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Curtis Forsythe Poem
Did our parents not have better things to do-
better things than to suffer our indifference-
our rebellion-
better things to do than return to us love
for hatefulness-
patients for intolerance-
self sacrifice for our selfishness?
Seems that they could never get it right-
In every thing we thought ourselves wise-
our parents foolish-
then the worst thing they ever did
was to go and die-
they died and took with them
all we now ache to know-
but now never will-
we were just too wrapped up-
too wrapped up in ourselves to ask them-
we always thought there would be time-
someday.
Copyright © Curtis Forsythe | Year Posted 2017
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Curtis Forsythe Poem
Historically accurate, narrative poem
27 November 1868, on the banks of the Washita River
Dawn’s peaceful first light streaks the eastern skies,
belying the horror of a marauding force of horses and men,
silently stealing over new fallen snow preparing
to deliver a fateful blow to the Cheyenne camp below.
The silence is broken when bugles sound the charge
over frozen ground, against a sleeping village that
having complied with every previous unjust demand
thought themselves safe from Custer’s command, deployed
in three columns according to plan, to charge from the west
and the village front, while Maj. Elliot’s column blocked
escape to the east. With the Washita river to their back,
there was no place for chief Black Kettle and his peaceful
band to escape the attack. Braves, women and children, it
made no difference, no preference was shown or quarter
given, most were slaughtered while their lodges burned,
though soon against other creatures the killing would be turned.
Black Kettle reached the river but lost his life while attempting
to cross over with his wife. The lucky few that did survive the
bloody strife and fled across the river to the ridge beyond,
below which their pony herd grazed, soon were filled with
dread and fully amazed when at Custer’s command the entire
herd was shot dead. But by now from other encampments
further east, many Cheyenne Arapaho, and Kiowa braves,
drawn to the sound of guns in the early dawn, were massing
on the hill beyond, milling and buzzing like angry bees, singing
and chanting prayer songs for their dead, filling the soldiers with
a fearful dread. So Custer broke off the engagement and began
to withdraw, but the stage had been set for another day-
June 25, 1876-
when at the Little Big Horne the debt owed for this atrocious
act, Custer and the 7th in full would pay. Meanwhile, as a
prelude it might seem, Maj. Elliot and his column, trapped without
a chance, were wiped out to a man by the Indian’s western advance.
Copyright © Curtis Forsythe | Year Posted 2017
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Curtis Forsythe Poem
Your room remains unchanged-
just as it was when you went away-
Care Bears and books still arranged,
your dolls all lined up on display.
On the table by the window nigh-
miniature Briar horses on array-
now gather dust not knowing why
you nevermore come in to play.
The Gingham Dog and Calico Cat
are held captive behind your door-
Green Eggs and Ham and a crooked hat
bring a smile to your face no more.
There are no more Easter eggs to dye-
or costume parties on Halloween-
no more sugar and spice or kites to fly-
no more baby kittens to wean.
Annie remains forever young-
but not so real little girls-
childhood times are too soon done-
stolen away as time unfurls.
Cabbage Patch Kids and lets pretend
have given way to wedding rings
I always knew that these must end-
bitter-sweet memories each now brings.
@ 2000
Copyright © Curtis Forsythe | Year Posted 2017
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Curtis Forsythe Poem
I have a new grandson-
born on the fifth of may-
who is just about perfect
in nearly every way.
From the crown of his head
to the tip of his toes,
and back again to
his little button nose.
He has the full compliment
of everything he should-
ten fingers, ten toes-
and of course-
one of those.
He is a little towhead
with eyes of dark blue,
and every time I see him
he can manage something new.
He is my daughter’s son
so he jabbers all the time-
he even seems already
to enjoy a nursery rhyme.
Of course the meaning in the words
is not as yet found-
but he responds to the rhythm
and the rhyming sound.
Perhaps in future years,
he too will write poetry-
but if he does-
I certainly hope-
he’ll do better than me
@2008
Copyright © Curtis Forsythe | Year Posted 2017
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Curtis Forsythe Poem
Historically accurate, narrative poem
29 December, 1890 - At Wounded Knee Creek
A baby cries for its mother slain
and a way of life dies on that frozen plain.
Old Chief Big Foot and his small band,
for Custer’s last stand are made to pay-
on that cold December day.
Women, children, and unarmed braves-
lie tattered and torn, dying and dead-
in and along a crooked shallow rill
that afforded no protection to those that cringe
from the 7th’s deadly Hotchkiss guns on the hill.
Custer’s former command has at long last-
on defenseless people exacted unfair revenge-
for past defeat in combat fair.
The Great Spirit sent a blizzard that same night-
to cleanse the air and hide the earth
so that he could not see-
the death and carnage inflicted there
at Wounded Knee.
The carnage is long past-
all now is serene at Wounded Knee,
and upon the hill on the very spot
where once the Hotchkiss guns did stand-
a small strip of land now remains
for Chief Big Foot and his Minneconjou band.
Finally theirs for eternity or until the sun sets no more-
purchased on that cold December day
with blood and gore at Wounded Knee.
cjf
“I did not know then how much was ended-
When I look back from this high hill of my old age-
I can still see the butchered women and children-
lying heaped and scattered all along the crooked gulch-
as plain as when I saw them with eyes still young.
And I can see that something else died there in the bloody mud-
and was buried in the blizzard.
A people’s dream died there-
the hoop is broken and scattered-
there is no center any more, and the tree is dead.”
Chief Black Elk @1932
Copyright © Curtis Forsythe | Year Posted 2017
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Curtis Forsythe Poem
The moderns say iambic verse is dead-
to be cool you must write freestyle instead.
Iambic pentameter in rhyming verse
is targeted now as the very worst.
Even the Bard could not write this today-
and not have some trash him to his dismay-
though all formal poems and rhythmic feet
the mods now consider as obsolete.
Iambic rhyming verse is trite they say
badly outdated and has had its day.
Made the butt of jokes and slanderous mirth-
pendulums swing, it will have a new birth.
But it’s not how packaged that makes it right
or that makes a poem clichéd and trite.
Because it’s content that determines this-
iambic rhyme, free style, or any other tryst
Copyright © Curtis Forsythe | Year Posted 2017
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Curtis Forsythe Poem
When as a young boy attending grade school
and I first learned about Custer's last stand,
why did I experience déjà vu
and sense so keenly that far away land?
When as a young boy attending grade school
and I first heard about that manmade hell,
why did I experience déjà vu
and sense so keenly, where many men fell?
When as an adult on that death pocked hill
I finally did chance to walk and stand,
why did I feel such a strange eerie chill
on that bright summer day so warm and bland?
When as an adult on that death pocked hill
looking out over that parched rolling ground,
why did I feel such a strange eerie chill
and silent desperation all around?
When walking down Cemetery ravine
and by a nameless stone I chanced to stop,
why did I sense a dark visage unseen
and terror felt by that trooper who fought?
When walking down Cemetery ravine
and upon ascending the low divide,
why did I sense a dark visage unseen
and feel akin to that trooper who died?
The answers to these things I do not know
nor to many other veiled things I feel,
or how it is I sense just where to go
to locals on the field that seem so real.
I will not try to speculate or guess
by acquired knowledge some might suggest,
but a different reason I confess
might to some others seem actually best.
Copyright © Curtis Forsythe | Year Posted 2017
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Curtis Forsythe Poem
When I journey along the stream,
that flows beside the meadow green,
I ask myself where does it go,
and why it wanders to and fro.
The answer it would seem to me,
is simply that it has to be,
for it to get from here to there,
it has to flow most everywhere.
Sometimes it curves around the bend,
a wondrous sight my sole to mend,
set in place by God's sovereign hand,
making earth a beautiful land.
Springing forth from mountains pristine,
it flows beside the meadow green,
oft times I hear it speak to me,
on its way to the crystal sea.
Heather Forsythe
age 10 @ 1992
Copyright © Curtis Forsythe | Year Posted 2017
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Curtis Forsythe Poem
Black of night
Light of day
I used to go
But now I stay
Summer heat
Winter cold
I once was young
But now am old.
Desert dry
Ocean wet
I used to freeze
But now I sweat.
Full glass
Empty cup
I once was down
But now am up.
Vinegar sour
Honey sweet
I once was strong
But now am weak.
Fancy hat
Ball cap
I once was lean
But now am fat.
Cool blue
Hot pink
I used to leap
But now I think.
String bikini
Formal gown
I used to smile
But now I frown.
In time
Out late
Time now to end
This foolish prate.
Copyright © Curtis Forsythe | Year Posted 2017
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Curtis Forsythe Poem
Historically accurate, narrative poem
25 June, 1876 - Valley of the Little Bighorn
Nothing stirs this June night, not a summer’s breeze or a breath of life. All is eerily quiet, and on yonder hillside, shroud of darkness and death descended, lay ten score men and more, naked, mutilated and dead, strewn grotesquely white among their horses slain, as bulwarks of flesh against the Sioux in vain. Stench of death everywhere, the din of battle no longer there, said to have sounded like snapping threads in the tearing of a blanket, albeit their frenzied volleys found mostly air.
Swept away like chaff by a vengeful Gall, from Finley Ridge to Calhoun Hill, the men of Companies C and L were first to die, then next to fall was Company I. Further down the ridge on a death pocked hill, gathered around their commander in a desperate band, remnants of E and F with a Fugitive few were the last of the soldiers to stand. Mortally wounded, bullet through breast, a brevet or coffin had been his request. Down upon knees begging no quarter, revolver still firing the latter he receives. As the death blow falls, so also falls Son of the Morning Star.
From out of the smoke dust and din, only one from the Command emerges to return home again. Look! Up on the hill there is a stirring, amongst the shadows and gun smoke yet lingering, a solitary figure to life still clinging, is struggling to reach the river refreshing to bathe his wounds and ease the pain inflicted by humans gone insane. But of the day on that hillside far, of the carnage and death he did see, of the smoke and the hell and of a fallen star he would no-one ever tell, for he was Keogh’s mount, the valiant horse Comanche.
Earlier that day much like a cavalier Knight, Custer with his 7th arrived spoiling for a fight. Into the valley of the Little Bighorn they rode, battalions deployed to sweep left and charge to the front, while his columns of four detached to the right. Further ever further was pressed the advance, in to the jaws of perdition where they hadn’t a chance, to keep the appointment with destiny on that hillside far and eternal night for Son of the Morning Star.
No, nothing stirs this June night, not a summer’s breeze or a breath of life and across the valley up on yonder hillside, all now is eerily quiet.
Copyright © Curtis Forsythe | Year Posted 2017
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