Poetry By Willow Dancer


A leather thong tied round his waist,
a lance is at his side,
hand prints of a warrior,
what color pony does he ride?

Feathers and beads adorn his hair,
in braids so dark and long
campfire smoke fills the air
and drumbeats play his song.

Some say he is a savage,
and has no sense to learn,
existing on his native earth
watching seasons turn.

A long boat in his river,
and strange men on his shore
his peaceful life is shattered,
his land is his no more.

Ancestors left him guardian,
his hills now filled with greed,
with ne're a thought they kill his game
and take more than they need.

His grass is charred, his babies cry,
his soil is soaked in red
the trail they take is a bitter one
stained with all the tears they shed.

They said he was the savage,
and that sorrow was his lot,
fed on contempt and rotten meat,
he earned all that he got.

Who's the one that took his dream,
and who's the one that lied
the legacy of a coward,
what color pony do you ride?

11- 29 - 02
Willow Dancer

Email Me

About Me Buy Prints Copyrights Links
Submissions Home Poem List Site Map

Please do not reproduce, copy, or use the poetry
in any manner without prior written permission

Willow Dancer Enterprises
Copyright 2000-2010 Willow Dancer, All Rights Reserved.