Death Native American Poems | Examples
These Death Native American poems are examples of Native American poems about Death. These are the best examples of Native American Death poems written by international poets.
Time Period~~1830-1850
As rain falls hard and soaks the ground
and thunder roars its mighty sound,
so tears of the displaced may fall,
our cries bespeaking dearth and pall.
The Deep South tribes of long ago
were forced to forge a trail of woe,
of death and want, with goods so small,
our cries bespeaking dearth and pall.
We Cherokees were brought to tears
when forced from land we'd held for years,
no longer standing strong and tall,
our cries bespeaking dearth and pall.
The rugged journey thousands made
to Westward land should never fade
from memory. All must recall
our cries bespeaking dearth and pall.
on behalf of our tribe, the Cherokees, and the many other tribes
who were displaced
In disbelief the battle was lost,
what chicanary ,or spells were used,
The Tyrant with a smug smile,decalred what he would now do,
Slavery and possible death now has raised head,
Fear not my peole who survive this onslaught,
though weary and down summon the strength,
look to the oceans ,forests and plains,
there to gather and become as one tribe,
Shout to the oceans requesting help,
from the peoples of the seas with weapons keen,
they will rise like wraiths shadow like mist,
raising their shields and shaking fists,
Come to our aid and set us free,
Shout to the tall trees as they reach high,
bringing down the stormy skies,
washing away the enemies schemes,
Come to our aid and set us free.
Shout to the mountains rugged and strong,
never changing through endless time ,
sending snowy avalanches screaming down,
taking away sorrows and frowns.
Shout to the beings of light that shine,
make gain our land to be yours and mine,
sending avengers of spiritual mien,
expose the dark for what it is,
shallow and self centered full of lies,
blow away the clouds clear the skies,
Come to our aid and set us free.
a.p.mcintyre 8/11/2024.
Navajo celebration
death is life
wakan tanka in the sky
where earth people become holy people
the soul is now free from suffering
...Since that day there has been a cross
perched high atop the bluff,
and when the town grew up they thought
they should show him their love.
That’s how we became Sintertown,
their way to show respect,
when the first cross rotted away
the quickly built the next.
The one you see now was installed
back in nineteen-thirty,
and it’s still standing proudly since
they made it of concrete.
It may be trendy in our times
to mock the settlers brave,
to feel bad for the Indians,
and yes, mistakes were made.
Some might not even like this tale,
but we still tell it yet,
since even now I can’t recall
a more heroic death.
Entry for the Golden Age of Music Poetry Contest, sponsored by Oliver McKeithan, March 2025, Second Place.
I dreamed of Johnny Cash last night,
his music spoke to me,
I said I thought that you were dead,
but music lives said he,
but music lives said he.
From Folsom, to Fort Bend,
for every soul behind bars,
he asked if we could say a prayer,
then picked up his guitar,
then picked up his guitar.
He sung to me of Ira Hayes,
words that rung in my ears,
the world of reservations,
with all those rivers of tears,
with all those rivers of tears.
We talked and talked of music,
country, hip hop and blues,
how Bo Diddley and Beyoncé,
can move our blue suede shoes,
can move our blue suede shoes.
I dreamed of Johnny Cash last night
surprised to see him back,
I said I thought that you were dead,
but he was still dressed in black,
but he was still dressed in black.
Kings and queens of the timberland,
their pups learning their royal birthright,
running, running in freedom's natural gift,
as the winter ochre moon rises above
the ridge,
the pack howling in unison,
a music so enthralling.
Crystal blue eyes shudder the dawn,
please don't kill my wolves.
Oh God, no!
I cannot bear the thunderous rifles,
as they fell my spirit animals.
My heart asunder,
my soul bleeds with them in
the crimson snows.
Please don't kill my wolves,
Native American songs echo
through the pine forests as
their lamentation cries out-
please, please don't kill our wolves!
Elizabeth Marie Tall Chief
bigotry gave her grief
failing health, unsteady,
she railed, “Get my swan costume ready!”
At Wounded Knee, we haunt the hill
Where many moons ago we were killed
As herds of buffalo wax and wane
And big sky and silence don't profane
But bless the land where once we fell.
The Men and our beloved Sitting Bull
Women and Young commune one and all;
We love, we laugh and we dance for rain
At Wounded Knee.
Be not fooled by the silence of the hill
For the air above our bones is not still
But stirring among the oaks and grain
Our fleeting spirits wait not in vain
To arise and breathe again and we shall
At Wounded Knee.
Inspired by a storyline from a show. The Native American tribal culture is beautiful. This is written in honour of their Light.
Death of a warrior
By Michelle Morris
11/08/2023
Lay me down
Under the big sky
Where my ancestors
Can see my soul fly
I knew it was always
Going to end this way
I've lived my life
A warrior brave
Shot and scalped
By the dark one
The death of a warrior
Is on his conscience
We all make our choices
We all live our fates
Our destiny and lessons
Are left in our wake
My honour and peace
My legacy for my tribe
Our bodies may stay here
But our souls dance with the Light
© Michelle Morris, 2023
We Apache take owls in a storm as a warning
This owl was exceptionally fierce looking
I cringed, instantly thinking of death and destruction
I could hear the wind’s anger
I feel my spirit gradually ebbing away,
So, when I eventually lie down to die,
Will my ancestors save a place for me
Around the great camp-fire in the sky?
Will the buffalo be grazing there
In herds too numerous to count?
Will my faithful white stallion be waiting,
For me to, once more, remount?
Will the eagles soar high above my head?
Will the bear and wolf run free?
Will the plains grasses sigh in the breeze,
In an ever changing symphony?
Will the flow of cool mountain streams
Cleanse all regrets from my anguished mind
Will the peace I am desperately seeking,
Be there for me to find?
Dogon mask dancer is nervous for the first time in twenty-six years
For the newly departed is his favorite grandfather, mountain deer man.
He has not done a mask dance for a loved one prior to this moment.
The tribe is waiting, their eyes trained on each grimace and movement.
Ease to the underworld in the best way he pleads to his grandfather.
Mountain deer man stirs from motionless state to watch his grandson
He has never experienced this level of pride.
...He could not advanced on to Fort Edward,
just left William Henry, made the fort burn,
but now faced a foe who would fight to the death,
the consequences he did not see yet.
And at first poor Ned did want to run home,
away from the sheer chaos he had known,
but he didn’t run, he couldn’t go yet,
not until he marched through the streets of Quebec.
. for public domain
. offered for the innumerable small graves of indigenous children recently discovered
Our most harsh cynics,
with their gaze ever on the shadows,
Hope that Light may someday rise,
and illuminate green meadows.
They dash false hopes that thrive in the shade,
savor truths, cold and grim,
stab at chimeras man has made,
to slither off into the din.
Blades of passing fantasy and Faith,
like ancient barbers drawing blood,
sooth the Spirit of societal woes,
but drain it of its bud.
Was being dead soothing? it’s been said enough, World - i’ve been up before the morning sun.