go sailing by
With heavy heart and occasional tear he will cry
Lost many tribesmen during the Indian wars
Though white men he killed by the scores
A war of hate from both sides
That’s why a lonely path he now rides
A fearless warrior, a commanding chief
Who had to lead his people through all the grief
See women and children killed at will
Many terrible sights he see’s still
Now he wanders in his buckskin clothes day and night
With his feather in his hair an awesome sight
With his trusted pony his only friend
He will now roam until his end
Chawathka, a last remnant of the Great Plains war
Now he rides and thinks what was it all for
Was it worth all the sacrifice
His people paid a terrible price
As they fought for freedom from the whites
But he still has nightmares during his lonely nights
And he will wander until his dying day
Under the Sun and Moon, riding every which way
Dusk, prone for a head-on collision
For the trees brace themselves
Huddle as tribesmen to swat away
The human dirigibles taking laps
Around this pathetic attempt
To rape nature for commerce
With intimate kiosks acting as
Mini brothels looking to get laid (and paid, at 70% off)
I hear the trees whimper slightly
Marginalized for the margins and cracks looming
Inside each retail fish* tank
Let's choose to ignore them
Let's oxidize together
For the trees need this more than us
Because guess who's left standing
When the brothels close
From diseased indulgence
And reddish overuse
When the game's over
After last rites granted
And the lights go out
When we simply need to gaze
Towards the heavens and
Honor these angelic trunks
Of tantric glory.
(10/23/14)
*replacement word; actual is not allowed by site standards.
Poetic Licence
I've been granted my Poetic Licence,
Which allows me to write as I find.
Exaggeration here, embellishment there,
A free spirited open mind.
With vivid inspired imagination,
I see clearly the world around me,
Never letting the truth spoil a good story,
My pen writing the things I see.
As I look from my bedroom window,
An apartment in an industrial town.
Wildebeest migrate to the Serengeti,
Silhouette of Giraffe, as the sun goes down.
Fishing boats come to safe harbour,
Greedy Seagulls stealing their cargo.
The full Moon appears over the horizon,
Illuminates the seascape all aglow.
Stonehenge is in the far distance,
A Spiritual place of ancient times.
Eagles and Red Kites soar up above,
I’ve added this line because it rhymes.
Camels roam the hot dusty Desert,
Tribesmen take fine goods to trade.
Crocodiles in Wetlands, South Florida
At home in their tropical Everglade.
Bluebells are singing in the Meadow,
Tulips and Daffodils harmonise.
How wonderful, thoughts so inventive,
A world seen through imaginative eyes.
On this peaceful land where we live comfortably
with the neighboring villagers sharing the sun and moon,
stars and clouds, winds and waters, rains and snows;
we sow the seeds on the field, wander in the wilderness
to spot the games to hunt in the changing colors of the flowers
in the time of bloom and fruit and revolving seasons
One day, from the east, crossing over the great sea,
the white feathered gluttonous bird flew into this peaceful land
and took our land by force; the bird cruelly pecked us with his avaricious beak, cold-heartedly tore us with his sharp talons, kept pushing and shoving us eastward, and this vicious cycle drove us into tribal wars and at last, Illini
to extinct.
And this moaning butte throwing its shadow on the water
atop of encircling cliffs is the Starved Rock, the site where
the great tragedy took place, all Illini tribesmen lost their lives.
The water of the Illinois River mixed with the tears of the people
who lost everything in the east via this legion for further west,
now moans to ease the spirit of Illini wandering around
the Staved Rock, which is still hungry, in the evening glow
as a soundless requiem.
The water flows embracing sorrowful Rock where:
the mother jumped into the water holding her beloved child,
the village elders who collapsed while upholding tribal pride
followed by the war cry of the warriors who grabbed tomahawk and fought but, alas, fell to enemy’s hand, now is telling the story of their last day
it becomes whirlpool in the very middle of the water.
When the streams small and large come together the following paths
meet and form a pool on the top of this lonely butte on the other side of the river, and dashes into the basin of the waterfall;
some of them fall rapidly into the steep ravine with heartrending cries
some of them drift like slow moving time in deep sorrow
some of them descend to the rocks of level stratum one by one
singing a funeral dirge.
The spirit of Illini drifting along the river
carrying so many sad stories touches the tourists’
heart; stepping on the site of the tragedy
makes tears stand to casual sightseers;
the grief-stricken stories raise the ripples in the river
and leaves a lingering imagery in the eyes and ears of the travelers
The day seemed no different
From the ones that pasted before
Heat, dust and wind
Made living here a chore
We haven't had a drop of rain
For as long as I remember
It seems to me 12 years ago
From this past December
This dusty little town
Wasn't much for one to see
If it wasn't for the Army
It surely wouldn't be
For this place once was covered
With buffalo and grass
And Injuns Lived in Teepees
But that's now in the past
They say they broke the treaty
And that the Injuns had to leave
A tribe of mostly kids and squaws
I think we were deceived
The Army rode like lightening
The tribesmen held their ground
With the flashing of their sabers
They cut every Injun down
The last time that the clouds
Brought water to this town
Was the day that the soldiers
Dragged those bodies to the mound
There they tossed each caucus
In a shallow unmarked grave
No lance , nor stick, nor stone
Not even scribble on a stave
As the Army rode away
A single soldier stayed
To guard against the animal
From digging up the grave
He felt awful for the Injuns
Disgusted by their plight
So from his bag he took a chalk
And upon a stone, did write
To be continued..............