Friday, February 19, 2021

Little Bighorn - a poem by Gehrig William Chambless

 




LITTLE BIGHORN

                                                                                                         

 

The gentle breeze blowing soft

Upon the silent plains

The amber glow of summer sun

Last light of the day

The howling wolf from mountains far

The graceful eagle soars

The night before the fiery hell

The peace at Little Bighorn

 

The rifle rounds are stored and stashed

Within an easy reach

They check the lines, shouting names

Searching for a breach

Three hundred strong, they march and pray

Asking that their Lord

Guide the General’s heart and mind

The road to Little Bighorn

 

The visions of darkness, moons before

Warned of those to die

“Soldiers falling into camp

Like grasshoppers from the sky”

The words of Sitting Bull, from spirit worlds

The rally of the sworn

To stand and die for their land

The hope of Little Bighorn

 

The forming of the treaty

Lakota and Cheyenne

Drawn by winds and dancing stars

To make another stand

The trails from far to Greasy Grass

The making of a lore

The braves that moved in for the kill

Surrounding Little Bighorn

 

Painted as the dawning sky

Proudly standing tall

They sat astride their mighty steeds

The hammer set to fall

The thousands strong, they dreamed of this

The day that it was born

Upon the myths and legends told

The tale of Little Bighorn

 

The soldiers marched, steadily on

Toward the place that fates

Had chosen for the blood to run

Toward the painted face

The fields of green, their boots would tread

Where ground would soon be torn

And then a man boldly cried

“March to Little Bighorn”

 

The soldiers heart, with all its care

For those he’d left behind

Was pierced for sins of greater men

Who ordered him to ride

The proud old man, with yellow hair

Too proud to sheath his sword

Spurred his mount, and dared to ride

To the jaws of Little Bighorn

 

One by one, they fell around

The braves still seemed to come

But the proud old man, with yellow hair

Wouldn’t drop his gun

And the fury of men betrayed by those

Whose honor wasn’t more

Than that which drifts with the wind

The scourge of Little Bighorn

 

The arrows flew and crimson streams

Flowed from those who passed

As they dropped to the ground

Upon the broken Greasy Grass

The widows of men who fell that day

And all their woeful mourns

Could be heard across the plains

The fall of Little Bighorn

 

The proud old man, with yellow hair

Too proud to raise the white

Rallied again, and called to arms

Those to stand and fight

The soldiers crawled to the proud old man

The weary, tired, and worn

They could feel the hand of death

Choking Little Bighorn

 

Battle cries joined the wind

Melting strongest minds

Of the men that fought to live

Trying to survive

The smell of powder filled the air

And the sun upon the corpse

Of the first to fight and die

Losing Little Bighorn

 

And the proud old man, with yellow hair

Stood up one last time

He raised his sword in prideful dare

Beneath the stars and stripes

And a thousand arrows pierced his heart

Just as was forewarned

And the proud old man, with yellow hair

Died at Little Bighorn

1 comment:

  1. This is so beautiful. We will remember his incredible talent forever, and keep him safely in our hearts. I will never forget the nights when I got up at 2 am and the lights downstairs would be on and he was reading a book. I have never seen anyone who loved reading more than our grandson. He was so pleased when he discovered that one of my favorite books as a child was "The Count of Monte Cristo". He was reading it at the time and he was astounded that his grandmother had read it as well. Thanks for posting this. It brightened my Sunday. ♥♥♥

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