PRISONER WALLS
stand firm with me
as we see our light
together
it is the warden
in a devil' s fight
they hold fast their chains
creating this unholy link
each chink a chain
needing freedom
away from a prisoner's cell
they think love
but don'tnor know the damage
they createall for power's sake
theirs only
if only they could be free
seeing love
seeking freedom
they know not love
at all
behind a prisoner's wall...
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
THE VISION
Two black snakes wrapped and coiled around a long, black staff, turning, twisting then unraveling to extend high onto the arch of an eagle's back.
A bold warrior emerged from the flaps of a tee pee which resembled a patched quilt made from a leather hide.
He stood stern as delineated lines cracked deep into the grooves of his bronzed face. A single long feather was firmly placed into the thick of his braid, wedged between a thin cloth strip wrapped tightly around the crown of his head.
The warrior turned facing north. His eyes glared over into the distance, searching as if in an attempt to reach beyond and into far lands.
His mind became clear like glass as animated visions filled the spaces. Images of a young, wild colt galloping fast with hooves digging deep into the dark, red earth. Strides stretching long for winds to push against a tress of mane which fell loosely onto the back of his neck.
Suddenly, he came to an abrupt Holt. His flank buckled and folded as if being bridled by the strand of a sombrero's strap. Then as if about to take flight, he rolled forward, turning over to transform into a large figure of a great white eagle.
Wings extended broad from side to side, expanding wide to stretch across the sky. Downward strokes from his strong, muscular body pumped air propelling him further to rise high into the clouds - drifting along, above and over the tops of mountains.
Eyes turned sharp into the sun then returned as he soared gracefully forward. There he entered a field filled with flowers - lilies and lilacs and the smell of wild roses. In the corner a waterfall overflowed as the sound of Chrystal like bells bounced off rocks into harmonic notes that resounded into an echo...words forming wide...""Ea Nigada Qusdi Idadadvhni"....."All my relations in creation"...."Donadagohvi"....."Let us see each other again." ....."Ho! Mitakuye Oyasin"....."We are all related." ...
the Warrior smiled and then he knew...Anon Peace and happiness was available in every moment... in every step. If the Creator put it there, it was in the right place. The soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears.
He paused awhile then after a moment of silence he smiled saying " wado, wado"..."Thank you, thank you"
The lids of his weary eyes shut tight to sink into his face. At last he was at peace and rested as he knew he was not alone. Then with a released sigh so ended the journey of his quest....
* Vision quest based on the ancient spiritual practice of going onto the land. The quest itself is usually a journey alone into the wilderness seeking personal growth and spiritual guidance from the spirit. This Narrative was framed from an ancient Native American teaching.
Two black snakes wrapped and coiled around a long, black staff, turning, twisting then unraveling to extend high onto the arch of an eagle's back.
A bold warrior emerged from the flaps of a tee pee which resembled a patched quilt made from a leather hide.
He stood stern as delineated lines cracked deep into the grooves of his bronzed face. A single long feather was firmly placed into the thick of his braid, wedged between a thin cloth strip wrapped tightly around the crown of his head.
The warrior turned facing north. His eyes glared over into the distance, searching as if in an attempt to reach beyond and into far lands.
His mind became clear like glass as animated visions filled the spaces. Images of a young, wild colt galloping fast with hooves digging deep into the dark, red earth. Strides stretching long for winds to push against a tress of mane which fell loosely onto the back of his neck.
Suddenly, he came to an abrupt Holt. His flank buckled and folded as if being bridled by the strand of a sombrero's strap. Then as if about to take flight, he rolled forward, turning over to transform into a large figure of a great white eagle.
Wings extended broad from side to side, expanding wide to stretch across the sky. Downward strokes from his strong, muscular body pumped air propelling him further to rise high into the clouds - drifting along, above and over the tops of mountains.
Eyes turned sharp into the sun then returned as he soared gracefully forward. There he entered a field filled with flowers - lilies and lilacs and the smell of wild roses. In the corner a waterfall overflowed as the sound of Chrystal like bells bounced off rocks into harmonic notes that resounded into an echo...words forming wide...""Ea Nigada Qusdi Idadadvhni"....."All my relations in creation"...."Donadagohvi"....."Let us see each other again." ....."Ho! Mitakuye Oyasin"....."We are all related." ...
the Warrior smiled and then he knew...Anon Peace and happiness was available in every moment... in every step. If the Creator put it there, it was in the right place. The soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears.
He paused awhile then after a moment of silence he smiled saying " wado, wado"..."Thank you, thank you"
The lids of his weary eyes shut tight to sink into his face. At last he was at peace and rested as he knew he was not alone. Then with a released sigh so ended the journey of his quest....
* Vision quest based on the ancient spiritual practice of going onto the land. The quest itself is usually a journey alone into the wilderness seeking personal growth and spiritual guidance from the spirit. This Narrative was framed from an ancient Native American teaching.
CONTEMPLATE REASON
sorry for itching
in all the confusion
digging a sink straight to hell
drifting aimlessly
through paper confetti
trying to mount the top of the heap
never realizing sorrow
or the mad ramblings of a mad son
of all the going ons
sun and earth
dry rain falls into my hands
the rim of the tire must conflate
to digest this madness
and contemplate reason
sorry for itching
in all the confusion
digging a sink straight to hell
drifting aimlessly
through paper confetti
trying to mount the top of the heap
never realizing sorrow
or the mad ramblings of a mad son
of all the going ons
sun and earth
dry rain falls into my hands
the rim of the tire must conflate
to digest this madness
and contemplate reason
MUCH TOO MUCH IN LOVE
I am too much in love
much to much
too proud to cry out that "I AM "
too loud to hear the silence
of its gentle kisses
too impatient to see us grow within it
too slow to see it happen
too young to know its maturity
too fast to catch its beat
too long to know when it is short
too clever when it is dumb
my breath overruns my passions
yet always love eludes me
never staying still for me to catch it
to find it in a glass of worms
to find it as it is
I am too much in love
much to much
too proud to cry out that "I AM "
too loud to hear the silence
of its gentle kisses
too impatient to see us grow within it
too slow to see it happen
too young to know its maturity
too fast to catch its beat
too long to know when it is short
too clever when it is dumb
my breath overruns my passions
yet always love eludes me
never staying still for me to catch it
to find it in a glass of worms
to find it as it is
ANOTHER LOVE POEM
FALL INTO MY ARID HEART
fall into my arid heart
so that I may drink you in
to feel the pleasure
of love lost now restored
within these gentle kisses
how jealous passions stir
into a spectrum lost in thoughts
with only love to guide us through
to the centre eye of storm
where grace breaks knowledge
to soften rough and hardened edges
bending corners angled in the mind
wider spaces fill our thoughts
for a lighter presence to ignite
our full eternal bliss...
FALL INTO MY ARID HEART
fall into my arid heart
so that I may drink you in
to feel the pleasure
of love lost now restored
within these gentle kisses
how jealous passions stir
into a spectrum lost in thoughts
with only love to guide us through
to the centre eye of storm
where grace breaks knowledge
to soften rough and hardened edges
bending corners angled in the mind
wider spaces fill our thoughts
for a lighter presence to ignite
our full eternal bliss...
Monday, May 12, 2008
SNAKES IN THE COMODE
If anyone caught the latest cult horror-thriller feature flick 'Snakes on the plane' staring Samuel L. Jackson, they would have some idea of a recent episode I experienced regarding an uncomfortable incident at my parents home where I have been staying while they have been away. I admit I never saw the film having a healthy respect for the creatures as long as they stayed within their natural environment.So there I was at home after a long day of work rushing to relieve myself. Afterwards, I flushed several times but then noticed a long, black thing floating in the comode. I was perplexed. On further examination, I realized the unthinkable and with a frantic outburst shouted a parphrased version of Samual L Jackson's famous line in the movie..."there's a motherfucking snake in this motherfucking comode!!" The rest of this story ranges from the sublime to the rediculous with the assistance and collective cowardess of both my niece and nephew ..but we shall come to that later...Being from the tropics and far too overly sensitive to spiritual matters, my immediate thought was that someone had placed a voodoo hex(Obiah) on me. Snakes being the most symbolic of that. I immediately got my tattered Anglcan prayer book and opened it up to the 23rd psalm, reading it while placing it onto the closed lid of the toilet. I then proceeded to empty a full box of Ajax in hopes of killing the poor, frightened creature should that fail.An hour went by and the snake remained alive and as dangerous looking as ever poised and flexed to strike. It was then I decided to get the assistance of my niece and nephew who lived not so far away.My nephew had just returned from his studies in Canada where he was studying marine Biology and environmental studies. He informed me of the type of snake, its genus and assured me that although they do bite, I was in no immediate danger. Still, the thought of having to spend a night with this viscious looking thing in my bathroom was not a comforting thought. So I left my nephew armed with a long stick and bucket to dispose of it while my niece anxiously stood behind him looking on.I disappeared outside to smoke a cigaret. As I took a long, nervous pull of smoke, I heard some loud banging and yelps as they both dashed towards me. I knew then I had to take immediate action, so I rushed to the bathroom with stick in hand. The snake, after some prodding, slipped out of the comode. It was long and gigantic. I thrusted my stick hard as it turned to charge toward me. With a couple of explatives, I clamped down and covered it with the bucket. My niece and nephew then removed the creature releasing far from the house. I said to myself with an almost innocent gesture. "The ordinary person would have just killed the damn thing"....but my nephew assured me with full sincerity that all God's creatures must be treated with the dignity of life and respect..and so I left them...repeating fervantly the 23rd psalm..."ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...I shall fear no evil..."
SNAKES IN THE COMODE
If anyone caught the latest cult horror-thriller feature flick 'Snakes on the plane' staring Samuel L. Jackson, they would have some idea of a recent episode I experienced regarding an uncomfortable incident at my parents home where I have been staying while they have been away. I admit I never saw the film having a healthy respect for the creatures as long as they stayed within their natural environment.So there I was at home after a long day of work rushing to relieve myself. Afterwards, I flushed several times but then noticed a long, black thing floating in the comode. I was perplexed. On further examination, I realized the unthinkable and with a frantic outburst shouted a parphrased version of Samual L Jackson's famous line in the movie..."there's a motherfucking snake in this motherfucking comode!!" The rest of this story ranges from the sublime to the rediculous with the assistance and collective cowardess of both my niece and nephew ..but we shall come to that later...Being from the tropics and far too overly sensitive to spiritual matters, my immediate thought was that someone had placed a voodoo hex(Obiah) on me. Snakes being the most symbolic of that. I immediately got my tattered Anglcan prayer book and opened it up to the 23rd psalm, reading it while placing it onto the closed lid of the toilet. I then proceeded to empty a full box of Ajax in hopes of killing the poor, frightened creature should that fail.An hour went by and the snake remained alive and as dangerous looking as ever poised and flexed to strike. It was then I decided to get the assistance of my niece and nephew who lived not so far away.My nephew had just returned from his studies in Canada where he was studying marine Biology and environmental studies. He informed me of the type of snake, its genus and assured me that although they do bite, I was in no immediate danger. Still, the thought of having to spend a night with this viscious looking thing in my bathroom was not a comforting thought. So I left my nephew armed with a long stick and bucket to dispose of it while my niece anxiously stood behind him looking on.I disappeared outside to smoke a cigaret. As I took a long, nervous pull of smoke, I heard some loud banging and yelps as they both dashed towards me. I knew then I had to take immediate action, so I rushed to the bathroom with stick in hand. The snake, after some prodding, slipped out of the comode. It was long and gigantic. I thrusted my stick hard as it turned to charge toward me. With a couple of explatives, I clamped down and covered it with the bucket. My niece and nephew then removed the creature releasing far from the house. I said to myself with an almost innocent gesture. "The ordinary person would have just killed the damn thing"....but my nephew assured me with full sincerity that all God's creatures must be treated with the dignity of life and respect..and so I left them...repeating fervantly the 23rd psalm..."ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...I shall fear no evil..."
Thursday, November 27, 2008
BAHAMIAN RHAPSODY
(in Eihgteen parts)
PART ONE
EARLY MORN
sunlight kisses an early morn
to embark into a chorus of song
drifting clouds unveils the day
as night glow fades into dawn
a single star abandoned by night
disappears into a golden haze
beam shafts break through the Horizon
strips away a cover of night
exposing things hidden
under the morning light
PART TWO
BLACK ROOSTER
black rooster struttin'
pecking at pebbles in the back yard
scratching behind concrete slabs
under fixed pillars of a woodern shed
clinging to a chattle past
morning trumpets like a bugle's horn
chicken scratch beneath the surface
behind a cock's crow
a scarlet ring 'round his kneck
a crown placed regally on his head
bearing the symbol of a goldern crest
against a black and red
PART THREE
DANCING FEATHERS
dancing feathers from palm branches
ripple across the sky
dipping into a palette of clouds
to touch blue skies with milk
pearls hang heavy from husk
draping the nape
only sun escapes through the cracks
for a lone seagull to ride upon its crest
PART FOUR
COCONUTS
coconut palms on sandy soils
fresh nuts polished slick from coconut oil
cracked opened smashing to ground
jelly gellin' on a coconut mound
water mixing with ocean salt
baking hot on steaming asphalt
spitting upward into a slope
stretching long from a coconut pulp
laid white like beads onto leafy arms
on sandy shores from coconut palms
PART FIVE
BLACK PEARL
snatched up from an ocean floor
leaving behind grains of milky sand
out of her garden
of sea fans and coral reefs
manta rays and rainbow fish
a stone set in a bed of silk
placed on a pillow of florescent stars
and crescent moons
deep within an oyster's shell
a pearl lays buried
removed then polished
shimmering black in the sun
PART SIX
HARBOURSIDE
""ferry to paradise""
"water for sale"
clipity clop, clip clop
sandals slapping on the side walk
busy sales swirl to a symphonic sound
white skin mingling with black hands
"get your hair braided"on the way to Paradise
straw market plats knot the air
weaving life together
on the harbourside
PART SEVEN
PULLIN' UP ANCHOR
ferry boat rockin' to and fro
with man straddlin'
from side to side
at the head of the bow
he pullin' up anchor
hands thrusting arms hard
into motion
body pulsin' rhythm into the deep
of the harbourside
rope 'round leg
wrapped up like a coiled snake
loosely falling into lazy loops
around his feet
cutting fast along the edge
while he yanks
with a final pull
PART EIGHT
OLD BAPTIST HYMN
"so there old Sweet boy stood
lookin' big and bold and strong
hands swingin' back and forth
dancin' with acordion
voice shrillin' high and low
swayin' to his happy song
and he'd break to look around
then he'd hold the next note long
and the congregation standin'
gladly rushed to cut right in
for the layin' down of hands
from the sermon of his hymn
now we know old Sweet boy clearly
by the mightiest of sword
his gentle Baptist hymn
as a servant of the Lord
"
PART NINE
Straw Lady
Straw lady mingling
with the crowd
platting rope
selling bags
straw stretched long
from one to the other
eyes turned down
in quiet chatter
pieces of raffia
neatly sown
strands of thread
inter weave strips
scissors clip away the fray
calypso breezes
blow over bags
placed loosely on
straw stand...
PART TEN
HEAT
sweat forms on brow
from sweltering heat
black skin baked darker by the sun
stop a little under a cool shade of tree
black molasses from dark rum
trickles down the throat
burning a hole into the soul
tempers flare hot
bursting fire onto the landscape ...
PART ELEVEN
STREET FIGHT
slam bam ...brigga doom bram!
big fight break out in the street
people rolling all over the road
man throw rice in the policeman's face
policeman throw him down.
and all the tourist watchin'
to see the two a dem fight
"Black on Black crime!" someone call out
"Police brutality" another say
"what happenin' here?" while she gawk
stories rolling and flowin' with the punches
man teet buck up into the car
head pressed hard to the ground
wid all these people gatherin' round
he hand cuff up to the van
to carry him off to Central station
PART TWELVE
DESERTED STREETS.
.
darkness silently creeps in
phantoms fill an empty street
murmurings of a nineteenth century haunting
quiet trots down a cobbled lane
echoes of an old surrey passing
stops to drink from a watering shed
chewing on blades of dry grass
slave folk mingling with the gentry
cargo of sponge, fruit and fabric
overflow into the street
rising like mist in a twenty first century caste
iron molded from an ancient past
darkness hangs heavy
lurking behind windows
painted black by the night
PART THIRTEEN
MOTHERLESS CHILD
motherless child lost in a land
left dry to scatter on baren rock
bastard child placed in a bowl
filled to less than half a whole
locked in a bottle for time to pass
slipping loosely through an hour glass
a grain of love slips through fingers
falling raw onto a pile of salt
to harden solid as a stone
layering a nation of forgotten souls
on sifting sands and rocky shoawls
PART FOURTEEN
CALABASH
west african fruit
found its way to bahama isles
a gourd to bail water from a wooden dingy
or bowl to catch rain from a leaky roof
barely a tree left to call this home
fruit falls to rot on the rich red earth
planting another tree for another year
a gentle reminder
five hundred years of survival
like a sentinel overlooking the bay
PART FIFTEEN
SUMMER SQUALL
dusk ascends onto the ocean
spraying water from a misty sea
darkness dragged across the evening
draped and pulled from an osprey's teeth
cloaked in a blanket of shimmering light
caught whole in the stillness of night
a cecada's song pitches high
darting dreams across a black sky
a heavenly calm breaks
into tempestuous rains
pulling winds with the strength
of hurricanes
drizzling down to a slow quiet patter
bringing cool to the warmth of a summer's night chatter
calypso breezes blow sweet scented jasman
dried hard from a harsh mid-day Sun
PART SIXTEEN
DANCE OF THE GULLS
seagulls return in flocks
through an evening's song
and into the night
musical dots rearrange the sky
motioning like a sonata....
flickering lights against a pale blue
majestically floating,
spreading wide into an open space
and into a muted glare of sun
forming, rearranging patterns
high and low
sounding shrieks to the wind
keeping constant
with the beat of time...
gliding through a stream of current
pushed up from the seat
hey follow a trail of clouds beyond
leaving a sky blank...
PART SEVENTEEN
SLEEPY CZARINAS
darkness fades to black
with the ocean and the sky
stars dimly lit glows faint
over a clear layer of clouds
moving slowly in the wind
blackness holds the night still
in the cool evening breeze
made invisible to all
PART EIGHTEEN
COLD WINDS
careful not to bay at the moon
this wolf more like sheep
too poor to wear a tattered garment
once proudly thinking it was gold
to shield against a cold, cold wind
pushed down into the slits of my house
I huddle and bend in memories found
as bitter winds blow into the cob
entangles a mind in a net of chain
an intricate web of cotton- thread
spun from a worm's secretion
criss -crossed with illusions
fish scales placed like armor
to guard a worn and fragile soul
still to perish in this storm
winds blow hard against a cart
carrying it further to the sea
deeper still into the oceans
from whence and where spirit is born...
(in Eihgteen parts)
PART ONE
EARLY MORN
sunlight kisses an early morn
to embark into a chorus of song
drifting clouds unveils the day
as night glow fades into dawn
a single star abandoned by night
disappears into a golden haze
beam shafts break through the Horizon
strips away a cover of night
exposing things hidden
under the morning light
PART TWO
BLACK ROOSTER
black rooster struttin'
pecking at pebbles in the back yard
scratching behind concrete slabs
under fixed pillars of a woodern shed
clinging to a chattle past
morning trumpets like a bugle's horn
chicken scratch beneath the surface
behind a cock's crow
a scarlet ring 'round his kneck
a crown placed regally on his head
bearing the symbol of a goldern crest
against a black and red
PART THREE
DANCING FEATHERS
dancing feathers from palm branches
ripple across the sky
dipping into a palette of clouds
to touch blue skies with milk
pearls hang heavy from husk
draping the nape
only sun escapes through the cracks
for a lone seagull to ride upon its crest
PART FOUR
COCONUTS
coconut palms on sandy soils
fresh nuts polished slick from coconut oil
cracked opened smashing to ground
jelly gellin' on a coconut mound
water mixing with ocean salt
baking hot on steaming asphalt
spitting upward into a slope
stretching long from a coconut pulp
laid white like beads onto leafy arms
on sandy shores from coconut palms
PART FIVE
BLACK PEARL
snatched up from an ocean floor
leaving behind grains of milky sand
out of her garden
of sea fans and coral reefs
manta rays and rainbow fish
a stone set in a bed of silk
placed on a pillow of florescent stars
and crescent moons
deep within an oyster's shell
a pearl lays buried
removed then polished
shimmering black in the sun
PART SIX
HARBOURSIDE
""ferry to paradise""
"water for sale"
clipity clop, clip clop
sandals slapping on the side walk
busy sales swirl to a symphonic sound
white skin mingling with black hands
"get your hair braided"on the way to Paradise
straw market plats knot the air
weaving life together
on the harbourside
PART SEVEN
PULLIN' UP ANCHOR
ferry boat rockin' to and fro
with man straddlin'
from side to side
at the head of the bow
he pullin' up anchor
hands thrusting arms hard
into motion
body pulsin' rhythm into the deep
of the harbourside
rope 'round leg
wrapped up like a coiled snake
loosely falling into lazy loops
around his feet
cutting fast along the edge
while he yanks
with a final pull
PART EIGHT
OLD BAPTIST HYMN
"so there old Sweet boy stood
lookin' big and bold and strong
hands swingin' back and forth
dancin' with acordion
voice shrillin' high and low
swayin' to his happy song
and he'd break to look around
then he'd hold the next note long
and the congregation standin'
gladly rushed to cut right in
for the layin' down of hands
from the sermon of his hymn
now we know old Sweet boy clearly
by the mightiest of sword
his gentle Baptist hymn
as a servant of the Lord
"
PART NINE
Straw Lady
Straw lady mingling
with the crowd
platting rope
selling bags
straw stretched long
from one to the other
eyes turned down
in quiet chatter
pieces of raffia
neatly sown
strands of thread
inter weave strips
scissors clip away the fray
calypso breezes
blow over bags
placed loosely on
straw stand...
PART TEN
HEAT
sweat forms on brow
from sweltering heat
black skin baked darker by the sun
stop a little under a cool shade of tree
black molasses from dark rum
trickles down the throat
burning a hole into the soul
tempers flare hot
bursting fire onto the landscape ...
PART ELEVEN
STREET FIGHT
slam bam ...brigga doom bram!
big fight break out in the street
people rolling all over the road
man throw rice in the policeman's face
policeman throw him down.
and all the tourist watchin'
to see the two a dem fight
"Black on Black crime!" someone call out
"Police brutality" another say
"what happenin' here?" while she gawk
stories rolling and flowin' with the punches
man teet buck up into the car
head pressed hard to the ground
wid all these people gatherin' round
he hand cuff up to the van
to carry him off to Central station
PART TWELVE
DESERTED STREETS.
.
darkness silently creeps in
phantoms fill an empty street
murmurings of a nineteenth century haunting
quiet trots down a cobbled lane
echoes of an old surrey passing
stops to drink from a watering shed
chewing on blades of dry grass
slave folk mingling with the gentry
cargo of sponge, fruit and fabric
overflow into the street
rising like mist in a twenty first century caste
iron molded from an ancient past
darkness hangs heavy
lurking behind windows
painted black by the night
PART THIRTEEN
MOTHERLESS CHILD
motherless child lost in a land
left dry to scatter on baren rock
bastard child placed in a bowl
filled to less than half a whole
locked in a bottle for time to pass
slipping loosely through an hour glass
a grain of love slips through fingers
falling raw onto a pile of salt
to harden solid as a stone
layering a nation of forgotten souls
on sifting sands and rocky shoawls
PART FOURTEEN
CALABASH
west african fruit
found its way to bahama isles
a gourd to bail water from a wooden dingy
or bowl to catch rain from a leaky roof
barely a tree left to call this home
fruit falls to rot on the rich red earth
planting another tree for another year
a gentle reminder
five hundred years of survival
like a sentinel overlooking the bay
PART FIFTEEN
SUMMER SQUALL
dusk ascends onto the ocean
spraying water from a misty sea
darkness dragged across the evening
draped and pulled from an osprey's teeth
cloaked in a blanket of shimmering light
caught whole in the stillness of night
a cecada's song pitches high
darting dreams across a black sky
a heavenly calm breaks
into tempestuous rains
pulling winds with the strength
of hurricanes
drizzling down to a slow quiet patter
bringing cool to the warmth of a summer's night chatter
calypso breezes blow sweet scented jasman
dried hard from a harsh mid-day Sun
PART SIXTEEN
DANCE OF THE GULLS
seagulls return in flocks
through an evening's song
and into the night
musical dots rearrange the sky
motioning like a sonata....
flickering lights against a pale blue
majestically floating,
spreading wide into an open space
and into a muted glare of sun
forming, rearranging patterns
high and low
sounding shrieks to the wind
keeping constant
with the beat of time...
gliding through a stream of current
pushed up from the seat
hey follow a trail of clouds beyond
leaving a sky blank...
PART SEVENTEEN
SLEEPY CZARINAS
darkness fades to black
with the ocean and the sky
stars dimly lit glows faint
over a clear layer of clouds
moving slowly in the wind
blackness holds the night still
in the cool evening breeze
made invisible to all
PART EIGHTEEN
COLD WINDS
careful not to bay at the moon
this wolf more like sheep
too poor to wear a tattered garment
once proudly thinking it was gold
to shield against a cold, cold wind
pushed down into the slits of my house
I huddle and bend in memories found
as bitter winds blow into the cob
entangles a mind in a net of chain
an intricate web of cotton- thread
spun from a worm's secretion
criss -crossed with illusions
fish scales placed like armor
to guard a worn and fragile soul
still to perish in this storm
winds blow hard against a cart
carrying it further to the sea
deeper still into the oceans
from whence and where spirit is born...
NIGHT SLUMBER
Ninety-nine years in a lazy slumber, a wrinkled old man slowly slopes out into the night."How it all looks so gritty and green" he mused while yielding to brace against the cold. He remembered so much more in his youthful years. His face turned sullen and grey as he scowled over a high bush. There a stable of strong black Stallions stirred frantically into a frenzy. Their cries were wild as if against the huff of angry wolves.Beyond the busy hub of noise, a fire- bird poised high swooped in to capture the flow of a cautious wind. Keeping steady on her course, she glides elegantly as an amber glow burns ash to cinder along the way.How he marvelled at this beautiful creature who looked even brighter within the light of her magical creation. Gently she landed into the palm of the old man's hands, who tugged vigorously to pluck a feather from her long fiery tale. As strokes brushed and blazed from a plume of smoke, the fire-bird combusted then finally melted like wax into the old man's hands. Slowly, he gulped down the thick liquid which quickly revived and restored his aging body.And with ninety-nine years for ninety-nine more, he slouched back to Bethlehem to be reborn....
+ "The Second Coming," Yeats -written after the catastrophe of World War I. It is a compelling glimpse of an inhuman creature about to be born.
Ninety-nine years in a lazy slumber, a wrinkled old man slowly slopes out into the night."How it all looks so gritty and green" he mused while yielding to brace against the cold. He remembered so much more in his youthful years. His face turned sullen and grey as he scowled over a high bush. There a stable of strong black Stallions stirred frantically into a frenzy. Their cries were wild as if against the huff of angry wolves.Beyond the busy hub of noise, a fire- bird poised high swooped in to capture the flow of a cautious wind. Keeping steady on her course, she glides elegantly as an amber glow burns ash to cinder along the way.How he marvelled at this beautiful creature who looked even brighter within the light of her magical creation. Gently she landed into the palm of the old man's hands, who tugged vigorously to pluck a feather from her long fiery tale. As strokes brushed and blazed from a plume of smoke, the fire-bird combusted then finally melted like wax into the old man's hands. Slowly, he gulped down the thick liquid which quickly revived and restored his aging body.And with ninety-nine years for ninety-nine more, he slouched back to Bethlehem to be reborn....
+ "The Second Coming," Yeats -written after the catastrophe of World War I. It is a compelling glimpse of an inhuman creature about to be born.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
SHALLA BOOM
for young Greg and Sean
shalla boom shalla boom....
in the song
boom boomboom....
in the dance
SHIKKA SHAK, SHIKKA BOOM
boom boom
a room filled high
to a sonic beat
shakin' to the quake
of shuddering feet
fall into the flow
with a single note
fall into the flow
with a single note
break down the bass
augment the tone
pulsin' to the rhythm
pushed into the bone
tip, tap, tippin'to a tempo clock
throbbin' to the music
with a steady rock
hands held up high
ears low to floor
reachin' down deep
to the crack of the core
whole back step beat
climbing measure to measure
singin' soft melody
to harmonic pleasure
sha, sha sha...
in the song
sha, sha sha...
in the dance
shalla boom shalla boom
sha sha
shalla boon, shalla boom
boom boom boom BOOMBOOM!
SHALLA BOOM
for young Greg and Sean
shalla boom shalla boom....
in the song
boom boomboom....
in the dance
SHIKKA SHAK, SHIKKA BOOM
boom boom
a room filled high
to a sonic beat
shakin' to the quake
of shuddering feet
fall into the flow
with a single note
fall into the flow
with a single note
break down the bass
augment the tone
pulsin' to the rhythm
pushed into the bone
tip, tap, tippin'to a tempo clock
throbbin' to the music
with a steady rock
hands held up high
ears low to floor
reachin' down deep
to the crack of the core
whole back step beat
climbing measure to measure
singin' soft melody
to harmonic pleasure
sha, sha sha...
in the song
sha, sha sha...
in the dance
shalla boom shalla boom
sha sha
shalla boon, shalla boom
boom boom boom BOOMBOOM!
BREAD UPON THE WATERS
"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days (Eccles. xi. 1). When the Nile overflows its banks the weeds perish and the soil is disintegrated. The rice-seed being cast into the water takes root, and is found in due time growing in healthful vigour. "The expression "cast your bread on the surface of the waters," is taken from the custom of sowing seed by casting it from boats into overflowing rivers, or in marshy ground. When the waters recede, the grain will fall to the soil and spring up.
I shall cast bread upon waters
for the day has come
where labourers wait not vainly
upon soulful efforts
grains of self fall onto soil
generations past knew it well
and through their toil
each seed sprung up
to bring each harvest in
"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days (Eccles. xi. 1). When the Nile overflows its banks the weeds perish and the soil is disintegrated. The rice-seed being cast into the water takes root, and is found in due time growing in healthful vigour. "The expression "cast your bread on the surface of the waters," is taken from the custom of sowing seed by casting it from boats into overflowing rivers, or in marshy ground. When the waters recede, the grain will fall to the soil and spring up.
I shall cast bread upon waters
for the day has come
where labourers wait not vainly
upon soulful efforts
grains of self fall onto soil
generations past knew it well
and through their toil
each seed sprung up
to bring each harvest in
SELF ACCEPTANCE
"Youth is a beautiful dream, on whose brightness books shed a blinding dust. will ever the day come when the wise link the joy of the knowledge of youths dream? Will ever the day came when the Nature becomes the teacher of man, humanity his book and life his school? : Khalil Gibran.."Thoughts and Meditations"
I stayed out late on the dock. Things have really been hard of late so I decided to do a little overtime. I am quite the outsider yet again but everywhere I seem to go makes me feel this way. A few visitors from the ship past by on the way to one of our local restaurants. Of course, I had been rather upset recently with negative encounters with some of the people working out on the wharf combined with my rage about the widespread corruption that has taken hold of this Nation particularly meditating on this whole drug situation that has seen a resurgence in our land...I despise it!I had painted a picture of this new Drug Lord literally in my mind as an ugly beast with horns of the devil dripping blood from his fangs taking form as a shady character lurking and hiding in dark corners. I saw this picture clearly and hating him more and more with the thought.The night held a half moon in the sky with Mars planted right next to it.I paused awhile remembering an earlier incident that made me feel sick inside. Whenever I feel lost or disappointed with myself of losing a maturity that I obviously have not cultivated.I have a tendency to do two things, either to look out into the sea or up into the sky. I guess searching for some resolve in a wider space than the feelings of my trapped circumstance.I like speaking with young people, they seem to have so much vigor about life and full of its possibilities. I know it has become so difficult for many in our present climate of political malady and the stale mate it has created within our Nation.I too feel their frustrations. I like dialoguing with them about their ideas but so many express a feeling of being stifled within their struggles to define themselves and individual identities here...it is far ranging.This is something that I feel equally at home with and with all honesty I am just coming into my own sense of self after years of confusion and frustration.I often speak about my dual heritage which has truly caused much of my waywardness in the past...simply because the world has not quite caught up.I know it has taken a long time to understand what all this was about and have spent years trying to find it everywhere except where it could only be found with myself.This journey although so simple caused much pain and anger left unresolved in my life not knowing who I was..not believing in who I was.A couple of friends and acquaintances stopped by to have a short conversation with me. I like meeting people because I have spent most of my time being alone in my private little world within this bubble of artistic safety.Art, like most artists I have met, had become my way of communicating such feelings of alienation and a venue of escape from a physical self I never truly identified with.It can become a lonely place at times often creating a secret hideaway in my world of pure fantasy... diving truth from the imagination within.There are many reasons why people are made to feel isolated today but it is common place of what artists particularly experience creating a powerful centre for the imagination.I sat quietly while waiting for people to return from dinner. Wood's Roger's walk became empty as I was left alone again so I packed up my paintings into my car and drove off. As it has become the ritual, I ran out of gasoline again along the way..I am always gracious when some kind soul takes pity on me in this circumstance but this time it came in the form of a young man who was neatly dressed. I immediately was struck by how handsome he was and how gentle his demeanor was. Yes, I thought to myself here was someone I could trust. He offered to walk along side me as I made my way to the nearest gas station. As is my normal way we began to talk about life and philosophy...He was in his early twenties and very polite but seemed to want to talk to me about his recent troubles and his anxiety about his chosen profession ...drug dealing.Aghast of course, I knew this was more than a coincidence as I had just earlier fumed with such hatred about these demons but my devil had turned out to be a young man barely out of his teens with an old man's head planted on young shoulders...By all accounts, he was a perfect gentleman. He told me about the hard times that had fallen on him lately, his life story revealing a child made to grow up fast in order to survive in the world. I have heard this story many times but had become so intolerant and desensitized to it as of late....like in most things I see happening around me but it often saddens me to hear this particular one again.We talked about philosophy, spirituality and life. I was honest about my feelings on drugs with equal fever and my reasoning why. My heart began to warm toward him as he expressed his many harsh experiences. I began to see this beautiful man speak with such sincerity and honesty about his life.I believe we are all made to experience this sense of Isolation that brings about alienation within our environment but more importantly with ourselves and each other. It is a feeling which I have always felt not really knowing where I fit in or belonged..the feelings of being alone.I have always felt this deep down, believing issues or events in my life created this vacuum within the backdrop of alienation.We spoke further about the importance of self love and how our problems are perhaps not as big as they appeared in the greater scale of things.I gazed up at the moon that I had thought of earlier pointing it out to the young man. I explained my once absurd observation about my moon metaphor and how perceptions may truly not reflect what actually was out there.I asked him.."what do you see?"..he seemed weighted down with all his problems while he shrugged and answered..."The Moon" "Which is bigger..the Moon or Mars?..I said to him quizzically..."The Moon" he replied..It was an obvious response and a logical one as the mood really does appear to be the largest of the two."No." I said, " Mars is the largest of the two but the Moon appears larger as it is closest to the earth and us"We spoke about perceptions and together while we dialogue about how things appeared to be and what truly is ...perceptions between illusions and reality and how knowledge informs the two... In hindsight our immediate understanding is a much smaller picture presented to us than the bigger picture that captures us all... As I began to pour in my gasoline, I looked at this kind and beautiful young a man who showed such courtesy while staying to see I got home safely. He like me I imagined, was searching for some avenue of acceptance and I suspect finally being loved and learning to love one's self amidst an atmosphere of rejection is the most important. I suppose that anger that follows ultimately comes from the realization that this rejection is somehow related to some form of prejudice resulting finally in self hatred.In that sense, I knew that we had taken similar journeys ...learning to love oneself with true acceptance is the hardest thing to do whoever one is as there will be many obstacles both internally and externally offering resistance to this realization.It is important that we all travel this road alone however, whomever we are because it is vital be able to love ourselves fully whatever that means..I meet a lot of people... in order to love another ..let's face it, we all need to feel loved and It is an important road toward self acceptance and the final journey I believe we must all make unconditionally by just being ourselves. I think perhaps this is what we are experiencing as a society... a scary thing considering its full implications but sometimes it is best to reject the ordered program in order to bring about reform in self and healing. We hugged each other as we parted...yes, I thought to myself honestly, he truly was a beautiful young man with such youthful vigor and such beautiful potential...and at that moment I had loved him more than than I had loved myself because his actions were born out of a sense of loss and desperation which I have too have felt occasionally..He was not the monster I had created in my mind....and again I smiled warmly at the Moon on my way back home...because all of our journeys are just simply about feeling accepted...
"Youth is a beautiful dream, on whose brightness books shed a blinding dust. will ever the day come when the wise link the joy of the knowledge of youths dream? Will ever the day came when the Nature becomes the teacher of man, humanity his book and life his school? : Khalil Gibran.."Thoughts and Meditations"
I stayed out late on the dock. Things have really been hard of late so I decided to do a little overtime. I am quite the outsider yet again but everywhere I seem to go makes me feel this way. A few visitors from the ship past by on the way to one of our local restaurants. Of course, I had been rather upset recently with negative encounters with some of the people working out on the wharf combined with my rage about the widespread corruption that has taken hold of this Nation particularly meditating on this whole drug situation that has seen a resurgence in our land...I despise it!I had painted a picture of this new Drug Lord literally in my mind as an ugly beast with horns of the devil dripping blood from his fangs taking form as a shady character lurking and hiding in dark corners. I saw this picture clearly and hating him more and more with the thought.The night held a half moon in the sky with Mars planted right next to it.I paused awhile remembering an earlier incident that made me feel sick inside. Whenever I feel lost or disappointed with myself of losing a maturity that I obviously have not cultivated.I have a tendency to do two things, either to look out into the sea or up into the sky. I guess searching for some resolve in a wider space than the feelings of my trapped circumstance.I like speaking with young people, they seem to have so much vigor about life and full of its possibilities. I know it has become so difficult for many in our present climate of political malady and the stale mate it has created within our Nation.I too feel their frustrations. I like dialoguing with them about their ideas but so many express a feeling of being stifled within their struggles to define themselves and individual identities here...it is far ranging.This is something that I feel equally at home with and with all honesty I am just coming into my own sense of self after years of confusion and frustration.I often speak about my dual heritage which has truly caused much of my waywardness in the past...simply because the world has not quite caught up.I know it has taken a long time to understand what all this was about and have spent years trying to find it everywhere except where it could only be found with myself.This journey although so simple caused much pain and anger left unresolved in my life not knowing who I was..not believing in who I was.A couple of friends and acquaintances stopped by to have a short conversation with me. I like meeting people because I have spent most of my time being alone in my private little world within this bubble of artistic safety.Art, like most artists I have met, had become my way of communicating such feelings of alienation and a venue of escape from a physical self I never truly identified with.It can become a lonely place at times often creating a secret hideaway in my world of pure fantasy... diving truth from the imagination within.There are many reasons why people are made to feel isolated today but it is common place of what artists particularly experience creating a powerful centre for the imagination.I sat quietly while waiting for people to return from dinner. Wood's Roger's walk became empty as I was left alone again so I packed up my paintings into my car and drove off. As it has become the ritual, I ran out of gasoline again along the way..I am always gracious when some kind soul takes pity on me in this circumstance but this time it came in the form of a young man who was neatly dressed. I immediately was struck by how handsome he was and how gentle his demeanor was. Yes, I thought to myself here was someone I could trust. He offered to walk along side me as I made my way to the nearest gas station. As is my normal way we began to talk about life and philosophy...He was in his early twenties and very polite but seemed to want to talk to me about his recent troubles and his anxiety about his chosen profession ...drug dealing.Aghast of course, I knew this was more than a coincidence as I had just earlier fumed with such hatred about these demons but my devil had turned out to be a young man barely out of his teens with an old man's head planted on young shoulders...By all accounts, he was a perfect gentleman. He told me about the hard times that had fallen on him lately, his life story revealing a child made to grow up fast in order to survive in the world. I have heard this story many times but had become so intolerant and desensitized to it as of late....like in most things I see happening around me but it often saddens me to hear this particular one again.We talked about philosophy, spirituality and life. I was honest about my feelings on drugs with equal fever and my reasoning why. My heart began to warm toward him as he expressed his many harsh experiences. I began to see this beautiful man speak with such sincerity and honesty about his life.I believe we are all made to experience this sense of Isolation that brings about alienation within our environment but more importantly with ourselves and each other. It is a feeling which I have always felt not really knowing where I fit in or belonged..the feelings of being alone.I have always felt this deep down, believing issues or events in my life created this vacuum within the backdrop of alienation.We spoke further about the importance of self love and how our problems are perhaps not as big as they appeared in the greater scale of things.I gazed up at the moon that I had thought of earlier pointing it out to the young man. I explained my once absurd observation about my moon metaphor and how perceptions may truly not reflect what actually was out there.I asked him.."what do you see?"..he seemed weighted down with all his problems while he shrugged and answered..."The Moon" "Which is bigger..the Moon or Mars?..I said to him quizzically..."The Moon" he replied..It was an obvious response and a logical one as the mood really does appear to be the largest of the two."No." I said, " Mars is the largest of the two but the Moon appears larger as it is closest to the earth and us"We spoke about perceptions and together while we dialogue about how things appeared to be and what truly is ...perceptions between illusions and reality and how knowledge informs the two... In hindsight our immediate understanding is a much smaller picture presented to us than the bigger picture that captures us all... As I began to pour in my gasoline, I looked at this kind and beautiful young a man who showed such courtesy while staying to see I got home safely. He like me I imagined, was searching for some avenue of acceptance and I suspect finally being loved and learning to love one's self amidst an atmosphere of rejection is the most important. I suppose that anger that follows ultimately comes from the realization that this rejection is somehow related to some form of prejudice resulting finally in self hatred.In that sense, I knew that we had taken similar journeys ...learning to love oneself with true acceptance is the hardest thing to do whoever one is as there will be many obstacles both internally and externally offering resistance to this realization.It is important that we all travel this road alone however, whomever we are because it is vital be able to love ourselves fully whatever that means..I meet a lot of people... in order to love another ..let's face it, we all need to feel loved and It is an important road toward self acceptance and the final journey I believe we must all make unconditionally by just being ourselves. I think perhaps this is what we are experiencing as a society... a scary thing considering its full implications but sometimes it is best to reject the ordered program in order to bring about reform in self and healing. We hugged each other as we parted...yes, I thought to myself honestly, he truly was a beautiful young man with such youthful vigor and such beautiful potential...and at that moment I had loved him more than than I had loved myself because his actions were born out of a sense of loss and desperation which I have too have felt occasionally..He was not the monster I had created in my mind....and again I smiled warmly at the Moon on my way back home...because all of our journeys are just simply about feeling accepted...
PEACE AND LOVE
A MOMENT, A DAY AND FOREVER
I dream of forever
a day longer than a moment
more lasting
than seconds ticking on a clock into time
forever requiring patience
with each precious moment
reaching on....
CHAOTIC COMBUSTION
living in chaotic combustion
waiting to self destruct
imploding and explodinga
ll aroundopening these windows
lets a cool breeze in
lighter and more balanced
love brings freedom
love is liberating
love is you...
A MOMENT, A DAY AND FOREVER
I dream of forever
a day longer than a moment
more lasting
than seconds ticking on a clock into time
forever requiring patience
with each precious moment
reaching on....
CHAOTIC COMBUSTION
living in chaotic combustion
waiting to self destruct
imploding and explodinga
ll aroundopening these windows
lets a cool breeze in
lighter and more balanced
love brings freedom
love is liberating
love is you...
POT POURI
All had quieted down today. Mr Brown, a cab driver, passed by smiling boasting of his catch of fish for today which would provide him for a meal every day for a week- some jacks and a large grouper. Sidney with vigorous repertition continued to blow on his saxaphone while old Buck with broken arm in cast wiped down a Taxi van with an old cotton rag.. Buck who is an alcholic can generally be heard being so profane out there but with having nothing, the dock seems to be the only thing that he knows. Mr Beneby a local constable passed by scouting the area with earnest sincerety.I wonder alot about the people on the Wharf. Such a hodge potch and a pot pouri of difference which at times seems more like rejected indiviuals framing some sort of community or even family members however disfunctional.Nobody is perfect out there including me which makes us quite uncceptable to a larger society I think.Dark clouds formed in the West indicating that a huge down pour was expected later that day...I sanded down some old ply wood to work on some painting not quite formed in my mind. Odel sat down beside me under my Umbrella.. We spoke of her difficult pregnacy, now four months gone. I like Odel alot becasue she is so naturally kind and showed me such grace when I first arrived with my georgie bundle like some gypsie out on the Wharf.I sat back for a while, watching an eclectic bunch of people as they passed by. Odel and I laughed about how when you truly observed what people looked like, they are all such individual's so different..some fat some small, some short some tall..each coming with a unique finger print framed with the indvidual self..by now my obsessive observation led me to looking at noses and how ears and eyes each looked so different with hair ...husband and wife, mother and daughter.. ectA young couple who I caught kissing and snuggling earlier on my way to work walked past as we smiled at each other...what a wonderful pot pouri of life's existance it seemed today and with such harmony..yes it was a peaceful today down at the Wharf...and I felt at peace with myself
All had quieted down today. Mr Brown, a cab driver, passed by smiling boasting of his catch of fish for today which would provide him for a meal every day for a week- some jacks and a large grouper. Sidney with vigorous repertition continued to blow on his saxaphone while old Buck with broken arm in cast wiped down a Taxi van with an old cotton rag.. Buck who is an alcholic can generally be heard being so profane out there but with having nothing, the dock seems to be the only thing that he knows. Mr Beneby a local constable passed by scouting the area with earnest sincerety.I wonder alot about the people on the Wharf. Such a hodge potch and a pot pouri of difference which at times seems more like rejected indiviuals framing some sort of community or even family members however disfunctional.Nobody is perfect out there including me which makes us quite uncceptable to a larger society I think.Dark clouds formed in the West indicating that a huge down pour was expected later that day...I sanded down some old ply wood to work on some painting not quite formed in my mind. Odel sat down beside me under my Umbrella.. We spoke of her difficult pregnacy, now four months gone. I like Odel alot becasue she is so naturally kind and showed me such grace when I first arrived with my georgie bundle like some gypsie out on the Wharf.I sat back for a while, watching an eclectic bunch of people as they passed by. Odel and I laughed about how when you truly observed what people looked like, they are all such individual's so different..some fat some small, some short some tall..each coming with a unique finger print framed with the indvidual self..by now my obsessive observation led me to looking at noses and how ears and eyes each looked so different with hair ...husband and wife, mother and daughter.. ectA young couple who I caught kissing and snuggling earlier on my way to work walked past as we smiled at each other...what a wonderful pot pouri of life's existance it seemed today and with such harmony..yes it was a peaceful today down at the Wharf...and I felt at peace with myself
THE PIONO
for Bro...
a piano plays upon my heart
moving free within a song
it reaches deep into solitude
searching for its secret source
earth guttered up open the sky
each drop chrystalizedd
as sturdy hands press hard
upon a single note
gently swooning back
fleshing out heart onto keys
to care so much about the world
with this sound filled symphony
moving through the mind
I cannot say it is the same
and more so now I need me more
to play within this chorus
all things are but petty muses
seeking to find a barren soul
I claim this higher one to me
away from secret hideaways
taking flight within sweet melody
trancending heights
to see God and be it
compose carefully my heart
while It falls back
to such earthly planes
soul resting with each single note
soured with sweet dissonance
upon constructed harmony
sad eyes drunken with soul
reminding of this mortal's life
for Bro...
a piano plays upon my heart
moving free within a song
it reaches deep into solitude
searching for its secret source
earth guttered up open the sky
each drop chrystalizedd
as sturdy hands press hard
upon a single note
gently swooning back
fleshing out heart onto keys
to care so much about the world
with this sound filled symphony
moving through the mind
I cannot say it is the same
and more so now I need me more
to play within this chorus
all things are but petty muses
seeking to find a barren soul
I claim this higher one to me
away from secret hideaways
taking flight within sweet melody
trancending heights
to see God and be it
compose carefully my heart
while It falls back
to such earthly planes
soul resting with each single note
soured with sweet dissonance
upon constructed harmony
sad eyes drunken with soul
reminding of this mortal's life
DUSK
The sky turned a pale blue as evening approached. The sun had just about disappeared by now leaving behind a reflection of soft peach in the clouds.I Looked out into the narrow bite which served as the western entrance to the harbour. Haitian sloops, private yaughts, Cruise liners and local fisherman all filtered through at this point.The light house stood across from the way watching over it all.A flock of seaguls took of from the edge of the dock while a small group a tourists remained on the wharf stripping themselves to their swim suits to jump into the merky harbour with a big splash.I continued to look on as local shop keepers, vendors and plat ladies slowly packed up their goods to go home for the day. Mrs Mcdonald strolled pass as usual with an umbrella tucked neatly under her arm, 'how you doin' sweetie", she inquired politely as I replied with a curtious smile to return the expected " fine and thank you mamm"I leaned against the dock's concrete wall pensively thinking how this whole place was where my grandfather had once walked in older times, English news papers clenched tightly under his arm like Mrs Mcdonald's umbrella. How removed it all seemed to me now, those stories feeling more important at the time than they actually ever were. I never connected with any of it really, it always felt like old folk talking old times while I sapped it all in with childish imaginative facination.I relived each tale with such vivid recall for some vain reason perhaps to understand a sense of place in a changing land that I truly never felt a sense of belonging to. Everyone else always seemed more entitled to all this than my confusion about it all, my mother being an english woman coming to the Bahamas in the late 50's and my father's traditonal Bahamian roots which I continued to cling onto to justify my sense of home but an accepted understanding that I was not quite them.Everything here was a memory of the past, an old relic reminding me of yesterday.Yet this feeling of displacement remained and a longing to belong that plagued me as a child. I think it is an eventualy evolution when one is forced well meaningly to conform to a single cultural note of a National identityYears ago i made the conscious decision to let go of it all, not wanting to accept the history that went along with me..I looked around Bay street, time stood still here for me and some how I was held in its grip from the past without a conscious placement of self.
The sky turned a pale blue as evening approached. The sun had just about disappeared by now leaving behind a reflection of soft peach in the clouds.I Looked out into the narrow bite which served as the western entrance to the harbour. Haitian sloops, private yaughts, Cruise liners and local fisherman all filtered through at this point.The light house stood across from the way watching over it all.A flock of seaguls took of from the edge of the dock while a small group a tourists remained on the wharf stripping themselves to their swim suits to jump into the merky harbour with a big splash.I continued to look on as local shop keepers, vendors and plat ladies slowly packed up their goods to go home for the day. Mrs Mcdonald strolled pass as usual with an umbrella tucked neatly under her arm, 'how you doin' sweetie", she inquired politely as I replied with a curtious smile to return the expected " fine and thank you mamm"I leaned against the dock's concrete wall pensively thinking how this whole place was where my grandfather had once walked in older times, English news papers clenched tightly under his arm like Mrs Mcdonald's umbrella. How removed it all seemed to me now, those stories feeling more important at the time than they actually ever were. I never connected with any of it really, it always felt like old folk talking old times while I sapped it all in with childish imaginative facination.I relived each tale with such vivid recall for some vain reason perhaps to understand a sense of place in a changing land that I truly never felt a sense of belonging to. Everyone else always seemed more entitled to all this than my confusion about it all, my mother being an english woman coming to the Bahamas in the late 50's and my father's traditonal Bahamian roots which I continued to cling onto to justify my sense of home but an accepted understanding that I was not quite them.Everything here was a memory of the past, an old relic reminding me of yesterday.Yet this feeling of displacement remained and a longing to belong that plagued me as a child. I think it is an eventualy evolution when one is forced well meaningly to conform to a single cultural note of a National identityYears ago i made the conscious decision to let go of it all, not wanting to accept the history that went along with me..I looked around Bay street, time stood still here for me and some how I was held in its grip from the past without a conscious placement of self.
BREAKING LOSE
breaking lose being free
with everything
cutting it wide
open
releasing it all
no worries no cares
no regrets
no fears
living free...
freeing, seeing everywhere
my first responsibility me...
WALKING CLICHES
I know I see the world
too simply
repeating platitudes
and old cliches
every love song still holds a note
and every sonnet brings me hope
to speak of higher ideals
I blush embarrassingly
when caught admiring
things far too beautiful for me
prefering a simple prayer with grace
to the sound of violent demagogory
and now and then I like a rhyme
to feel its metre beat in time
as old fashioned as that seems
walking always with old cliches still
to dream romantic dreams
This is dedicated to the person who just fired a shot outside my home....
MISTA DRUG LORD
mista drug lord
creaming off a crop
corrupting us
into your ways
selling poison
to young minds
doped up
fucked up
selfish
for greed
for power
for money
starve them
only to come
with a bank number
to save them
you don't know how
to build
only how to destroy
only how to kill
preying on the sad
and insecure
the dumb
and niavethe desparate
and the poor
you livin' in a plastic world
full of illusions
full of your delusions
about yourself
put a gun in your hand
you feel big
about that?
stuff your pocket
with dollar bills
blood on that money
you feel right
about that?
man
big, bad dope man
that's the only way
you know to be a man?
better to live soft
than right
mista Drug King
gang banger
sittin' pretty and high
on the top of the garbage
you sell
but money can't buy you
pride nor diginity
those things you
gonna have to work for...
MISTA DRUG LORD
mista drug lord
creaming off a crop
corrupting us
into your ways
selling poison
to young minds
doped up
fucked up
selfish
for greed
for power
for money
starve them
only to come
with a bank number
to save them
you don't know how
to build
only how to destroy
only how to kill
preying on the sad
and insecure
the dumb
and niavethe desparate
and the poor
you livin' in a plastic world
full of illusions
full of your delusions
about yourself
put a gun in your hand
you feel big
about that?
stuff your pocket
with dollar bills
blood on that money
you feel right
about that?
man
big, bad dope man
that's the only way
you know to be a man?
better to live soft
than right
mista Drug King
gang banger
sittin' pretty and high
on the top of the garbage
you sell
but money can't buy you
pride nor diginity
those things you
gonna have to work for...
RECIPE FOR A "NEW "LIBERATION
setting love before agendas
grace before money
a book before a sword
the heart over the skin
art removed from culture
literacy over ebonics
solitude over rabble noise
bounderies removing choas
educating more than self
flesh over materialism
life over death
OH GOD MAKE ME
oh God make me
a presence in thy light
help me to be strong
through your divine will
let me hear your words
over mine
that I may know your desire
be guided by your grace
this world I know is not
how they have said
you say do not to worry
have faith
this confusion is theirs
to set me free
away from those
who do not know your freedom
you say have faith
in your greater hand
be comforted by your knowing
oh God make me better
for thy love
truly...amen
setting love before agendas
grace before money
a book before a sword
the heart over the skin
art removed from culture
literacy over ebonics
solitude over rabble noise
bounderies removing choas
educating more than self
flesh over materialism
life over death
OH GOD MAKE ME
oh God make me
a presence in thy light
help me to be strong
through your divine will
let me hear your words
over mine
that I may know your desire
be guided by your grace
this world I know is not
how they have said
you say do not to worry
have faith
this confusion is theirs
to set me free
away from those
who do not know your freedom
you say have faith
in your greater hand
be comforted by your knowing
oh God make me better
for thy love
truly...amen
EDGE OF THE SEA
colliding into jagged rocks
winds crash water hard
foaming up white
along the edge of the sea
against a body's tempo
pushing insides out
as loud sounds crack into crevasses
and through sink holes
pulling thoughts away
from a city's pace
into their time
the wind, the rocks and the sea
swelling then retracting
waves
rolling then rippling in again
to wash tired eyes in aqua marine
foaming up white
along the edge of the sea
colliding into jagged rocks
winds crash water hard
foaming up white
along the edge of the sea
against a body's tempo
pushing insides out
as loud sounds crack into crevasses
and through sink holes
pulling thoughts away
from a city's pace
into their time
the wind, the rocks and the sea
swelling then retracting
waves
rolling then rippling in again
to wash tired eyes in aqua marine
foaming up white
along the edge of the sea
THROW THEM TO THE LIONS
I wish to rid this land
of poly-mites
the ones now emerging
in our state
by returning to the days
of Roman gladiators
to a lesser time of strife and hate
we'd let them fight like wild animals
in arenas for all to see
hold no elections
let them fight a duel
and win by royal decree
or have them play a game of concher
each nut to split the other's head
to whack each other harder still
until the other's dead
this other sport
is far less civilized
with very little honor involved
so throw these christians
to the lions
and watch 'em
while they're mauled
Poly-mite: my contrived word to describe political parasites
-Concher: an english children's game with a concher nut tied at the end of a string
I wish to rid this land
of poly-mites
the ones now emerging
in our state
by returning to the days
of Roman gladiators
to a lesser time of strife and hate
we'd let them fight like wild animals
in arenas for all to see
hold no elections
let them fight a duel
and win by royal decree
or have them play a game of concher
each nut to split the other's head
to whack each other harder still
until the other's dead
this other sport
is far less civilized
with very little honor involved
so throw these christians
to the lions
and watch 'em
while they're mauled
Poly-mite: my contrived word to describe political parasites
-Concher: an english children's game with a concher nut tied at the end of a string
WORDS ARE EVERYTHING
Words are everything,
what we put out to be heard
or read
anything said creates a mood
within an environment
to make a racist remark
or to try uplift a moment
about anything
it affects everyone
bigotry
words are powerful things
evoking thought
framing minds dictating actions
for young and old alike
we should be careful
how we choose to express them
all of us
thoughts creates existance
Words are everything,
what we put out to be heard
or read
anything said creates a mood
within an environment
to make a racist remark
or to try uplift a moment
about anything
it affects everyone
bigotry
words are powerful things
evoking thought
framing minds dictating actions
for young and old alike
we should be careful
how we choose to express them
all of us
thoughts creates existance
LOT"S WIFE
Genesis 19 speaks of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Lot was warned by two angels to take his family out of the city (Genesis 19:12).(26) But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt."This is a satirical inverted account of the story of Lot. He and his wife are part of an autocratic rule of an oppressed peoples. They are chased from the city but the people longing for safety hark en back to a heritage of fear where thinking freely is done safely by Lot and his wife. Angels return and say not to look back on them or they shall turn to salt..some do and the rest is history..i hope many do not find this blasphemous..most essentially God!
On the evening of the day of the morning before, Lot arose from his bed. He looked at his aging, calloused hands as he washed his face, observing how carefully molded they had become from working diligently and hard all his life. He smiled kindly at his wife as she lay sleeping peaceably."Tomorrow..." he thought within the calm dark, night, " we shall leave our home."War had ravaged the city and confusion and chaos had ensued.The old ways had become corrupted and twisted within three generations. Lot once truly a man of God had also become corrupted with his fear of losing his once great power. He saw how he and his people flew into the wind with pride and a stubborn abstinence. But without the knowledge of will and his commands, his order could not evoke true freedom or hold control.His gestures thus appeared not as love but as a rule of oppression.The people of Sodom remained trapped within an old order, deaf to the sound of true love or any real freedom.Some begged him not to leave, to stay firm as a great Pillar of salt to hold the city strong but the city crumbled more under his vision and efforts.Lot eventually was seen as an enemy of his people who felt oppressed through his knowledge of old ways.Then two beautiful angels appeared to warn the people of Sodom that if Lot and his family remained there then a great disaster would befall the city and all its peoples. So Lot and his wife with daughters were turned away and banished from the land.Lot smiled gently as he shook his wife out of her quiet sleep to begin their long travels. He sat back looking sadly at his home. He knew It was time to let his people go and felt unfettered as he picked up the last of his belongings.Then embarking into the early morning, they resolved to make their way into the unknown and uncharted new territories.A small crowd gathered, standing firm to look as this once great pillar who held their City together left but whose rule had now blinded them from experiencing all that was new or free. They stood fixed like stone statues as they watched him slowly disappear far into the distance...
Moral:Though old men could never turn back the clocks to recapture their youth... the young shall never know the wisdom nor the freedom to ever let go...
SMOG OF OPPRESSION
Looking down the barrel
of this oppressive State
my God, how can people exist here?
I wonder this all the time
or breath through
the invisible smog of smoke
polluted with bigotry
so thick enough to choke on
sometimes
if I could only see it
name it
identify how
it leeks out into the air
just to exist
with an oppressed peoples
it stays heavy
lurking behind a stone veneer
of crude smiles...
Genesis 19 speaks of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Lot was warned by two angels to take his family out of the city (Genesis 19:12).(26) But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt."This is a satirical inverted account of the story of Lot. He and his wife are part of an autocratic rule of an oppressed peoples. They are chased from the city but the people longing for safety hark en back to a heritage of fear where thinking freely is done safely by Lot and his wife. Angels return and say not to look back on them or they shall turn to salt..some do and the rest is history..i hope many do not find this blasphemous..most essentially God!
On the evening of the day of the morning before, Lot arose from his bed. He looked at his aging, calloused hands as he washed his face, observing how carefully molded they had become from working diligently and hard all his life. He smiled kindly at his wife as she lay sleeping peaceably."Tomorrow..." he thought within the calm dark, night, " we shall leave our home."War had ravaged the city and confusion and chaos had ensued.The old ways had become corrupted and twisted within three generations. Lot once truly a man of God had also become corrupted with his fear of losing his once great power. He saw how he and his people flew into the wind with pride and a stubborn abstinence. But without the knowledge of will and his commands, his order could not evoke true freedom or hold control.His gestures thus appeared not as love but as a rule of oppression.The people of Sodom remained trapped within an old order, deaf to the sound of true love or any real freedom.Some begged him not to leave, to stay firm as a great Pillar of salt to hold the city strong but the city crumbled more under his vision and efforts.Lot eventually was seen as an enemy of his people who felt oppressed through his knowledge of old ways.Then two beautiful angels appeared to warn the people of Sodom that if Lot and his family remained there then a great disaster would befall the city and all its peoples. So Lot and his wife with daughters were turned away and banished from the land.Lot smiled gently as he shook his wife out of her quiet sleep to begin their long travels. He sat back looking sadly at his home. He knew It was time to let his people go and felt unfettered as he picked up the last of his belongings.Then embarking into the early morning, they resolved to make their way into the unknown and uncharted new territories.A small crowd gathered, standing firm to look as this once great pillar who held their City together left but whose rule had now blinded them from experiencing all that was new or free. They stood fixed like stone statues as they watched him slowly disappear far into the distance...
Moral:Though old men could never turn back the clocks to recapture their youth... the young shall never know the wisdom nor the freedom to ever let go...
SMOG OF OPPRESSION
Looking down the barrel
of this oppressive State
my God, how can people exist here?
I wonder this all the time
or breath through
the invisible smog of smoke
polluted with bigotry
so thick enough to choke on
sometimes
if I could only see it
name it
identify how
it leeks out into the air
just to exist
with an oppressed peoples
it stays heavy
lurking behind a stone veneer
of crude smiles...
MOVING ON
A few years back I lost a brother. He was a fine mentor and great talent and like most tortured artists, a very difficult person to get along with. I loved him dearly and there is not one day where I have not thought about him in his short but vibrant life.The death or rather the physical loss of a loved one can be the hardest thing to overcome. As an artist, academic and a student of culture, I have always looked to the external world to discover 'self' but with this passing came the realization that these things which I had spent almost twenty years pursuing now seemed so out of place. I felt driven to search deeper for truth.My questions were complex and the answers more sincere than the ones that I had so presciously chased after before . I asked the proverbial questions about God, the meaning of life and its purpose. Everything at that moment appeared futile. Even the act of being a creative artist or art istself which I always held with such high priorities seemed unimportant and trivial. Reasoning itself felt irrelevant. Losing the presence of an individual that had been a stepping stone throughout my life seemed surreal against the backdrop of this new reality. Feelings of helplessness followed by a vulnerabilty in a situation of which I had absolutley no control over. All my journeys of trying to make sense out of everything seemed senseless.These are common things I suppose that people go through during such times. This time it was happening to us and me and I was faced with a real sense of mortality and the loss became simultaneously a loss of myself with the added insecurity of losing others. My life had changed whether I knew it then or not.Still as I think back on my brother's vivacious and feroscious appetite for life, I realized yet another awful cliche which I will dare to repeat... that life is too damned short not to enjoy it in all its fullness. This is as prescious as the breath in our bodies and equally as vital..perhaps that is what God wished me to understand after all these years of searching and to understand this most of all with appreciation and gratitude...and when it is your time to leave this mortal's life, it is simply your time
DREAM VISITATIONS
According to our traditons when someone dies they often seek to communicate with you through dreams. Whether or not this is true I am not qualified to comment on but along with the passing of my brother followed a succession of visions and scenarios played out sporadically in dreams for a couple of months after his death.These visitations discontinued after a year that is until the other evening when he unexpectedly popped up again looking as self- assured and as confident as he had always done in life. Of course, I was happy to see him again and there he was as vivid and as clear as ever.. I gushed out how much I loved and missed him much to my conscious embarassment, something I would never have the courage to admit during his lifetime.For whatever reason whether psychological, emotional or even spiritual, I was elated to see him again, connecting an everyday thought with sight.It is also said within our tradition that spirits don't like being spoken to during such encounters as they don't like being reminded that they are dead and will dissappear immediately only to reappear later with equal confidence so I watched quietly as my dream continued. When I awoke, I pondered on the cryptic message that may have been being conveyed.Suffice to say, it settled my confused state of mind grappling with unresolved issues. I knew afterwards that I should never be afraid of me or the direction where life or circumstances were leading me.But most of all, I was glad I finally got the opportunity to tell him that I loved him...even in a dream it seemed satisfactory as death often takes one by surprise it seems and we seldom get the chance to say goodbye properly with love...The meaning of the message I will stay quiet about for the moment but I now know that we are truly never ever alone on this earth or in this life nor abandoned without some guidng presence...and I felt relieved and satisfied of not having the responsibility of having to work this damned thing called life all out for myself...
A few years back I lost a brother. He was a fine mentor and great talent and like most tortured artists, a very difficult person to get along with. I loved him dearly and there is not one day where I have not thought about him in his short but vibrant life.The death or rather the physical loss of a loved one can be the hardest thing to overcome. As an artist, academic and a student of culture, I have always looked to the external world to discover 'self' but with this passing came the realization that these things which I had spent almost twenty years pursuing now seemed so out of place. I felt driven to search deeper for truth.My questions were complex and the answers more sincere than the ones that I had so presciously chased after before . I asked the proverbial questions about God, the meaning of life and its purpose. Everything at that moment appeared futile. Even the act of being a creative artist or art istself which I always held with such high priorities seemed unimportant and trivial. Reasoning itself felt irrelevant. Losing the presence of an individual that had been a stepping stone throughout my life seemed surreal against the backdrop of this new reality. Feelings of helplessness followed by a vulnerabilty in a situation of which I had absolutley no control over. All my journeys of trying to make sense out of everything seemed senseless.These are common things I suppose that people go through during such times. This time it was happening to us and me and I was faced with a real sense of mortality and the loss became simultaneously a loss of myself with the added insecurity of losing others. My life had changed whether I knew it then or not.Still as I think back on my brother's vivacious and feroscious appetite for life, I realized yet another awful cliche which I will dare to repeat... that life is too damned short not to enjoy it in all its fullness. This is as prescious as the breath in our bodies and equally as vital..perhaps that is what God wished me to understand after all these years of searching and to understand this most of all with appreciation and gratitude...and when it is your time to leave this mortal's life, it is simply your time
DREAM VISITATIONS
According to our traditons when someone dies they often seek to communicate with you through dreams. Whether or not this is true I am not qualified to comment on but along with the passing of my brother followed a succession of visions and scenarios played out sporadically in dreams for a couple of months after his death.These visitations discontinued after a year that is until the other evening when he unexpectedly popped up again looking as self- assured and as confident as he had always done in life. Of course, I was happy to see him again and there he was as vivid and as clear as ever.. I gushed out how much I loved and missed him much to my conscious embarassment, something I would never have the courage to admit during his lifetime.For whatever reason whether psychological, emotional or even spiritual, I was elated to see him again, connecting an everyday thought with sight.It is also said within our tradition that spirits don't like being spoken to during such encounters as they don't like being reminded that they are dead and will dissappear immediately only to reappear later with equal confidence so I watched quietly as my dream continued. When I awoke, I pondered on the cryptic message that may have been being conveyed.Suffice to say, it settled my confused state of mind grappling with unresolved issues. I knew afterwards that I should never be afraid of me or the direction where life or circumstances were leading me.But most of all, I was glad I finally got the opportunity to tell him that I loved him...even in a dream it seemed satisfactory as death often takes one by surprise it seems and we seldom get the chance to say goodbye properly with love...The meaning of the message I will stay quiet about for the moment but I now know that we are truly never ever alone on this earth or in this life nor abandoned without some guidng presence...and I felt relieved and satisfied of not having the responsibility of having to work this damned thing called life all out for myself...
BABBLE-ON
A FOOL IS THIRSTY
precious souls
golden ones
reflections of golden sunshine
laughing not with false cries
'cause...only a fool is thirsty
feel full when de' well run dry
breathing poluted air
of disdainful cries
feel full of plenty
us...'cause
only the fool
only the fool is thirsty
only the fool
is in abundance
when the water
spring's high
quote from Bob Marley
ERASING HATE
I wish I could take an eraser
to wipe out hate
turn blank onto a new page
each day I encounter
what memory made
fogetting not its lessons
like a phantom soul drifting
waiting to be reborn
with each daughter or son
and me
seeking to relive its destiny
like an anchor weighted down
fixed with gravity
sometimes it enfolds me
in its arms with the charm
of not caring
but hate is a heavy garment
wounds cut deep need healing
and justice must have mercy
perhaps it starts
with one
or two
or three
to wipe hate out
with history...
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