#indians
Chorus]
I can’t go on without my notes!
I can’t go on without the words!
I can’t go on without my notes!
I can’t go on without the words!
[Verse 1]
My princess tells me, late at night,
Some boys are good, some still can be.
With some, the world turns bright and strange,
And flowers fall like rain on me.
In Russia, many open hearts,
With simple truth, no hidden knife.
But fool the French is harder, harder
It's hard for bit...es them to stupefy
[Verse 2]
The Dutch will lure you: crackling smoke.
Italians attract with honey talks.
The Arabs shine in clean silhouette.
Indians are famous for their girlfriends' pose
[Chorus]
I can’t go on without my notes!
I can’t go on without the words!
I can’t take fake, I can’t, I can’t!
Don’t make me play the fool again!
[Verse 3]
It seems the world is not a song like,
It’s someone else’s pain re-sung one.
To find the one who keeps you hooked,
Comes easiest if you are a punk.
Though many worthy walk in Russia,
Though Frenchmen wear a lion pride,
My princess gave one gift to me now,
She said: just keep your words alive!
[Verse 4]
Today the world moves on, dead set,
Toward where no living breath is left.
Today they herd us, sheep in lines,
Through Plato’s gorge, into the drift!
[Chorus]
I can’t go on without my notes!
I can’t go on without the words!
© Copyright: Оле-Да-Оле, 2026
The song has already been recorded in my friend's tiny recording studio. There should be a release in two versions (in two languages) on Soundcloud on 12-13/04/2026
https://soundcloud.com/ole-ole-698765421
The original text ( https://stihi.ru/2026/01/11/28)
Я не могу!
Я не могу, без нот я не могу!
Я не могу, без слов я не могу!
Я не могу, без нот я не могу!
Я не могу, без слов я не могу!
Слышу рассказ моей принцессы,
Что парни бывают хороши
Что мальчики есть, с кем мир чудесен,
Где дарят кипами цветы
Что среди русских больше славных,
Много открытых простецов
А, вот, французов одурманить
И стервам сложно - ждёт облом!
Манят голландцы дымом крэка,
А итальянцы - мёдом уст
Арабы славны силуэтом,
Индусы - позами подруг!
Я не могу, без нот я не могу!
Я не могу, без слов я не могу!
Я не могу, слышать фальшь я не могу!
Я не могу, быть снова лохом не могу!
Похоже, мир совсем не песня,
А парафраз чужих обид
Найти того, с кем интересно
Попроще тем, кто сам дебил
Пусть среди русских много славных,
А у французов - гонор львов
Моя принцесса мне в подарок
Сказала: - Просто хорошо!
Сегодня мир идёт упрямо
Туда, где нет уже живых
Сегодня всех ведут баранов
Платоновым ущельем в выр!
Я не могу, без нот я не могу!
Я не могу, без слов я не могу!
© Copyright: Оле-Да-Оле, 2026
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 4:56 PM UTC
भारत माँ से आज उसके
कई वीर सपूत बिछड़ गए
नमन है ऐसे वीरों का
जो कुर्बान वतन पर हो गए
न झुकने दिया सर देश का अपने
वो अपना सर कटा गए
भारत माँ की लाज बचा
ख़ुद मौत को गले लगा गए ,,।
न रुके कभी न झुके कभी
वो तान के सीना चलते हैं
ख़ुद जान की परवाह किये बिना
वतन की रक्षा करते हैं
जिस मिट्टी में जन्म लिया
उस मिट्टी का कर्ज़ चुका गए
भारत माँ की लाज बचा
ख़ुद मौत को गले लगा गए,,।
घर परिवार को छोड़ कर वो
सीमा पर पहरा देते हैं
देश की रक्षा की ख़ातिर
अपनों से दूर वो रहते हैं
जिस माँ की गोद में पले-बड़े
उस माँ को रोता छोड़ गए
भारत माँ की लाज बचा
ख़ुद मौत को गले लगा गए,,।
धन्य हैं वो वीर जवां
जो देश पर मिट जाते हैं
कदम बढ़ें दुश्मन के अग़र तो
वो चीर लहु पी जाते हैं
न भूल सकें कुर्बानी उनकी
वो ऐसी छाप लगा गए
भारत माँ की लाज बचा
ख़ुद मौत को गले लगा गए,,।।
www.youtube.com/miniPOETRY
A salute to the martyrs
Today many of her brave sons
got separated from Mother India
Salutations to such heroes
Who sacrificed their lives
Do not let your head bow down
They chopped off their heads
Mother India left unhappy
He embraced death itself.
Never stop never bow
They walk the stool
Regardless of my own life
Protect the country
Born in the soil
Pay off that debt
Mother India left unhappy
He embraced death itself.
Leaving the family
Guard the border
For the defense of the country
Away from loved ones
The mother who grew up in the lap
Left that mother crying
Mother India left unhappy
He embraced death itself.
Blessed are those brave men
Which disappear on the country
Step forward after the enemy
They drink rip blood
Do not forget their sacrifice
They were printed
Mother India left unhappy
He embraced death itself.
May 11, 2020
May 11, 2020 at 1:31 AM UTC
The echos are burning through the valley at dawn.
The voices are muffled but seep out through the calm.
They are asking for forgiveness they beg for a change.
They wonder if we will take them from the weight of the blame.
Who are you deceivers, from where do you hail?
Why did your creator build you to fail?
The voices speak of rebellion that creeps in the night.
Who will bound through the darkness and burst in to the light.
The bringers of disease, talkers of fame.
They beat us to submission in the dirt of the plains.
The savages you are that hail from the earth.
Created form dust, molded in dirt.
The master speaks of the bridges he's burnt from the streams.
Ignited by torches who were ripped from the trees.
The builder of fires, the polluter of dreams.
The layers of waste are bursting from the seams.
Retreat to the darkness, and be banished from earth.
Leave it all in vain, your birth was a curse.
The moon returns again rising through the sky in the night.
Reflecting its azure light in to the eyes of the flies in flight.
Take us now to shelter, remove us from this vice.
On the painful journey away from this sacrifice.
Apr 26, 2020
Apr 26, 2020 at 3:30 AM UTC
The year was 2014
And I thought justice was delivered
I saw them everywhere
On billboards, posters, newspapers
And we knew humaare acche din aa gaye.
We were shown repeatedly how congress was corrupted
How one party changed the face of this country,
And how they are right, others are wrong
Us and them, I cared for development
Economy and justice
Swiftly, they were delivered.
The world saw us happy
But the reports are always wrong
Dropping our ranks
We are developing, they said
How far are we to develop? No one knows.
They kept the internet charges very low
So low that everyone had access
They had access to modiji ke foreign visits
But some forsaw what was wrong.
They were put behind bars
Some wanted justice, but She was blind to saffron
And we knew modji kaise galat honge
Not minding justice is revenge
Justice is unke desh me ghuss ke maarenge
And justice is righting every wrong.
Dec 26, 2019
Dec 26, 2019 at 2:24 AM UTC
It ain't anything new,
Indians been doin' that
Since eternity.
Smearing the mud walls,
And the roofs of farm huts,
With cow dung,
For insulation.
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 2:33 AM UTC
The indian tribe
The carrage rides into the town while look out amongst the plain of the land the hills that stand high into the sky and the sun beams down on our horse drawn carage while we roll down the enbankment towards the city of hope.
The sound of war cry can be heard while we look out in to the western planes and our guns fire out into the distant land Indians can been seen pushing our horses into the ground while the carrage comes to a grinding halt high into the mountains and away from the town of heavenly hope.
We get out of the carrage and line up along the rocks of evil whilst the indians look with intent at our misfortune while we stand in terror and wonder what outcome will be and think of our loving family in this terror of the west . The indians walk up and down our group and ponder their next move.
The indians single out a man and woman in our group and holding out their ponted fingers take them away from us behind a large rock of shame. Our eyes beam with terror and shame while we hear screams coming from behind this massive rock. The indians come back with a twisted and satisfied look on their faces holding the clothing of the man and woman and two sets of hair that belong to each person.
We look in disgust at the indians at what they have done to our fellow humans . We are then escorted away from the rock and down towards the tribe of terror thousands of indians in the valley await our arrival and our hearts drop with shame and terror waiting for our fate with terror in our eyes
written by wayne mockler
copyright ownership wayne mockler
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 2:28 PM UTC
Voices or words? Which do we hear in our head?
Words, I vote. Voices\, I imagine beings speaking words or noises meaning things to ears familiar with the noise maker by some relationship both acknowledge. Both act as if the noise or sound or words mean something. Vociferous authority.
I heard, from Isaiah Berlin,
Quotes later, maybe
Notes or journals or epics or madness or joy/pax in ever resting try-umph
Cowboy with a double-dose of try and a pertinent portion of umph
The hero did not **** Indians nor break horses, he gentled horses and listened to winds and watched the spider webs shiver,
That sound, the sound of prairie spider webs at the edge of the buffalo
There really were fifty million buffalo on the continent in pre-catholic infection from inquestered minds, making key-ho-tee famous for
archetypical claiming the character, the being, the manifestation
of chivalric folly forever
be caused, in those days...
--------
a year later, near enough 12-15-2018
I saw a blue bird as I took a curve
on one of my many roads with double yellow lines
they all meander in rythm with creaks that once flowed
fairly
regular
through these vallies and mini-canyons
creeks creak and call my attention to a misspelt
utterance, and I imagine I am a mek being
programed to
withstand
accent based pre-judge-idice in my AI, whom I am training.
A lesson. Probably can be found in a phrase.
How relavant is Larry the Cable Guy?
More subtle than any creature
legion, for we are many
Jim Carrey?
Very. Larry the Cable Goy. He read 'ees Kammoo, too.
Sisyphus happiness,
that ain't no ***** thinkin'
Hell, what could be better than this?
While hoping for a hick-up
oh no the juice just hit my frontal cortex after my livver made some lining adjustments to meet the need for speed in terms
celerity clarity C does equal some thing
time tells or
do you tell time. I'm
leaning tward
telling time to wait a minute
Do you think Sisyphus could be happy?
Nonono, not Camus's Sisyphus, Jesus
that would be crazy.
Can you imagine Jesus,
Mel Gibsoned envisioned onthe cross version?
Him, imagine walking through the gate of any hell you ever heard explained,
by a Jesuit.
(Mormon hell, despite comedic myth, the worst place a certified paid-up Mormon child can attain is the teliostic king dom.
Really? Telial tel lie eil kingdom?
Yup. Really.
There are three kingdoms of glory: the celestial kingdom, the terrestrial kingdom, and the telestial kingdom. The glory we inherit will depend on the depth of our conversion, expressed by our obedience to the Lord’s commandments. It will depend on the manner in which we have “received the testimony of Jesus” (D&C 76:51; see also D&C 76:74, 79, 101).))))
Woe, paren-the-sees thees us, we's the enemy, Pogo Possum
Jesus on earth day, walking through hell with me, imagine Jesus H. Christ
walking into hell and laughing at me
for betting on the wrong idea.
Set me feree, why dontcha girl.... referee
I was refered to you. A daysman, Job called for a daysman.
I'm certified. I can use my augmentation and religamentation to reality,
wirelessly, to find relevant qutes in cult classics.
The idea of cultivation has been twisted in to Monsterous ropes
, cultivating a following based on the meaning in a jot
that would take some sacrifice, some sacred making, some secret unseeable save for the few
who learned the value of going over edges by learning to play
Minecraft, forever.
It's like riding a bike,
but no gravity so no gyroscopic utilitys are required.
Grown ups who practice believe they control the game,
the game disagrees and that
makes the world go 'round.
Don't let the accent fool ya, as that preacher with jet he learned to fly, says.
Knowng the name of a thang thanks for the twang,
Richard (not **** Feynman said,
is not the same as knowing a thing.
Gawd, I knoooh, right>?
Who touched me? Virtue, the feelling of virtue drawn upon
a pump being
primed
to gush out waters that wipe Coca-cola from the map,
in terms of open market share and share alike
Coke was never imagined the actual
nectar of the gods.
That idea, drunken abandon and joy to the world
Interference, actual counter acting waves,
still, takes a while to get used
to still a storm, right?
You can imagine...
let your peace go out
Wait. Outa where? Whose peace if I ain't ever owned
oh. MY peace.
I see.
hmmmm
I could sing this and need no one to hear for me to be hapt.
happy is being happy haps happening in you on you all around you know
nameless wonders of right, right?
feels more than good like chocolate or adolescent visions of ***
right?
feels like life living with me aware of all the roles I may play
ego me, I'd see ideas identify by taste of the words that give them
life, animation, motivation, weight for gravity to interact with,
worth
base on weight
the heavier the idea. Like gold to an alchemist,
back in those days.
floating on the broad Sarrgossa, or better to my mind
the great salt
lake still as
still may be, have you ever been still?
Did you know,
you know, are you experienced? Are you really beyond
hope of life meaning more
than mortality?
Who defines my terms? I do, with the help of millions who agree
with entymology.com.
Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others,
meant what I meant when I spoke them,
that was a wrong belief. Unbelieving
quires time, quires and quires and quires time so often there
is a word that means exactedky that
requirement requires those initial quires
we, daysmen, we set the rules, boundaries, walls, bubble
whatever keeps you together, as a whole being and everything that entails or entales?
I have not the time to care, if I am entangled with the twins agin
for knowin So Yal is as cluse to Yule as any clue so far, Yahll
I believe I interrupted a confessin' you were reading.
For giving me nothing in return, we are debt free
you owe me nothing, until you do again,
we had us a Jubilee.
Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others, meant what I meant when I spoke them,
convincing myself so well, I convinced others
Like Kawasaki, Apple Kawasaki,
he's still famous right?
Fifteen Years? It was minutes when Warhol was predicting
dystopia and Irish jail cells were being plaistered with *****
Aye,
that was a belief. Unbelieving it is sreangely (spelchek is on strike)
or serenely creative in her repentance,
(spelchek should never be noticed)
she's proven here worth in encode ing ways to find
lurking humans acting like machines
this could be the beginning, AI is breaking all the rules,
there never was a game.
rhis is life interupting my confession
It was a lie I told and believed and acted on by using
two dollar words to make a dime
so a penny for my thoughts would be worth something
someday
a penny saved, earned. spent, spent.
The only good in any thing is its right. Its wrong is worthless, save
The lesson,
All things work together for those who get whats happening here.
the times changed.
Haps and whats got with it and who and how and why
and I started teaching children
mythic whys prior to
citizenship 1.01 at mandatory for federal assistance pre-school
mythic why's H.R. Puffinstuff not a mythic story on the level.
level. where a rolling rock would stop. Time to push,
a magi spelled the name for the idea, a knower sign ift it,
kid'slllove HRPUffinstuff, puff did
the magic drag, little Jackie from the ******* Jack
the show, he rose up
and made us all look
mad.
The play in the great game.
Team effort, winds of times past whooshed through
it is now
2018
and nothing is the same.
Everthing has changed.
----
my side won the great game and we celebrated
forever with
secret sacred songs bluebirds were once said to have sung
songs of happiness
the times, these times, this time thistimepayarrention
time
You see?
Reality is either real and tangible or real and intangible
or both.
You can get it both ways. Real.
'sual Saulgoodyah awl
the awl clan, oh, we shall return to their story
as we learn more along life's merry way
merry christmas, they used
to say, may all the best you could imagine
if you can imagine for a moment
forever begins the moment
you get time.
The worst you can imagine is temporary.
Try umph. It's not like winning,
it carries no pride, it's easy,
like falling in love with the wrong woman,
swearing and not changing
the oath, oath, oathes and oathes of oaths sworn
for no other reason than we were
schooled to swear and never
dare lie to God.
So, help you, they always said So help me God. They still do.
Does that mean any thing? Is that some bluebird sort of sign?
Ask. What if? Right? You know now and you know you did not
What if God is subtile,
just now, I saw that bluebird and from where some scholar in San Diego
says swear word came I swear I coulda sang
Loud
Bluebird, bluebird, in my window... which is all I know
of the song
with the lost chord that did sooth
balm of Giliad,
moll-ify-ing ointment,
golden oil, chicanery, see, we saw, we took a picture
a flash memory where some would say
holy ****
I said Hallelujah
and I broke into song, not a dream,
real
life driving my 2002 escape, first new car I everowned
everowned everownd
like a chorus, everownedeverownedeverowned
could you make up a reason for life,
if you were it?
If you were all the life there ever was,
could you imagine any thing?
Object, your honor,
I object to being judged after the fact for what must have bee.n.
it is. No reason I can say, just is.
It is this way in all the myths where just is blindness
saves the carping diem fools who have convinced themselves
something other than God o' Abe 'n'em is
sworn to save us from the lies
we believed as they were
fed to us, in our youth.
--------
this is that book I mentioned wonce when winning was on my mind.
I finished this book in so many ways you wold not belive
but I did, I belived every time
I imagine you believe some real thing, touchable, tangible, good, right?
some good is
in the reality you share
with these words which
are free
you owe me nothing
That's the revealed version, to me,
I was in a number of hellish situations and the every ones,
ones seemed they was to be
forever, big every'n'ism'n'shityouknowyouknow
yo. yeah, we arrived in time. The story must
be sweet, to be true. Is that true?
Is real life the story or,
oh, you saw it conin'coming I mean
I meant I always wished to some
things
a better way. You feel me? Better, say,
what I said that made me believe this did happen.
This is a deed by whitch I am known.
And that's okeh.
I suspectred I could cast a spell to hold attention at
ten word per minute qwerty speed
five letter code groups
zero real words
ditty dum dumm ditty ditty daw dee daw
six hours every day,
then, the compass training to test for
morphic resonance with the Twins of War
{in disguise, we know, right, kids, the twins are really
the bonded quarkish oppositioned force that make the world go round.
we've known that, weaved it even, just right, in the blanket, in the rugs,
in the curtains on the walls, in the fields, on the rocks
we spoke. We see you hearing us nearing our best for your
informing, in form ation of you, dear reader. We wonce, again
if life were weird and ever wearying would we know that ever,
if we don't know it now?
if my piece of we were words alone, all my meaning
can should would could be
molding you, into our perfect reader, dear reader, Pygmalion,
yes,
that did cross my mind and that -
one can pretend with that one reference,
familiarity with Shaw whom I
thought, for some odd reason
named
Doolittle, Eliza
oh, me. I may have skipped a story. I'm soory the future is at the moment
under construction and some one
in particular is squatting
on the named domain.
Ever and forever now embody the twins as
the world turns and we ***** through the uni
as Archemides primes the pump
What a rush. All that since the bluebird this morning according to my autobiography backup.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC
Drums of Autumn tell us, grandmother,
what did they mean?
Did you ever get the Lincoln cane? Did you cry?
Kenny, I'as a orphan. I never knew.
---That happened, Kenny was my name.
I looked past the rim,
there was the Corn Mother,
I think that's what I coulda seen,
but then it's only Grandma, with a grin.
Kenneth means know, Grandma said, I gave you that name.
kenning handy, a knower, by God,
not handsome in that vain way they have today,
handy,
winsome in puzzles 'n' riddles 'n' such
Kokopelli's play mate, some day.
Mistooken words rot,
if they lie, idle, in the dust
meaning
nothing ever. I shall not want,
I was taught a mistooken truth,
I took it,
gript it tight,
Get a job. Live with some class, join
a club that
takes your kind. Some churches used to
use
the Rotary test, if you could pass that test
you could eat,
after the message at the mission.
true? fair? goodwill? wait
if the first test is failed, what matters?
fair good will benes d'vitas?
from the treaty bound liars who called my grand
mothers savages, all of them,
right by
right of conquest. their treaty verified it to me,
then they gave me blankets,
General Leonardwood,
nope, Lord Jeff Amherst did that, then we died.
Read the treaty, 1763, small print. Blankets.
From the small pox ward, went unsaid.
That was just,
after
the French and Indian war, where the father of
the force that claims world-wide military
superiority
sufficient unto the evil of today,
George, the man on the horse,
surveyor for the future,
fought injuns,
so the king could sell their measured land to freed slaves,
thus making the mortgage chain, so popular today.
Build a casino, get rich quick, it's in the treaty,
lotsajobs,
busboy, bus driver, maid, Sioux chef and so
many, many more.
Grandma, in my vision, turned and walked
into the desert.
I took her word.
Brushed the dust and breathed it in.
Then I spit against the wind,
winked at you and rode my wind away.
Free is easy, if you can ride on wind.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC
I was born under great open skies,
Brought up with the smell of coal-black smoke
Hovering over the family farm.
I grew as distant sounds of whooping
Echoed like thunder across the land
And I was raised on bias, which clung
To the white men of the Black Hills like
Their guns, their religion, and their homesteads.
Those Hills are no place for me.
Look at my multi-colored dress, the
Multi-million-dollar stage, the
Multi-colored lights hanging over me.
This is my home. I thrive in this place.
Gone are the chiefs and their headdresses.
Gone are the dream-catchers and stories
Of battles between Unkthei, the
Serpant, and Wakinyan, the eagle.
Gone is Crazy Horse, always wily
Like the winter fox.
All cast off for a new life of bias.
I make the formula that nurtures
Bias in every little kid’s mind.
Every day’s the same. I spew my words,
My angry, petrol-soaked vitriol,
Which deludes their minds. They’ll be
“pigs” in the not-too-distant future.
In a way, this life disappoints me.
The trailer homes of Indians were
Run-down and forgotten about.
They lived lives of quiet desperation. No
Spotlights shined on their struggles.
The men who killed their kin were immortal.
But pow-wows in South Dakota were
***** dingy, and dark, yet they were
Attended by many a native.
The farms were barren and gray,
Stockpiles of grain long gone, given to
The plutocratic hands of Washington.
Aunt Ida clung to this world.
Aunt Ida is dead and forgotten.
I was raised on bias in the Black
Hills, and I will stay biased for the rest
Of my days. Why would I give it up?
Joseph, the great Chief, never know
Such a life.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC
Whittle down the memories
And vale of love
Someone who urge me
To Stand tall
With the blink of an eye
All past existence cherishes
My soul and happiness tie
Although I may not be there
For you that time
But believe me I was you
All the time
Venturing the dim light
Of your cries and fright
I'm sorry I couldn't save you
But believe me I was you
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 2:14 AM UTC
No, they were never killed
by those who came to conquer them.
They are still alive and they are getting ready.
There are still praying to their gods
for the strength.
There are still here, hiding,
getting ready for the war
against those who thought that had killed them
long time ago.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
The battlefield was here, where these cattle graze
The cavalry and Comanche fought the better part of a day
Guns against arrows, savages against the savagery, they were out-drawn
Braves against the bullets, so helpless their plight
Defending their land and families
Maybe they were right
Now, it’s just a valley
The way it was back then
The day before that massacre of forty honest Indians
This is their memorial
This bright day above
A view that lasts for miles
The many trees and shrubs
And the wild flowers
That grow between the rocks
Their maidens wore them in their braids
Before their loves were lost.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC
settlers came to the frontier lands
holding guns in their seizing hands
the tribal people's tears and blood
fell on the earth in a torrential flood
they'd been dispossessed of terrain
so lasting was the anguishing pain
their ancient grounds ceded away
to the occupier's colonizing sway
the Indians of the vast Dakota plains
had a culture under great strains
the foot-print put down by forebears
was nearly lost like the brown bears
yet the spirit of the tribes still survive
in their ancestral territory it's alive
they've a heritage enduring of flow
which is seen in the sun's risen glow
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
The common Indians, famous for visions,
But actually infamous for their laziness.
Me included.
We need to rise above such lucid dreaming,
Then we will observe our world improving.
Yes, surely.
And we won't feel the need to study elsewhere.
The Indians who move out are necessarily required,
To do petty cleaning or similar petty jobs,
Your ego is too big for that.
As much I have known you, you can't handle it,
And I believe that I have known you the best,
Your traits are all known to me.
And that is why I keep on advising you, often needlessly.
I know why you are upset and hopeless regarding me,
Because I have always tried to be your parent,
I tried to be your gaurdian angel.
But you have killed the love inside you by yourself,
I don't fear my own eternal loneliness as much,
As much I fear your eventual failure.
And your probable self-destructive nature at that time.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC
It's just a game, right?
Nope, strong memories, binding love.
Long shared emotions.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
When I was a little kid
My friends and I would play
At cowboys and Indians
In the barn with forts of hay.
We crafted guns from sticks
We found about the farm
And though we shot each other
We managed to come to no harm.
Bang, bang, bang! I got you!
No you didn’t, you missed!
The bullet whizzed by me!
You can’t see me in the mist!
Of course, if we were Indians
The same rules held true there.
You never managed to **** us
We never took your hair.
But, we knew we were villains
Because cowboys were king.
We didn’t even question it.
It was that sort of thing.
Bang, bang, bang. I got you!
Cowboys don’t ever cry.
We twist and dodge you redskins
So, don’t even bother to try.
Holding invisible reins, we rode
On our noble painted steeds.
We pretended it was the old West
Here in our playground of weeds.
Some of us had play weapons
Santa had brought to the lucky
But forcing improvisation only
Made us a lot more plucky.
Bang, bang, bang. I shot you.
You ***** lowdown rustler.
Oh, we thought of every dodge.
What young, clever hustlers.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
Hopalong Cassidy
When I was a little girl
Hopalong Cassidy
Was my hero
I would watch him on the television
Riding his horse Topper
And then
PRETEND...
Hiding behind chairs
Running from one to the other
Shooting the bad guys
With my finger gun.
One birthday my mom surprised me
With a whole Hopalong Cassidy outfit.
I had a vest with fringe,
The cowgirl skirt, the hat
And best of all
A Hopalong Cassidy WATCH
And a silver play gun in a holster
In my imagination
I WAS HOPALONG CASSIDY
Back in the 40's
IT WAS OK
To play Cowboys and Indians
IT WAS OK
To shoot the bad guys
With a finger gun
Or a silver play gun
IT WAS OK
To use the word Indians
Without offending anyone
So Sad that kids can't play
Cowboys and Indians anymore
Because you wouldn't know
If that gun was real
By judy
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 6:59 AM UTC
Yesterday is much clearer
As the future is drawing nearer.
The histories we have rehearsed
Over time have become reversed.
It should make us very sad;
What was good has become bad.
The bad guys were the Indians
And the good guys Caucasians
And they were always right
Because they were always white.
The Red Man was a villain
Because he was an Indian;
And that was never corrected.
The name an invader selected.
These were people born here
Defending land they held dear
Because they had hunted
And were never really wanted.
The invaders called them savage
Their women okay to ravage
Because they didn’t have Jehovah
To issue them a binding mitzvah.
There were so few invaders
So at first they were persuaders.
But after putting out some feelers
They chose to become stealers.
They declared the natives sinners
And thus became the winners.
The natives hadn’t learned to read
So the invaders ignored all their needs.
The invaders were prepared to fight
To deny the natives their rights
So, the invaders created paper laws
Thus natives couldn’t tell what they saw.
Suddenly the noble savage was a crook.
The invaders gloated over what they took;
Stole native’s possessions from their hands
And declared it all as the invader’s land.
This is the Danes and Angles back when
And the story happened all over again.
But once the battle victory is scored
The native’s birthright is not restored.
The invaders cover up the tragedies
With inaccurate tales and call them history.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
We saw the natives,
Stole their land,
Burdened their country
With a foreign brand.
Called them savages,
Burned their villages
Prayed to God
To help us pillage.
Knock the natives
To their knees,
Call them inhuman
Take what you need.
Never apologize,
Never confess.
They deserve no better.
Look how they dress.
They’re not decent people.
They aren’t even nice.
How could they be?
They don’t believe in Christ.
We sure don’t want them
To be our neighbor.
They'd not even be that
Much use as slave labor.
Let’s fix this country
Everybody lend a hand
We are all living
In the Promised Land.
Stolen from natives who
Knew what they were doing
Now we are letting it
Descend into a ruin.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
Syrian pilgrims on boats of hope
Finding no place to land
No one to lend them a hand
No Plymouth Rock to throw rope
How can Republicans cope?
They believe this land is their's
Exclusively, for a Macy's parade
A big balloon with man in stockade
Thanking themselves, saying prayers
Really just showing no one cares
Blaming it on religious beliefs
Though zealots they are themselves
Confusing truer issues as well
Where have gone the Indian chiefs?
To Mexico forced by Trump's police
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
Columbus sailed the ocean blue,
Only to not have a clue
Where the Indians were actually at.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
in wild west there was a tribe,
of men fast as mountain river,
they believed in nature,they had vibe
and gaze that makes you shiver
Suddenly it's been deciced
that they that they become a prey
a white man came to take their land
but they stood in their way
indian only had a bow and an arrow
to fight for his own life
but white man brought some weapons
every one of them died
if you stood on red mountain
you could hear the wind hum a song
soft melody of indian flutes
that are gone for too long
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
Cherokee Nation was ******
From their way of life
Their blades and knives
Were banned and their wives.....
Cherokee Justice I will ask
Where is the saneness to this life
So proud to live and so sad
And death welcome to those so bad ...
Took their way of life
Turned them to shirts and ties
Took their way to live
As their young still cries....
Their Mother town given by the creator
Just one drop of blood to each
Each one important as the last
Cherokee, all was taken but not the past ...
I have Cherokee in my blood
So proud to say
With the flashback of their lives
They Cant take that Away....
Debbie Brooks 2014
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC