"papoose" poems
THE BABY moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, sails and sails in the Indian west.
A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sit around the Indian moon.
One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, keep a line of watchers.
O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory, fire-white writing to-night of the Red Man's dreams.
Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded, matching its look against the moon-face, the star-faces, of the West?
Who are the Mississippi Valley ghosts, of copper foreheads, riding wiry ponies in the night?-no bridles, love-arms on the pony necks, riding in the night a long old trail?
Why do they always come back when the silver foxes sit around the early moon, a silver papoose, in the Indian west?
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A MOTHERS ROLE
WITHIIN THE TRIBAL FAMILY
She is a warrior in her own right
Guardian
Protector
Of all that is hers
The teacher of all things
To her family
The tribe
The hunter and gatherer
Out there in the front line
With men gathering in the spoils of victory
Over Buffalo and Bison
With their child strapped
In the papoose
The Warrior mother
Has no liking for material objects
Her mind only set on what is really required
Warmth, shelter, their blankets and clothing
And all importantly the food for the family
Is enough for this warrior mother
She claims no fame
There is no gain
For she is part of the entire
Tribal family
This warrior mother
Will never put herself above anyone else
Will always be there for others in need
This mother’s role
Is the teacher of all that once was
From generation to generation
Stories to be told
Legends of warriors
Forefathers and foremothers
Telling the stories
Of how life can be
Making the children ready
For their own life’s
Ventures
Adventures
And
Histories
© Helen Moule
1st May 2012
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
SLEEP is a maker of makers. Birds sleep. Feet cling to a perch. Look at the balance. Let the legs loosen, the backbone untwist, the head go heavy over, the whole works tumbles a done bird off the perch.
Fox cubs sleep. The pointed head curls round into hind legs and tail. It is a ball of red hair. It is a **** waiting. A wind might whisk it in the air across pastures and rivers, a cocoon, a pod of seeds. The snooze of the black nose is in a circle of red hair.
Old men sleep. In chimney corners, in rocking chairs, at wood stoves, steam radiators. They talk and forget and nod and are out of talk with closed eyes. Forgetting to live. Knowing the time has come useless for them to live. Old eagles and old dogs run and fly in the dreams.
Babies sleep. In flannels the papoose faces, the bambino noses, and dodo, dodo the song of many matushkas. Babies-a leaf on a tree in the spring sun. A nub of a new thing ***** the sap of a tree in the sun, yes a new thing, a what-is-it? A left hand stirs, an eyelid twitches, the milk in the belly bubbles and gets to be blood and a left hand and an eyelid. Sleep is a maker of makers.
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and who then'll
vamoose with the papooses
eh?
.
who then'll be the Big Cheese
in the mountains in the face of god
.
with the papoose most famous for his "terrible ways?"
.
who then'll rage against the Evil?
.
(you know i know you know
what i mean!)
.
bein a part of the machine
that eats the world!
we
.
stupid, puny yet, still
in good moments, displaying
what's exactly needed
right now
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 7:44 PM UTC
when Mimi died
I stayed in my state
dug in the earth
loving her well
looking skyward
to see comet beauty
true face of owl
body papoose wrapped
again
birth I celebrate
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
paper person
paprika kaleidoscope
papaya yahoo!
papa papoose
papacy cyan
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
****
the guilt
that inevitably
tosses me into
the air
catches me in it's jaws
and swallows me whole
has just entered
the scene
that **** uncle kracker song
is kicking my brain
repeatedly
hard enough
to feel the pangs
in my chest
*********
why can't i ever
do something
and feel nothing
or at least feel
jubilant
why must i always feel
guilty
why must i always
revisit
something that hurt me
a papoose
will touch fire
get burned
and learn
not to return
i guess i am
too ignorant
to even be
a papoose
or maybe getting burned
doesn't hurt as much
as it should
i've been hurt by bigger things
my capacity for pain
is off the charts
is it my fault
that i've been built
on a foundation
of broken hearts
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
I feel it now, a separate sense
from the hander-down of names:
A poet’s soul, a half, a whole;
not sprung from any swain,
on bitter earth in stone papoose
bindings clipped from restless roots
I know, in separate senses, this--
that the names I shake from trees
belong only to me,
I am not a daughter but
this wet seed fallen free.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 1:54 PM UTC
Do you recall rollicking through cultivated country lanes ?
Playfully tromping down our gravel drive in the afternoon heat ?
I held you to prevent a stone bruise on your tiny little feet ..
Can you recall late Summer evenings on the front porch swing ?
I read you nursery rhymes until you fell to sleep ..
Do you remember tents in the living room , Captain Crunch cartoon
mornings dragging a gallon of milk to the TV ?
Playing hide and seek in the house , jigsaw puzzles and parakeets ?
Remember the puppies and kittens , lavender mittens and the Blizzard of '93 ?
What about climbing up Stone Mountain nestled in your papoose , just you and me !!
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
all alone I hear a crowd
feel whispered things
ancestors Tall
calming the seasons
In the woods, I listen deep
to the worn path the moss on trees
the wind
the grass laying down
in a field I pay attention
to the ghosts of maidens deeds
teepees once held their
papoose and warmth
in a wild America
as they skinned deer
made life worshipped
nature sung danced
before
before
before
progress butted in
somewhere there they are
if just in my worshipping
my forefathers
the scared women holding tight their young
as progress
slaughtered them
and I chill
a tear is unnecessary
I sing
sing as loud as
I possibly can
for them
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 1:32 AM UTC