Buffalo Poetry Slam


April is National Poetry Month! Below is a series of poems we received a couple of years ago and they are simply too good to not re-visit. To freshen things up a bit, we're offering YOU a chance to win a $200.00 value box of Wild Idea Buffalo meat, by simply adding your poem (any style) in the comment selection below! Entries must be received by end of day Friday, and the winner will be announced next week! Let the slam begin! Or... just have a fun read below!

Buffalo Calves


April 07, 2019

The Bison Ranchers Soliloquy

I don’t want to complain, to gripe, or to prattle,
But there’s no way in hell I’ll go back to raising cattle
I’ve changed my perspective on range and on grass
And in my firm opinion, cows are a pain in the ass
I’m not up all the night in the cold and the snow
Fighting first calf heifers that just don’t rightly know

No, for me there is beauty in seeing calves born keen
On warm spring grass newly turned green
And watching little orange babies healthy and spry
Running and bucking beneath the Curlew’s cry

There’s been a rumor that cattle won the West
But I’ve always believed that Nature knows best
And it may have taken a hundred and fifty trips around the sun,
But the plains are seeing a return of the bison
The change is coming, steady and slow, but the prairie is coming back …
And so are the buffalo!



April 04, 2019

Prairie Haiku

Sunlight warms dark soil
Bluestem nourishes bison
My steak hints of grass



April 03, 2019

Awakened Palate 

Leaves danced on her face
reflections of the wind and light

Her body heavy with sleep
still belonging to the night

A morning kiss on the lips
awoke the memory of her palate

A dish of steamed mussels,
buffalo chorizo, wine, and shallot

Dreamy meals are rare,
and some meals aren’t worth a thought

But perhaps it’s time to change that
and go Wild Idea or wild caught!



April 03, 2019

Roses are red, Bison are brown; without my daily meal of Buffalo, all I do is frown.



April 03, 2019

Translation Between Friends

There is a rightness to this argument we’re not exactly arguing,
my new friend and I trying to find our way through conversation,
both of us too polite but stubborn, too. We’re talking about cooking
and I won’t stop saying “buffalo” no matter how many times
she says “bison” and even though our voices are a little more strained
whenever we say our favorite word, we’re okay, we’re getting along,
we’re finding common ground like the buffalo finds it, sometimes
on buffalo grass, which I sometimes think I will use to replace
the weary old weeds sprouting in my yard this year like every year,
waving their seedheads to any passing ruminant, whatever they’re
called for whatever reason. My friend might think she’s right
for being high-toned, I might think I’m right for being common.
But there is no grazing animal walking here at all or where she is,
so we’re both right, or both wrong, and neither of us knows
the next time we’ll dine together. In the broader pastures
there are still shadows and grass, the great split hooves of wisdom
still grinding them down, and all we can do is be grateful.
There are worse answers to small problems, humans
finding their way through what it is to be small ourselves
with a hunger that we turn to greater things to fill.



April 03, 2019

Prairie winds rippling native grasses,
Pasque flowers, daisies, prairie smoke,
Dot the varied shades of green and tan
With dots of spring bloom,
Inviting the bison cow to loll
In the sun while her calf
Frolics and plays



April 03, 2019

The Great Bison
Soaking in the searing bands of light
That penetrate the withering limbs
Of experience and uncertainty

Hooves shallow in the fertile soil
That has birthed every breath
Every thought
Every word ever uttered

Expanding through perception
A mystical brute
Turning to the sun

The last verse
An octave running into the sestet
A symphony for the wild
A vestige of the divine



April 03, 2019

Bison and Haiku
Sensory pleasures abound
Body, Mind, Spirit



April 03, 2019

The American Buffalo
(Bison bison)

Brown wooly bovine
Thick fleece and hide protect you
From the elements

Mercurial moods
Docile yet cantankerous

Once on the edge of
Imminent extinction, now
Your numbers increase

Blanket, meat, and more
Indians’ roaming pantry
Sustainer of a culture

A thread from sinew
Hide and fur for a blanket
Horn shaped as a spoon

Meat into jerky
Pipes and needles made from bone
Brains used to tan hide

All parts had a use
Essence of utility
Nothing was wasted

Sacred ungulate
Natives’ religious icon
Revered by tribesmen

Faunal royalty
Regal roamer of prairie
Monarch of the plains!



April 03, 2019

Wind blows,
Faintly sweet smells of spring,
Warm golden hues.
Slowly growing through blades of greener grass,
Blue, reflects the pool of life,
Brown commits to earth the mother.
Bison forge their trail with measured tread.
Perceptions dwell here renewed, unfiltered- unrefined, secluded – wistful
Welcoming the golden state of time to come.



April 03, 2019


Once, driving home to Denver from Gillette by way of Buffalo —
All the windows open to that wild Wyoming wind —
I embraced that lovely, lonesome road,
Relishing the thought I was the lone world survivor.
But as I sang along with Garth, as loudly as I could sing,
‘Bout all my friends in low, low places,
I chanced a look east across the plains,
And there in the middle of a wide, open basin,
My breath catching in my throat,
Stood a bison, shoulders tall, beard blowing.
Clearly the King of all he surveyed.
And I was humbled,
And hushed to awed silence, before I whooped and hollered
At the wonders of God’s creation.

Life is good!



April 03, 2019

I was minding my own business when a friend perchanced to call
We had a chew and a chat about nothing much at all.
He said “I know you’ve ridden critters from Casper to the Rio Grande”
“You’ve not an ounce of cowardice when it comes to make a stand”.
I’ve seen you atop a buffalo, and sidesaddle on a longhorn steer
From your time of mutton bustin’ you could hit that extra gear.”
“Well I don’t have a world champ buckle or a title to my name
But I’ve ridden and worn the hair off of anything that had game.”
My friend says there’s one critter that no true cowboy has rode
He’s not so far from where we sit-or so I have been told
He lifted a brow at me to see if all of that sunk in
I’m thinking in my head-now there’s a bet that I might win
“Let’s have at it pard, let’s hear some hollars and some hoots”
I was chasing down my bull strap, spurs and hat and boots,
We climbed into his pickup with the stockrack on the bed
I was heading back to glory days, at least in my own head
Then he pulled into the unexpected lot-mighty strange
I’m used to riding bronks and bulls out on the open range
“No matter” said I to he, “sure don’t mind some new found show”
I was greased and ready to cowboy up-I ain’t eatin’ any crow
I put one foot in the stirrup and swung the other leg with care
I rubbed down my rope and strap-it was time for truth or dare
I sat deep in the saddle, took a breath, said let him loose
The way we started out, he must have given that bum a goose
His head went down and butt came up-he sure was playin’ sly
Then he quick reversed both ends and caught me right above the eye
Twisting and cavorting he did his best to break my straddle
But my iron butt stayed glued to the cantle of the saddle
I’m sure I heard some awful screams and snorts and shouts
Not sure if in fun or fear-were they mine-I had my doubts
I had a ton of knowledge and instinct just kicking in
But the beast did as well and mine was wearing thin
I listened for a bell to ring-could 8 seconds take this long
Must have looked a winning ride to the cheering awestruck throng
Wondered how much more action my old bones could take
It was in that hesitation that came my big mistake
His head and butt came up at once-but I was ready for that lurch
But he shaked instead of shimmied-that’s when I lost my perch
My plan midair was to come off clean-live to fight another day
But my left foot stirrup caught and left me hanging in the sway
My head was bouncing off the ground with every violent jerk
My life flashed before me-I should find another line of work
Being dragged and kicked and pounded- I still ain’t no quitter
But I’d give my family jewels to be done with this mangy critter
I sent a prayer aloft-Lord I know you ain’t seen me much at church
But you can see, I’m facing death and I’m really in a lurch
If you could send an angel to come and free me from this mess
I’ll renounce my wicked ways and be a bloke that you can bless
My days were surely numbered-I’ve had a good life’s spin
But I sure wish that I could have seen my grandkids once again
Then the store manager came up and unplugged the darn machine
And he put a sign up where a warning poster should have been
I limped away-my pride and mojo had been cowed
I glanced back as I shuffled and the bronk gave me a wink
I’m heading to my porch and chair for a well-deserved drink



April 03, 2019

Ancient ground and wind/ Bison seen on horizon/ Mother Nature smiles



April 04, 2019

There once was a bison named Nate,
Who roamed the fields happily and ate.
He grew big and wide,
On the green countryside,
And made a delicious addition to my plate.



April 04, 2019

There once was a grumpy old bovine,
Who would wallow and complain and whine.
He tried to get tougher,
But just couldn’t suffer.
So his bison steak texture stayed divine.



April 04, 2019

Tendrils of winter wind
Still alive in April
Are searching in the hollows
Rushing the hilltops
Restless and chill.

The wind’s search is almost almost endless
And won’t finish until it reaches
The final hidden snow drift
And the last rigid ice, in a dark place
On the side of the river, turns to liquid wonder.

Then in a secret sheltered hollow
It finally comes to rest in the first buffalo calf
Just arrived from the great beyond
To lift its head in this new world
To gaze upward from the earth,
Through cinnamon eyes
At the calm sweet celebration of spring flowers
And the brave green gratitude of new grass.



April 04, 2019

Dan, Dan the buffalo man, what he says is straight, what he says is true, you can’t love the buff without loving the land.

Buff, Buff, their rough and tough, they love to romp, they love to roam, you gotta love the buff who batta bing the land.

Wild, Wild, you can’t go wrong, jump on in and soon you’ll be sing-ing Wild, Wild, I love to be Wild, what a Wild Idea!



April 04, 2019

Buffalo Bounty

Prairies thrive again with buffalo hooves
Drawing in life from buffalo wallows.

Richness of water sources, growth of wild flowers
towering with tall grasses.

The calls of birds, coyote, wolves. The hums of insects.
Wind sweeps the plains; again the rumble of buffalo thunder.

A new wilderness now abundant with life.
We smoke the pipe, giving thanks to buffalo.



April 04, 2019

A Sonnet in praise of the Bison

Historically the bison filled the land
From “sea to shining sea” and back again
From Yukon’s frozen plain to Texas’ sand
Their numbers were untold so vast their span!

In harmony with native tribes they moved
From winter graze to summer calving grounds
And proved to be their life-blood, meat and robe
Sustaining generations through their hoards.

Alas “Go west young man” the call was heard
And settlers fenced the range and broke the sod.
To tame the land and tribes the rails were laid
And tribe and beast were vanquished in their wake!

One time your numbers dropped so dangerous’ low,
But now you live protected, free to roam.



April 04, 2019

Thatch from the nest blows from the shrub,
Wind stronger than tangles ensconcing the eggs.
Guardian bison browse buds,
Stand impervious to the wind.

Quiet eyes know the wind is not what is to be feared.

Sunshine, the kind that lifts the scent from the prairie into a tumbled ribbon, interrupts pondering,
And the buffalo gaze at the sky as they frolic in their own mainstream grassland harmony.

The meadowlarks count out their own beats.

Bison breathe in the blue and gold mornings of spring just as we do,
But their breaths breathe deeper as one species for many.
In their limited comings and goings, they contemplate mainly what is coming.

What they fear is not on the horizon despite the cyclonic mid-latitude storms that parlay from the west.

It’s the ground.
The ground that slips from their own feet in not a blissful harmony.
Swollen, spring ground; warm, summer ground; cold, winter ground.
Hummocky, noodled ground and soft bounty. Streamside riparian. Upland.

Absent of buffalo the grasses and sedges and forbes may not only lie fallow but perish.

In a buffalo winter, the buffalo go,
So do the birds, those effervescent beings now denizens in their own country,

And, really, whether clover or plover it matters not for our souls.

Find your quiet eyes.
Watching is akin to walking away.
And the buffalo will not whimper to call us home.



April 04, 2019

There once was a woman with so much to do,
Between work, and the house, and mouths to feed, too.
She went to the store, where the labels were tricky,
With preservatives, sugars, and colorings (icky!)
The antibiotics, hormones, and living conditions made her feel blue.

She thought, “we must do better,” and began searching online.
Where she found Wild Idea (just in the nick of time).
Better than organic, is what the O’briens say.
The buffalo revered, and roaming all day.
Finally, a place she could get behind: restoring the prairie one bite at a time!

With so many options, the woman placed her first order,
And filled up her freezer like a buffalo hoarder.
Now meatloaf, and ribeyes, and sirloins abound.
There’s even trachea and bones for her dogs to be found.
So thanks Wild Idea for being transparent and getting this customer on-board(er).

From her family to yours, she wishes only the best.
And believes with Wild Idea, the prairie is blessed.
She loves the ranch kitchen, and Jill’s recipes, too.
Now dinners seem so easy, and healthier (it’s true!)
Thanks for reducing her food industry stress!



April 04, 2019

Ode to the North American Bison

Lumbering beast
looking at me
eye to eye
slowly walking my way,

Are your steps careful, precise
or merely the plodding of one
short on wit and wisdom,
a golem not so much protecting
my people from predators
merely a creature born of mud
with more muscle and sinew
than sense of purpose,
protecting no one so much
as projecting the memory
of all we have destroyed
on this country’s vain march to imperial greatness
that knows neither morality
nor even a flicker
of self awareness or doubt?

I would incautiously hug you
if I could but alas
my arms are too short
and my self awareness too long,
so i nuzzle you in my mind
hear your sad cry in my soul
and feel the loss of innocence
knowing eden was so long ago
that perhaps it never really existed.



April 04, 2019

Buffalo dance
Buffalo prance
Round and round the bison ranch
Buffalo move
Buffalo groove
To a tune paased down through many moons
To a tune heard only through hooves



April 04, 2019

Tatanaka Muse

Look Button, do you see the buffalo?
I asked my not quite one-year old daughter
A small herd, maybe five or six, grazed the fenced field
On our tiny Puget Sound island

Horns curved pushing out from under massive robed heads
Brown curls sloped down spines that slough snow
A tufted beard
Charcoal brown ovals in a brilliant green pasture

And she who had not yet spoken
Not yet formed her first word beyond Mama and Da
Eyes sparkling legs kicking
Reached tiny arms towards ancient forms

Then silence
And timeless
As we drove on by

From the back seat came a clear, definitive voice:
“Buppayo, Mama, Buppayo”



April 04, 2019

Our eyes locked…
I see the Old Soul…
Reeking of wild strength…
Gazing at me…
Evaluating my spirit…
With a snort, and a stomp,
The spell that transports me is broken…
The buffalo turns
And moves on.



April 04, 2019


The buffalo
they were here in the beginning,
from below the Earth they came, helping us come out of the surface when we were afraid.
They are returning again,
heads heavy with wisdom,
ancient teachings of the Earth,
they are returning again,
Survivors of survivors, bringing forth the ancient songs
we have lost, or forgotten
with senses
of a world much older than ours. We go on,
if they move in the world, we go on.
With shaggy heads, they mend our Circle,
with their voices in the wind,
with their delicate hooves,
they graze in our sacred valleys,
The four-leggeds.



April 04, 2019

Buffalo Whisperer

It was a cool foggy morning driving up through the Custer State Park

I was hoping to capture the sunrise emerging through the fog over the hills

A bald eagle flies out of nowhere

I pulled over to watch it flying around

A herd of buffalo emerges out of the heavy fog from the west

I get out of my pickup I walk closer to the herd of buffalo

I just had to capture the herd of buffalo and with the bald eagle flying around

Donkeys started coming closer

Younger buffalo calves brushing up closely to there moms

Wind started picking up slowly sprinkling

Slowly walk closer to capture more video footage

I felt invisible amongst the herd of buffalo

Thee bald eagle was watching over me



April 05, 2019


Oh great bison, can you smell the irony in the air?

The same species that drove you to the brink of extinction now nurses you back to strength.

What an incomprehensible species this is.

The few who abhor the past senseless slaughter, now work that you might gain a foothold, and they might find untainted nourishment.

Oh great bison can you smell the irony in the air?

The species that elevates itself above all God’s creations, is the only one the Earth would not lament the loss of.

He who has improved upon Mother Nature has painted himself into a toxic corner where factory farm animals languish and the pseudo nourishment, they provide slowly saps his strength.

Oh great Bison do you smell the irony in the air?

When only the human is capable of inhumanity? And the greatest pest is succumbing to his own agents of destruction?

And yet there are those, the few, the rare – who would dedicate their lives to saving you; who would seek to make amends for past destruction.

What an incomprehensible species this is.

Alas, pride goeth before the fall, and the pedestal is tall and covered with the mass of humanity busy congratulating themselves on their clever improvements to God’s system. They do not feel the swaying.

Oh great Bison do you smell the irony in the air?

When a species of idiot-savants who create a million ingenious devices, see no need for nursing their young, or overseeing their learning.

When they allow them to be fed on chemically laden foods and then delude themselves into thinking all is well.

So, roam your golden prairie where blue skies dome your world. Watch winter crystals melt away as spring grasses seek the warming sun. Rut and romp and calve and nurse, God’s system is your savior.

Oh great bison do you smell the irony in the air?

You may have lost the battle, but you haven’t lost the war.



April 05, 2019

Wild Idea Rap

We are grass fed
Grass finished I said
Wild Idea Bison on the plains

We taste de-licious
Anti-biotic free

Venerated, applauded, appreciated, ad-ulated
We are… G-M-O free

So when you’re crav’in
Your dream’in
Your hungers got you scream’in
Opt for meat sustan-abil-ity

Some salt and pepper some heat
A little song with a beat
A fork and knife
is all you need



April 05, 2019

My poem was originally published in “Lyrical Iowa 2009” by The Iowa Poetry Association as part of their 64th annual anthology. I understand due to having been previously published, it will not be eligible for competition, but it seems appropriate to share it with you and the people who follow your blog.


They call me Buffalo.

They call me North American Bison.

They call me Tatanka.

I am a giant, plodding beast

quietly grazing.

I am a thundering herd

racing with the wind.

I defend my turf.

I protect my herd.

Look into my eyes.

Look deeply into an eon

of my species’ genetic memory.

I am a provider.

I provide meat and clothing.

I provide blankets and shelter.

I restore the prairie.

I add value to the prairie.

Just give me land to graze.

Give me space to roam, to be wild and free.

I will continue to be your provider.

© 2009 The Iowa Poetry Association & William P. Riddle



April 06, 2019

For but just a moment, todays rays of the settling sun, give me comfort, for tomorrows blades of grass swaying in the breeze, growing to great heights, harvesting a feast for Bison on the run,, crisp, clean, natural source of Ambrosia,
as those rays are so intended,This pursuit for our people, our future, our heart, what a Wild Idea ,Great Plains indeed.



April 08, 2019

Buffalo Soul

Great Massive being
You carry warm memories.
Lost times, lost lives…live.



April 08, 2019

Redeemer of the Plains

Listen in the silence for the buffalo,
Pounding rhythm of its hooves, your heartbeat.
Listen to the pulsing, steady, still.
Its longing felt in every field and hill.

Listen to the silence of the buffalo:
Tears in the heart. Protected grass and sod.
Like its Creator could not protect itself.
Destroyed by man pretending-to-be god.

Listen for the silence of the buffalo.
Billions of ghost feet roam the mists of time:
Its stolen spaces filled with brick and stone
And memories of when it was its own.

Listen with the Silence to the buffalo.
Its grace slowly returns to its domains.
Home. It calls. to Man. To help. To Be.
Love. Life. Redeemer of the Plains.



April 09, 2019

Here is my seminal haiku from which the longer haiku submitted earlier evolved:

Brown woolly bovine
Indians’ roaming pantry
Monarch of the plains!



April 12, 2019

My mamma used to say
That meat isn’t to eat.
No factory farms for us
As they were not to trust.

It wasn’t til one day,
That bison came her way.
They roam, they play
Happy all their days.

“All that lettuce? Tofu too?
No, meat is what you’ll eat!”
Buffalo burger, buffalo chops
A carnivore’s delight!

Its pretty safe to say:
That none put up a fight.



April 12, 2019

Ode to a Kansan’s Urn

Such subtle earth tones
Grace your upper curves;
Azure, coffee, bronze, and chrome
Surround your basal bulge

Like char-coaled canyon walls
With prehistoric pictographs
An ancient bison adorns your bowl
And lowers its head in threatening mode;

Oh lacquered and fired vessel
With sgraffito bison likeness
Such artwork inspires the senses
Conjuring aged artist’s praxis;

From earthen clay and hues
You speak of times bygone
Survival’s ancient rules
Remain with us today:

To kill and eat, it is a must
But conservation, it, too, a need
For once extinction rears its head
Civilization will not proceed!



April 12, 2019

Lakota Prayer

Counting coup and riding wind
On plains that exhale primal truth.
Great Spirit, life that has no end
Come fill the quiver of my youth.

Wakan Tanka, reveal your might
In thunderclouds from bison’s breath.
Tatanka owns both day and night,
He gives us life; he gives us death.

The pipe connecting all blood’s flow
Reveals the path of sacred herd.
Four colors then White Buffalo
To speak the language never heard.

No struggles when we learn to pray
To take the path the bison tread.
The holy man will point the way
To go to where Life’s blood is shed.



April 12, 2019

The earth quakes beneath your power.
Creating wind and weather,
You are life itself.
Your multitude is God.



April 14, 2019

John Snow Knows Nothing of Buffalo

We dream of impossible creatures
To fill dragon-sized holes
left by wild open spaces
and hoarfrosted heavy hides.
We jam our mouths with salt and empty gnashing,
Craving the true savor of sustenance.
Our heroes now saviors of imaginings,
we cry “what is dead will never die,”
knowing what is left is passing.
Winter has come.
Winter has gone.
Winter remains, because somewhere on the plains
there is magic.
It is a song of grass and wind.
The peace that was promised.
It is war waged for the purest pleasures,
molding ranchers and bards
into emissaries and knights
for a kingdom where nature sits on a wild throne,
for an ending where everyone wins.



April 16, 2019

Majestic Bison
Roam the South Dakota Plains
Inspire future hope



April 19, 2019

Grasses roll like waves along a tumultuous shore,
cresting and swirling with birdsong lost to the wind.
Buffalo navigate the waves, the grasses lapping wildly at their feet,
churning new sod sustaining an endless prairie sea.



April 20, 2019


I like buffalo when there on my plate,
I could eat them all day,
‘Cause they taste real great,
I could eat them while I play,
And I’d just like to say,
Thank you Wild Idea Buffalo.



April 22, 2019

A Rap
Yo you don’t wanna fight
With these beasts of the plains
Though their brains take pains
Just to think and maintain,
They’re stronger than oxen,
Got skills at out-foxin’
The predators and killers;
Those hungry belly-fillers.
So don’t mess with the bison
Or they’ll clobber you like Tyson;
Make you blue like Heisenberg
Who’d take you out with a drop of Ricin.
So show some respect, you know,
They’re more impressive than Mark Ruffalo,
Got me rhyming and spittin’ all this flow:
The one and only buffalo.



April 22, 2019

Manifest Destiny

From inland sea to grinding glaciers,
melting and flattening and fertilizing into prairie grasses,
thousands of square miles of grasses—tallgrass, midgrass, short grass and
millions of buffalo grazing the grasses, over time and space, energy transformed
from sun and rain to grass, from grass to buffalo, from buffalo back to grass
from the Pleistocene to the Anthropocene,
from prehistoric bison to plains bison and wood bison,
from the Appalachians to the Rockies,
from the Yukon to Yucatan,
We are the grasses,
We are the buffalo,
We are original inhabitants
and we will remain,
survivors of American history.



April 23, 2019

Where the Buffalo Roam
The buffalo grass ruffles gently, in the breeze,
A Prairie scene so few have seen.
Crocus quietly pop their furry soft-blue blooms,
A quick spring thunderstorm, on the horizon booms.
From sulky coyotes, the buffalo protect their new born calves.
Massive heads down, circled up in living rafts.
Life goes on, rebirth on the prairie.
Powerful, timeless: Invisible to the unwary.
A prairie so remote, and yet so near,
Noisy crows call, quiet movements of deer.
Highways hum, uncaring cars pass by,
Lazy contrails stretch, across azure skies.
In our busy world, we must be wary,
To look and listen; take time to tarry.
Inhale Spring’s fresh smell, as the crocus bloom,
And spend some time in Nature’s Room.
Watch the herds slowly graze and protect their young.
Take time to listen as nature’s song is sung.
Be it the soft munching of grass, by the regal beasts,
Or the sights and sounds; all provide a treat.
And high above a hawk’s sharp screeeee…
Nature’s symphony: It pleases me.
Chuck 4/18/19



April 23, 2019

Poetry not my thing, but here, from a real life encounter, with some apology to whoever penned “O Death”:

The Buffalo Test

Heavy head, swinging low,
I’m under the gaze of the buffalo.
He fixes my feet, inspects my soul-
Will I pass the test of the buffalo?

I look down, I say my name,
I tell him I know we’re all to blame.
I promise to sow, swear to plant,
Vow I’ll do the prairie dance.

Erase the lines, let waters flow,
Let his people follow the buffalo.
He lifts his head, releases my soul,
Fades into gold grasses where dry winds blow.



April 25, 2019

Lean and mean only eating greens

Smoked or steamed tastes like a dream

Addicted to bison, I’m like a fiend

I had to buy some and join the team

Goes real great with rice and beans

Always organic like Evergreens

I feel one with nature when I’m in the trees

Or when I’m on the scene, of my buffalo dreams


  • Posted on by Maria

    There are nights
    So wide open
    It’s impossible to tell where the prairie stops
    And the sky begins.

    Out here, there is no Milky Way.
    Just another dollar,
    Another day.
    And I wish I was home in the prairie,
    Where it’s possible to reach for the sky
    And hold the universe.

    There’s so much wrong in the world,
    That it’s hard to know what’s right.
    It’s not enough.
    It’s never enough.
    It’s not enough,
    They say.
    And I’m pretty sure they’ve never seen
    A prairie night
    Become day.

    Once, I saw a buffalo in winter.
    Its face frosted with its whirling breath.
    And I think maybe the universe was in its breath,
    Or maybe the buffalo was me.

    And maybe it is enough.
    It’s always enough.
    It is enough,
    To remember those nights,
    When the world was ours.
    Back when you held me close.
    Out where those prairie nights
    Become day.

  • Posted on by Brian Bindon

    Poetry Contest

    Ho there, ho there
    great buffalo mama
    a falconer’s sage breath whispers…
    is it true? -it is true!
    you’re home again in South Dakota!
    The tired wind is freed again, up Buffalo Gap
    to inhale the old bromes and pert grasses on tap.
    Tousling too the prayer flags Bear Butte aflutter;
    stirring the wild-ache of ancestral memory passes;
    thunder hooves, sun-dance arbours, nations’ heart beating
    God is once more so vivid, red-and not so fleeting.
    And Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse
    re-mount etheric horses decorated of past sweetness
    and smile faintly up through old crinkle-sun spirit creases,
    for a keen child who honours again the true prairie,
    here, here, here, long disharmony ceases.

    APRIL 30, 2021

  • Posted on by Kitty Pavelka


    Listen to the prairie,
    For the entire day;
    The pleasant rustle of the grass,
    The hours it whittles away.

    Lazily the summer wind,
    Stirs the Bluestem strands;
    In the meadow where the Buffalo roam,
    As strong as life demands.

    Slowly grazed while the sun shines on,
    The prairie provides the way;
    To nourish the mighty Buffalo,
    Whose glory is now back to stay.

    Oh! The good that has been done,
    The Buffalo herds that have been saved;
    By kindly deeds and promises kept,
    A better future has now been paved.

  • Posted on by Jill Pena

    1st grade – Children’s House Montessori – Lower Elementary

    Prairie Haiku

    In the open world
    Birds talking to each other
    Peace, love, wildlife

  • Posted on by Jill Pena

    2nd grade – Children’s House Montessori – Lower Elementary

    Prairie Haiku

    Majestic creatures
    The stampeding buffalo
    Sweet sounds of nature

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