Welcome to Melvin’s Epic Poems




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This is not really an epic poem, but I put it here anyway.


©Grace at Little Bighorn


Paralyzed by fear

He just lay there

amongst the dead and dying.

When his horse went down

He just froze on the ground

Hoping the Cheyenne would just go away.

But they were going to stay

And take war souvenirs

And do things that can’t be mentioned.

“Lord Jesus, please help me,” was his prayer,

As he asked God to get him out of there.

“And I don’t mean in pieces,”

He prayed the Lord Jesus,

“Please get me out of here alive.”

Then something rose up inside

Like a bright light that beamed from his eyes.

And with his knife in his hand

He pushed up from the Montana sand

And ran for the closest horse and rider.

The Cheyenne braves

Watched him, amazed

As he moved with the swiftness of

Something that seemed to be there, but wasn’t.

What he did to the brave was quite unpleasant

But the spirit was leaving

As the body was heaving

And there was no pain as it hit the ground.

Soon he was being chased

By Cheyenne from every way

And he just rode like a blind and crazy man.

Arrows and spears could not connect

As an invisible shield seemed to protect him

Like maybe God had answered his prayer.

But they soon gave up on him

And they brought the horse down and then

They surrounded him there on the ground.

With their arrows drawn back

They paused with respect

And some fear as they looked into his eyes.

They were wild and crazy, to say the least.

Like nothing seen in man nor beast.

And they didn’t know whether to kill him or run away.

He was lost in the moment, waiting to die

Remembering General Custer raising his hand high.

Saying, “We’re going to ride…”

Into the valley of the shadow

As it turned out.

An hour later everyone was dead

And now he waited his turn.

But again something entered

That was familiar and warm

And he looked into the eyes of death.

And as they let the arrows fly

Something glowed behind his eyes

And he let out a primal scream

From somewhere in eternity.

And it echoed through every canyon

And over every mountain

For a hundred miles.


Then all was dark and cool.

There was a morning mist

In the valley of the Little Bighorn,

When he awoke, like from a dream.

But the stench of death was grim

As reality pulled him in

And he wondered why he was still alive.

He looked at his body, his skin like new.

Not one arrow had passed through.

They were lying there on the ground

Where they had fallen.

And the Cheyenne left them there

As they ran calling

For the Great Spirit to protect them.

It must have been a miracle

That turned his body to stone,

And left him there alone,

While the Cheyenne Nation went away

And left him to die again another day.



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