"buckskin" poems
Walking among
The mighty forest trees
I feel something calling out to me
As I draw closer I see a man
Dressed in traditional buckskin
As I watch him
He moves his hand
As if wanting me to join him
Beside the fire.
I walk forward slowly
As if in awe of this man
As he speaks
I watch the flames dance
To his words
He spoke of a time
Where buffalo ran free
Across the plains
Peaceful plains
That rolled in the winds.
He spoke of a man
Who had a warrior spirit
He was the son of a mighty chief
He was devoted to his tribe
He sacrificed himself to protect them
I saw images of this warrior
In my mind as the flames
Entranced me with its
Hypnotic dance
This man in the flames
Did not look like the man
Who was speaking
It was as if this image
Was nestled in my heart
For there he stood
A man proud
And tall
With the spirit of a warrior
When the story was told
The storyteller smiled
"You have found your Spirit Warrior...."
He turned
And walking away
He disappeared
What was he
A ghost?
A spirit guide?
But I did
Find him
My Spirit Warrior.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
He was baptized in whiskey
and gunsmoke aroma
Took up with a Cherokee woman
Quite friskey
Down in the Territory of Oklahoma
Tired of one too many killings
He took his side iron off
Wrapped it in its holster folded
Inside a gun oiled rag
Replaced it with his Mother's Bible
From within his saddle bag
Listened to that smart Indian woman
Who said he'd hung around the Territory
Too long
And if we don't skeedaddle
You'll be hangin' longer than you want
Smartest woman he'd ever known
She'd heard there's no law or religion
West of the Pecos and beyond
So they headed out to Texas
To preach the gospel to outlaws
****** and poor Mexican Catholics
Wrote off the Oklahoma Territory Baptists
Whose thick hides hide drunken sinners
Ridin' hard and fast her buckskin skirt
Above her thighs
Ridin' with a winner
Dark hair flowing behind
Ridin' hard to in his sight keep her
Such beauty that could stir the
***** and mind
Of even an old saddle preacher
r
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 6:39 AM UTC
ebbing tides
muted shadows sketched in sand
a sculpted archive of footprints and wind
crashing ocean’s hypnotic slow motion
rolling onto the beach
rushing white froth washing forth and back
renewing the smoothness with salty scrubbing bubbles
the setting full moon shines bright
projecting her power’s peak
reflecting horizontal streaks of crackling blue electricity
rippling and running
riding atop the cresting waves
pounding surf as conduit
completing the circuit on shore
empowering the Ancients' resurrection
in the rising midnight mists
mirage-like vaporous images charge
clearly visible beneath her sweeping silvery veil
buckskin **** cloths, eagle claws and feathers
indigenous people stepping rhythmically in a circle
feint sounds of chanting and a drum-like heart beat
a dance for the ages
seeking favor and protection
rituals and ceremonies
keeping the wolves at bay
celebrating the crows’ return
or a bountiful harvest
as they have for millennia
when the moon falls over earth’s edge
the dancers dissipate
retreating like sand *****
awaiting the next full moon.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
On the box of Midwest Butter,
in the verdant dairy pastures,
sat the smiling Indian maiden,
daughter of her tribe, the maiden.
Holding forth a golden offering;
from the box her yellow treasure
for the yet unbuttered buyer.
Gently her sweet knees protruded
from her humble beaded buckskin,
from her beaded buckskin garment
each supported by a letter;
full twin globes upon an altar.
As mammalians, when they’re nursing
seek the rounded gifts of nature
while their hands, abreast and lifted
grasping, find the source of plenty,
swallow fast that milky manna
swallow down that flowing liquid
with a smile upon their features,
so my soul rejoiced to meet her
in the grasslands of a daydream
in the pastures of my daydream,
holding forth divine recurrence:
gift within a gift forever
churning, and imploding inwards
infinite, receding backwards
into endless Indian maidens
spreading myth upon my table
on my toast upon my table
till her tribe returns in glory…
(etc, etc... with apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
brewing potion with ritual
reciting chants, merely verbal
niching these little caviar
a mixture of gravitas and war
such ladle so long enough to combine
a virgin's blood with a spoon of wine
perhaps adding a buckskin would suffice
this hellcat's hellacious bliss
a bushel of a misogynist's intestine,
must not forget to hitch gobs of sharks fin,
augment a pair of an old man's sight
then smatter the hogs' teeth bite
sing song this dark lullaby
you ought to hear plead and cry
smell and smear this fatal brew
any life it shall take and shoo
death will come and it will reign
blood will begrime and it will stain
thoroughly toting the daring deathly hex
seeking a prey who must be next
Nov 25, 2019
Nov 25, 2019 at 10:52 PM UTC
Tonight is for reflection.
Not the kind found in a mirror.
Which of course I have none. Mores the pity. I would love to see how splendid I look in my new shirt with French lace and ruffles. Under my sapphire blue waist coat and buckskin riding breeches. All I can clearly see full of, would be my boots. The softest leather and a shine to see ones reflection in. Sigh, But not mine.
Where was I.. Ah yes, I was waxing philosophical.
One can never be too busy to better ones self. Thus
my new clothes.
Let's see...reflection.
While looking back upon my long lived life as the Prince Of Darkness. I realize, I have been selfish. Not
once have I invited others to my humble home. Not once have I hosted a party. Not once have I allowed others to witness my grandeur.
Tonight, I vow to remedy that. I will have a party. One to outdo all the others which I have had the privilege to crash.
Hmm. Perhaps I should start a bit smaller.
A dinner party!
For the intimates of intimates.
Let me see. Who to invite?
Reginald Wadsworth! He's a jolly chap. No. He was a late night snack a few days ago.
Hortense Mayweather! She is always in good humor and a fair conversationalist. No. She had the misfortune of crossing my path last month while I was woozy from battle blood loss. A fight with a tresspasser left me a bit worse for wear. But Hortence fixed me right up.
I've got it! General Clayston! He makes for such a fun curmudgeon. Oh, He died of old age.
Hmm........
Oh look! The Carlstayton's are hosting a party tonight.
Looks like I will be dining out.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC
And walking down the line,
And walking down the line,
Blood hot to fuel the limbs a-crying,
Struck not for rhythm, only rhyme,
Best for sighing
And dying in retreat.
And in my chest of pine,
A map rolled up so thin,
Drawn wit with all the twists of time,
Stray shores lit up by ocean-shine,
Uniquely won,
But smudged with soot.
Clouds from the soil – a sign!
This little mist of mine,
Will yearn to chuck its static tine
Among the tatters and the lint
That settled in my chest of pine,
a boneyard relic dank and bare
which homely cries
A ravaged syncopation twice.
And veering from the line,
And steering from my way,
A day or two to stay away
From bays of beasts and feasts of lice
and many a morsel,
lost to vermin that squirm
and grow and bite my
leg bleeds green;
Known to knaves that
waved grave flails and scattered ****
that ****** its own to Hell,
where overdue a longish spell sent
Falling from place to grace
that face that drew a thousand beads of
albatross tears, of murky reeds
and cheating, stinking, reeking,
absolute, terrible,
miserable,
mistakes
Fall in line!
And burps another Rhine,
Boiled quaint in bogs of brine,
That pickles crisp the limp old rind
Of cogs and bands my chests of pine,
Buckskin drying all the time,
******* coke, doing lines,
tonguing chic,
pearly swine,
concede a side
I’ll never find.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
She wears a mask of steel around her face,
That one can never break,
She stashes her feelings behind her smile,
But to discover them would be worthwhile,
She seems fine on the outside,
While she pushes her emotions aside
Onto the platter of feelings that drowns
Beside the superficial wearing crown,
When she just wants to scream
This isn’t the real me
This mask developed over time
From the harsh words she was forced to mime,
The feelings that she had within,
Came about her thick buckskin
No longer can the feelings break through
Bittersweet tears swept away as her spirit bid adieu
- a.g.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 8:13 PM UTC
< ;; ^
[•] [• ]
0
=
We of the far county range
We of the buckskin
We of the wilderness
The long time song
Ain't it seem a bit too civilized for YE now?
A bit too undereducated in the
Most fundamental way ?
YE don't seem attuned to yer own bodies !
YE don't seem ta know what the certain parts are for !
( YE don't seem able ta -- love anymore )
--
We of the far county scenery
We of the buckskin song
The mountain solitude and it's peace
We of the strangely angelic shape
We who appear as the shifting light
We of the voices YE claim you hear
The sacred water holy rivers
The peace
••
Ain't it too civilized for YE now ?
A bit undereducated in the most
Fundamental way
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC
From his coronet, through his tendons and right up to his crest
When you looked at his withers you could see he was best
His tail was magnificent and hung past his hock
He was blessed with three white ones and a single black sock.
The horse was a Crioulo that had come from Uruguay
I fell for the majesty of this horse I would buy
He was the colour of buckskin with a black tail and mane
And the dun gene line backed him with a long thin black stain.
He stood fifteen hands and he ran like a king
Astride him made me want to just burst out and sing
I raced over fields and I took him over fence
He knew what I asked of him, he had so much sense.
I loved him for thirty fours years from a colt
And when he took his last breath it gave me a jolt
But I’ll never forget Samson, for that was his name
He let me ride on him but he was only ‘so’ tame.
©Joe Wilson – They only let you tame them so much…2014
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
I walk
head down through the bitter cold
only a light buckskin for warmth
there is little food
and no time for rest
I am near the front
no idea how many are lost
the old, the sick
the little ones
the memory of these days
along the trail of tears
will die
like the burning embers of a once mighty fire
these horrors will not be spoken
in the teachings of those whose greed
and cold hearts
outweighed their compassion
whose concrete jungles mar
the once majestic landscape
the years of separation grows
but the atrocities shall never be vanquished
in the realm of the spirit world
and those who initiated the culling
pay their penance
and walk the trail for eternity
Apr 3, 2022
Apr 3, 2022 at 3:47 PM UTC