"headdresses" poems
Drums in the darkness: a jungle clearing
fetish masks and gibbering lips
grass skirts, headdresses, face-paint leering
nocturnal trances, gyrating hips.
A medicine man, by spirits possessed,
grunts while the powers invade his mind;
the dancers shriek, as if distressed
by a presence in shadow not yet defined.
It’s only Rock’n’Roll…
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC
How many tombs have seen the hands of robbers
felt the soot and scar of their steps
and how many birds were lost from the sky
because of fear and cynicism
I wouldn't ask to be an ancient princess
or a wren with wings enough to fly
there's already too many of my own indiscretions
I've forgotten how to hold dear
Egyptian rings and headdresses made hollow
birds are meant to fly so what
do you call a feathered wren who can't help
that he'd rather instead watch clouds pass
from the dusty undergrowth?
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 2:31 AM UTC
I’m inside whale bones
I’m outside my mind
I have doubts and I have fears
I have thoughts that don’t stop
Thoughts that pierce my chest like a pin cushion
Clenching my stomach in their fists
Thoughts that go round and round in circles
Thoughts that don’t drip
Out from the holes in my head
Like every other word that comes to my lips
Thoughts that don’t die,
No matter how much I wish they were dead
“Throw away logic, if it helps,
Enter abstract, no boundary thought
Grow wild
Return to the earth and think only in
Butterfly dances
Not silken sounds of past and future loves
The harsh realities of the present have deep roots in your skin
And their flowers bloom into
Doubts and fears
And above all else,
Should be ignored
Like bullies on school grounds
For the seeds that are dropped will grow and bloom again
Unfaltering, unwavering
So long as the have sun and water
Fed by confusion, watered and told to grow
Ignore them
For to let your doubts and fears
Grow and bloom again and again
Like never ending waves of soldiers on beaches
With the sun hidden beneath the earth
Is no way to live.”
I’m inside whale bones
I’m outside my mind
Trapped in separation
Trapped in old age’s waiting arms
My body too young to die
So death waits for it to catch up to my mind
And there is no fountain of youth
That my thoughts can drink from
Making them young again
Forcing carefree upon them
Forcing fairytales and irony
Feather headdresses and no shoes
Walking through the mud because it’s cool
And prevents the needles from piercing your skin
And the sun from burning it
“So face the sun
Because you can
Stop with the doubts and fears
Stop the old age from creeping though your mind
You are young but you have thought too much
You have thought too many years ahead of your time!”
I’m inside whale bones
I’m outside my mind
“Break the bones that imprison you
And with your new found freedom,
And your new found arms and legs,
Moving, again, for the first time
Chase your mind
And hold on to it tight
Hold on like it’s the last thing you’ll ever let go
Interlock your fingers
And hold on
Like it’s love,
Something we both know you never want to be without
Something we both know because you said it yourself,
It’s the one thing that reminds you that you’re still young
That your mind hasn’t gone with the dinosaurs,
So hold on like it’s the last penny that you haven’t bet yet
Hold on, and become one, not two
Break the whale bones that imprison you
And with your new found freedom,
Sit still,
Become you, one with yourself, young like your body is.”
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 12:48 PM UTC
Eyes hang low
Retreating from the light,
Seeking shelter ‘neath heavy lids.
Machines whir in the back of my mind,
As their users push themselves
Thoughtlessly through their tired routines
Like hamsters on a wheel.
I hear the water dripping,
Almost as slowly as my thoughts,
Into the endless myriad
Of blue and red buckets.
My consciousness drifts away,
And suddenly it is my vehicle,
As I awake walking aimlessly
Through the crowded streets
Of some hot Arab marketplace.
Bearded men in headdresses
Bicker in strange languages
Over bizarre fruit, almost as vibrant
As the decorated sword hilts
Gently resting at their hips.
Past me walk crowds of lavishly clothed,
Brightly jeweled women,
Dressed more strangely and exotically
Then any person I’ve yet to see,
And I avert my own attention
So as not to draw that of others.
A co-worker walks past me,
Looking at me strangely,
And I emerge from the lake of my mind,
Flopping about as if I were a fish out of water.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 11:40 PM UTC
by Barry Lopez
I'd heard so much good
about this place,
how the animals were cared for
in special exhibits. But
when I arrived I saw even
prairie dogs had gone crazy in
the viewing pits; Javelina had no mud to
squat in, to cool down; Otter was
exposed on every side, even in his den.
Wolf paced like a mustang,
tongue lolling and crazy-eyed,
unable to see anyone who looked like
he did–only Deer, dozing opposite in
a chainlink pen.
Signs explain
the animals are good because
they **** animals who like oats
or corn too much.
Skunk has sprayed himself out,
with people rapping on his glass
box. Badger's gone to sleep
under a red light and children ask
if he's dead in there (dreaming of dead
silence). And
Cougar stares like a clubbed fish
into one steel corner all morning, figuring.
Only Coyote doesn't seem to care, asleep under a
creosote bush, waiting it out.
Even the birds are walled up here,
held steady in chicken-wire cages for
the staring, for souvenir photos.
And this, on the bars for Eagle:
The bald eagle was
taken as a fledgling
from a nest in New
Mexico by an
Indian. He planned on
pulling feathers for cer-
emonial headdresses
every year. The
federal government seized
the bird and turned
it over to the
Desert Reserve
for safekeeping.
Bear walks in his own
*** smells concrete
and his own **** all day long.
He wipes his nose on the wall,
trying to **** it.
At night when management is gone,
only the night watch left,
the animals begin keening: now
voices of Wood Duck and
Turtle, of Kit Fox and everyone else,
Bear too, lift up like the bellowing
of stars and kick the walls.
14 miles away, in Tucson, are movie houses,
cold beers and roads out of town,
but they say animals know how to pass the time
well enough. And after a few beers
they'll be just like Indians–
get drunk, fall down and spoil it all.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
The shaman of anti culture.
Fractured ox jaw
Beating on stretch'ed drums.
Wolf countenanced headdresses and
Bells and iron trinkets swish from tie-dye stripped cloaks.
Orphan to the world and
Distilled soul'ed;
Spitting alcohol over a bonfire.
(The snake being charmed is also the snake-charmer.)
Mystical uttering of
Revelations lingering
In an incandescent shell.
Swarthy pinning trapped to rooms as
Decoration;
Those idols of style and combustion.
Where is the Prometheus of our age?
We command nature to bypass us on
Our way to the meeting
Where we ask the snow to melt as
It's falling
And the Oceans became too full of wreckage
To host its own kin.
What will the generations yet to come say of this day, and this
Night?
Maybe we are more bruised in our understanding
Than any Neanderthal
Who had survived those Winter's for us;
Just so we could feign away the elements...
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
Summer was made for wandering between tall trees,
Thinking about the smell of daylight
And if birds really do have knees.
I'd brush my hand down your cheek and wonder where you're hiding your wings.
I suppose that I should show you what it's like to love,
Buy you lots of pretty things.
When we are grey and ready for peace we will talk and think we are quite profound,
I wont let your hand go unless it's to swing, twirl you around.
Right now I want you to know
That there is a love song written for you.
You have a space in my heart,
right next to red roses,
rain
and big, bright blue balloons.
Every year we will take a walk through tall trees,
and I'll mention what you mean to me.
White lilacs remind me of wedding dresses,
pink ribbons and shiny headdresses.
So I think that I'm going to talk from one knee.
I'll be all you really need, let's be free.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
One day at a boutique shop,
I met a man selling cats,
For money he wanted to swap,
But I really wanted some bats
"Got any bats?" asked I.
"For that's how I'll spend my money."
"No bats here!" said the guy
He seemed to find it quite funny
"We've got some lovely dresses,
I'll give you a very fine price."
"I'd rather have some headdresses."
The man blinked rapidly thrice
The man seemed exceptionally busy,
And his manner was strangely amused
He wasn't what I would call dizzy,
Great disdain he noticeably oozed
Like others, he thought I was odd,
Some say I'm a bit tall.
Still, he gave me a courteous nod,
As if he thought I was plenty cool
So in search of my goal I departed,
But before the boutique shop could I leave,
The man came running full-hearted,
"I can help you I believe."
"Cats, bats, you shall find
Dresses, headdresses, you can get
You must now open your mind,
And get down to The Corn Market
So to The Corn Market, I decided to go,
In search of the bats, I craved
The winds it did eerily blow
But I felt that the day could be saved
There were stalls selling tights,
Pasties in many shades.
There were even stalls selling writes
People were scattered from many trades
I was greeted by a peculiar lady,
She seemed to be rather tall
I couldn't help thinking she might be quite shady
I wondered if she was at all cool
Before I could open my mouth,
She shouted, "For you, I have some bats!"
I headed towards her, to the south,
Past some dresses and cats.
"But how did you know?" I asked,
"Do you want them or not?" she did say.
Silently, the bats she passed.
Then vanished before I could pay.
As I walked away I hard a crackle
Or was it, perhaps, a hushed cackle?
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 3:27 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
Just seeing that dumb red hat
gives me the Heebeejeebees,
the Holy Camoleys,
I get the *******
the John B. Scrotes,
I feel Ben Carsoned,
as if I've been Rogered in my sleep
by Quasimodo & then been forced
to pleasure the Seven Dwarfs,
I have the shivers,
I plead repugnance,
I share the odium,
I experience that near frenzied disgust
as left by a cold slug traversing one's
naked arm in the dank moonlight,
when that oh so ridiculous red tractor
hat is worn by men who have
chauffeurs & bejeweled
golf carts,
& look like a fat cat's fantasy
of a fat cat,
to Make America Great Again for that matter
maybe you have to go as far back as Sitting Bull,
Red Cloud, the Shawnee, herds of bison,
counting coup, & eagle-feather headdresses,
Making America Great Again does not in any
way involve Leroy from the hills feeling better
about his race or Donald J. Trump coming
forth as some sort of Poor Man's Moses.
I hate that stupid hat!
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 2:29 PM UTC
its not for me to say but it is for you to decide
so do it swift before i cut my losses and run
love never hides but it does need fences to thrive
gardens are like headdresses for the earth
words are our old lovers that have gone silent
and these poems are lords of your undiscovered islands
as ladies of the dawn warm my fingers in their hands
i wonder why we couldn't dance for much longer
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC