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Best Poems Written by Trace Baldwin

Below are the all-time best Trace Baldwin poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Trace Baldwin Poem

Dust

My people have always known dust. 

They brought it in boxes. 
Across trails covered in tears. 
To red dirt and black oily clay.  

They wore it in their clothes, 
and watched it rise from their feet. 
Watched it sparkle like stars in the sunlight around them. 

They weaned their children on dust. 
They let dust make homes in their faces. 
Surrounded with moats of worry.  

They lay down with dust. 
They lay close to one another and whispered, 

       damn this dust,
              dust,
                     dust. 

Before turning to dust.  

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

Details | Trace Baldwin Poem

The Crow

I am Ashishishe. 
I am the Crow. 

The Universe whispers my name. 

I live in a run down house, 
and drive a broken truck.  

I have a black and white t.v., 
a bottle of Crazy Horse,
and a bag of weed.  

Medicine Man or Made Man? 
There is no difference to me. 
I am. 

I have shared the ecstasy of growing grass in Spring. 

I have felt the surrender of Autumn leaves, 
falling in slanted evening light.  

I have stood barefoot in the snow,
singing ancient songs to the Moon.  

Now I sit in an office. 
Decorated with pictures of my people. 
While trying to explain the Mystery. 

But she does not believe me,
or what the Fiddleback on my shoulder says.  

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

Details | Trace Baldwin Poem

The Long Hair

We go with the rising Sun! 
Straight and true. 
Don't forget boys. 
The light of Christ rides with you.  

Load up and draw the sword of God!
He will carry you through. 
Take your bracer now and whatever you do, 

       Kill 'em all!

Buffalo Robe Woman said, 

       "He got his though." 
       "Out there in the Greasy Grass." 

She sat the plate in front of me. 
Wiped her hands on the apron she wore. 
The one that belonged to her Grandmother, 
and her Grandmother who wore it before.  

Then returned to snap green beans picked from her garden.  

She said, 

       "It will be a long and hard winter."  

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

Details | Trace Baldwin Poem

John Spotted Horse and the Witch

John Spotted-Horse said to the Witch, 
make me like a hawk so that I might spy, 
upon my enemies, 
and sweep silently down, 
to blind their eyes.  

John Spotted-Horse said to the Witch, 
make me like a snake, 
so that I might hide in the grass,
and poison my enemies as they pass.

John Spotted-Horse said to the Witch, 
make me like a grizzly, 
so that I might crush my enemies, 
while ripping them with gnashing teeth, 
and black tipped claws.  

John Spotted-Horse said to the Witch, 
make me like the north star,
so that I might lead my enemies astray, 
into foreign lands, 
where there to lose the way.

John Spotted-Horse said to the Witch, 
make me like a blanket, 
warm and colored with bright reds and greens, 
but hiding death within the seams.  

And so the Witch, 
having heard all of his desires, 
danced a slow circle in the sand,
and made John Spotted-Horse, 

White.  

E.G. Maynard. 
46&2.  


3.

Details | Trace Baldwin Poem

A Snowy Day

It's cold again today. 
Skies are gray. 
The North wind blowing. 
A blanket of snow on the way. 

To cover what we had yesterday.  

The fence line is furrowed white, 
and the tall grass bends beneath the weight, 
of each single flake racing to a destiny.  

Tomorrow there will be more. 
More sleet and then rain. 
More cold and more gray.  

Another winter day in Oklahoma.  

I have a photograph from 1978. 
Resplendent in its Polaroid clarity. 
A picture of Vincent, John and me. 
Building forts of snow in the front yard. 

I wore the coat mom and dad bought at Gibson's. 
A gift from Christmas, it still smelled new. 
The fake fur lined hood framing an 11 year old face. 
Wind blasted smiles as we posed. 

Now I watch the snow from my window. 
Building forts in my mind, and they are still icy.  
I drink my coffee and wonder about that kid.  
The one in the green coat. 
With a freezing smile.  

While outside the snow keeps falling, 
and the gray gets grayer.  

This cold, 
it chills my Soul, 
and I feel that I will die, 
if I do not see a flower soon.  

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

Details | Trace Baldwin Poem

Feathers and Airplanes

I have walked on fiery morning clouds. 
My hair like shooting stars behind me. 

I have chased lightning and whirlwinds in Hell, 
then drunk the nectar of Spring rain.  

I have stood at the edge of death, 
and felt peace.  

My children do not believe me.  
Having ridden in silver airplanes and thinking themselves wise. 
They say I am a crazy old man. 

I ask them, "if I have done it, how can it not be done?" 

I ask them, "if it cannot be done, how have I done it?"  

My children put feathers in their hair,
and wear turquois jewelry. 

They drink all the liquor in the house, 
put on their faces as if going to war, 
then go and paint the town red.  

Still they call me crazy. 
But I have ridden in silver airplanes too. 

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

Details | Trace Baldwin Poem

Leonard

I will rise when my People return. 

With hard eyes,
clinched fists,
and a cold heart. 

I will paint myself for war.  

With feathers tied in my hair.  
Scarified and singing of the old days. 
A whistle and blood for the old ways.  

I will dance to dream myself awake.  

To see the Sun setting on me. 
As I am.  
Old and fat. 

My belly hangs like the heavy snow on a Winter day.  
My trailer is cold,
       and I have a long way to pay.  

I wait for my People. 
Where is our Messiah to lead the way? 

Phyllis White-Thunder pats my cheek. 
She tells me that it will be ok. 
She tells me go back to sleep. 

It was just a dream Leonard. 

Just a dream. 

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

Details | Trace Baldwin Poem

The Sage Burner

My Grandfather was a Sage-Burner.  
He would light the dry twisted grass with a Zippo. 
It was chromed, silver and read; "Live to ride.  Ride to Live."  

The sage would spark and burst into yellow orange flame.  
He would blow it out and nurse the ember to full life. 
Until it glowed with an evil black and red shimmer.  

It smelled like bad weed.  

My Grandfather would dance and flit about the space. 
His thin frame with arms uplifted as if praising some unseen God. 
Blowing, poking and prodding the smoke. 
Into dark corners and back rooms. 

Places we forgot.  

I asked my Grandfather why he burned sage. 

With narrowed eyes he said, "some spirits like to hang around
and cause mischief among the Human Beings.  

"We burn sage so they will leave us alone." 
"We burn sage so they will go away from us and bother the Whites instead."  

Then he smiled and continued his dance. 

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

Details | Trace Baldwin Poem

Tom Two Guns

Tom Two-Guns stands on his porch. 
His hard eyes like the last rays of Sun on a winter day. 
Surrounded by tall grass and broken cars. 
He would stand this way bout every day.  

Tom Two-Guns laughs and dances in his mind. 
Feathers and bells move in time. 
Sounds silenced long ago. 
Replaced by a trail and rough winds in Oklahoma.  

Tom Two-Guns wears the colors of war. 
Faded with time like the stories in his mind. 
Cold ghosts dancing sparks in the night. 
Snuffed out his dreams at the break of first light.  

Tom Two-Guns stands on promises and lies. 
Leaning on a cheap cane he found at the Goodwill store. 
He smokes cigarettes from a crumpled white box.  

While he waits in line for commodity cheese.  

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.

Details | Trace Baldwin Poem

The Monarch

I saw it fly across my path. 
From north to south. 
On a hot summer day in Oklahoma. 

Monarch colors glistened in the low western sun. 
Its fragile wings beating to the rhythm of a tiny heart. 

I wondered. 

Was it thinking of a meal?
A pretty flower at the end of day?

Never thought it would be swept away. 
In a rush of glass and steel. 
Trapped and helpless in a wiper blade. 
Headed East on 51 toward the still water. 

So I stopped and examined the powder. 
Left when it hit. 
As if an airliner went down. 
Wreckage strewn along a trail. 

Leading to it. 
Alone with a broken wing.  

Not understanding the hand setting it free,
and placing it carefully,
on a bed of clover, 
beside the road. 

Then moving on.  

E.G. Maynard. 
46 & 2. 


3.