Her
skin was soft as doeskin and tan as all Cheyenne. Her hair glistened like ravens
in air. From the Wind River country of Wyoming, where the mountains met with
the sky. That’s where I met and I loved her and there we said our good byes.
She
was a Cheyenne and I was a white man. There was prejudice on both sides. It
didn’t matter what was felt in our hearts. But what mattered, was the color of the
skin and our eyes.
We
had met out on the prairie. I had been seeking out strays. She had been picking
paint brush to braid in her hair. Her beauty it plucked at my heart strings.
Like the chords on an old guitar.
We
frolicked and played among the flowers. We splashed and played in the stream.
It was cold and made us both shiver, so we sat by a fire through the night. And
there under the stars and moonlight, we shared our dreams of life.
When
we were discovered at the day break, our friendship and love made bare. We were torn asunder by hate and voices that forever ring in my ears.
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ReplyDeleteThanks RJ.
DeleteSo lovely and romantically written, makes you think of Romeo and Juliet, Lancelot and Guinevere, Cleopatra and Mark Antony, Napoleon and Josephine, and of course Bonnie and Clyde. They loved each other no matter what the odds where against their love. The love they had for one another remained constant even unto death. It's hard sometimes to find that sort of love. Here is a Legend I found Russ that might interest you.
ReplyDeleteThe Legend of the Blowing Rock
It is said that a Chickasaw chieftain, fearful of a white man’s admiration for his lovely daughter, journeyed far from the plains to bring her to The Blowing Rock and the care of a squaw mother. One day the maiden, daydreaming on the craggy cliff, spied a Cherokee brave wandering in the wilderness far below and playfully shot an arrow in his direction. The flirtation worked because soon he appeared before her wigwam, courted her with songs of his land and they became lovers, wandering the pathless woodlands and along the crystal streams.
One day a strange reddening of the sky brought the brave and the maiden to The Blowing Rock. To him it was a sign of trouble commanding his return to his tribe in the plains. With the maiden’s entreaties not to leave her, the brave, torn by conflict of duty and heart, leaped from The Rock into the wilderness far below. The grief-stricken maiden prayed daily to the Great Spirit until one evening with a reddening sky, a gust of wind blew her lover back onto The Rock and into her arms. From that day a perpetual wind has blown up onto The Rock from the valley below. For people of other days, at least, this was explanation enough for The Blowing Rock’s mysterious winds causing even the snow to fall upside down.
I loved your poem, I hope you enjoyed this one, even though I didn't write it.
Answers in the mail.
Delete