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NO TEARS FALLING FROM THIS CHIEF'S EYESMost likely the first poem I ever wrote. As I stood in a rainstorm at my good friend's Dad's burial. The poem blurred from running ink. I heard later each son had it put to print and on their mantle. Chooch and Indian chief proud of his sons A dismal day shall it rain into the night? No man should be buried least it be in sunlight. Drip!Drip!Drip!our umbrellas held up high; the rain keeps falling from a darkened sky. Cadavers proud so many there to mourne, This Indian Chief's pride for the son's he had bourne. No longer papooses but men now fully grown, Douglas, the eldest, intelligent scholarly known, Jim, his second born, has his father's rebellious pride, Somewhere in the world there are adventures to be tried. Muggs, a fisherman, for he took up his father's trade, and in the deepest oceans this fisherman would wade. Now Chooch in his perch so high in the sky; The proudest of Indian Chief no tear falling from his eye. For now his sons are raised so he may find his rest, The job finished in his coffin the lid placed upon his chest. #Several years later with my new wife I happened to be passing through the area. Had not seen my friends for some time so not sure how to find them. So I checked with some local fisherman. They informed me the youngest was fishing far off the coast. I told them just to leave a message. They called ship to shore. I was told not to move. In he came leaving his lively hood behind. Within hours the house was filled with neighbors preparing a Indian feast. Was my young bride impressed. With such friends from the tribe in the west coast of Washington am I blessed. *It was years later with my new pride we decided to visit the west coast. Stopped by but my friends one a professor was at his job in Chicago, the second son deep sea diving in Alaska. The youngest I was told on his boat fishing his trade. I told them just to leave a message but ship to ship the message was sent. The reply was to be expected. I was told not to leave. The ship was coming in. Within hours the village came alive. A feast was coming from house to house. My bride was impressed. No better friends than the American Indian unless they own Casinos./dandy Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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