Candour
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
CANDOUR
Copyright@ 2001, Paul Andrew Bourne
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, copied or digitized whether manually,
electronically or otherwise without the prior
permission of the copyright owner.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Andrew Bourne is the first of three sons born to
Janet Green and Percival Bourne. Being raised by a single
parent (that is, mother) it has afforded him many and
varied experiences. These experiences were gleaned from
various schools, residences and social groups and have
impacted upon him, both positively and negatively.
His experiences, however, have forced him to analyze the
stark realities of creation, and as such have created the
appreciation for beauty in simple yet profound
happenings, and have resulted in him developing an
intellectual approach to life.
He has had the opportunity and privilege of marketing
confectionaries and other products as a vendor for his
mother during his early years even up to fifteen (15)
years. This he did for some eight (8) years in the
downtown Kingston area. He thereby believes that those
experiences have provided the invaluable exposure for
today’s varying challenges.
He is a graduate from Vauxhall Secondary School, and
University of Technology, Jamaica with a Diploma in
Business Studies from the Department of Technical
Education. Moreover, he is, currently reading for a Bachelor
of Science Degree in Economics at the University
of the West Indies, Mona Campus.
In his chosen vocation, as a mathematics teacher, he is
confronted with various situations which demand his
attention and skilful counsel. Out of such experiences
have arisen ‘Stay In School’ and ‘Graduation Day’
which clearly depict the love of people and country.
Because he is outspoken in nature, he tells it like it is.
‘The Ills’ and ‘The System’, to name a few pieces of his
works unfold Paul Bourne the person. Let his poems
stimulate and broaden your imagination, and give you an
incite into his personality.
<
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book began in 1990 when a teacher of Thumberlina Montessori
Preparatory School, off the Hope Road on Phoenix Avenue suddenly died
from cancer after only a one-week stay in hospital. She complained of being nauseous one day at work and so her family accompanied her to the
hospital where the medical personnel ran some diagnostic tests in order
to determined the cause of her complaints. The results came back
negative and as such we felt elated as members of her extended family.
This elation was short-lived as a few days later came the dreadful news
that Mrs. Watson passed off earlier that morning. As a result of the sadness
and psychological trauma that both teachers, including yours truly, and
students experienced came ‘Only If’. That piece of work vividly depicts
the life and preciousness of Mrs. Watson.
Furthermore, the materials of this my life’s thoughts have taken
some ten years to materialize in this form, and as such, my heartfelt,
sincere gratitude go undoubtedly to Ms. Dawn Muirhead, a teacher at
Vauxhall High School off the Windward Road, who inspired me to see
a book as a worthwhile option. Equally paramount in this venture is
Miss Elaine Edwards whose critique skills, daily friendship and love
assisted me in the editing, and conceptualizing of issues thus affording
me the pleasure of writing ‘A Special Friendship’ and most of the other
pieces, as part payment for the love, warmth and inspiration that she so
invaluably provided in order that I be able to express these thoughts.
And to Mrs. Dacres much heartfelt thanks in being that ear, eye and mouth.
And finally and by no means least significant are Ms. I Johnson,
Mrs. D. Bonnick and Mr. Maxwell “Bunny” Williams all of the Department
of Mathematics and Computer Studies, University of the West Indies, Mona, who despite my continuous and difficult requests stood by me like Christ to the disciples.
<
<
Life
a freshly cut rose
a prize just won
a delicacy of exotic foods
a vision in a dream
a potential lately discovered
nature in its purest form.
Life
an abstract art
a treacherous concept
a vague cue
a blank slate
an open artery
an enclosed desire.
Life
a philosophy.
I notice a land, yesterday
in exotic yields and picturesque terrain,
having that gift of youthfulness
gradually withering away in time
like frozen water in a broken cistern,
trickling to present from future
ah
with attention.
Change
though pure and inevitable
by Westerners’ grade -
a curse, degeneration; and a time for redress,
this event glides from the hairline
onwards by an invisible painter,
portraying yesterday’s realities as today’s desires.
Why, why have we created this fiend,
that disguises behind digits and reveals in
dissatisfaction?
For each reality lives in was, for Life Was!
The ills
It opened it wings
flexed its muscles
roared like a lion in travail
then raised it ugly head
like
like an avalanche from a flood’s ruin
ranting a knight’s vengeance
then it stood
stood tall like a man’s ego
unpolluted by environmental construct
for it was coming
coming
with a volcanic force
from far and deep.
It requested not the being’s consent
but attacked like a comet from on high
a change because of maturation
a biological ‘mischemistry’
a continuation, which was
aided by ignorance
no mad bull was that fierce, and
no obscenity was ever so displeased
for it lived in a ruin
of the body’s excreta.
Angry voices yelled for freedom
pleasant faces broke their civility
the ghost of a smile fades instantaneously
for hospitable beings become rebellious children
broad shoulders lowered their stance
children giggled in amusement
the very godly was filled
with much forbearance
the high and might
begged for discharge
for everyone had smelled the out-pour
The close were held its hostage
decency was marred by anger
no one commiserated with the
deficiency within the system
it made effluence’s stench
more bearable, gentle, tactful
to other prior mood destroyer
for this viper, old breath stopper
exploded like pent oxygen
as kind as a woman’s wrath.
Stumbling over hidden parts
creating the mind’s worst enemy;
a scorpion’s tool
that had stunned every scientist
outwitted all herbalists
uprooted the patient
stung the very infant
Oh!
Oh…the odour…the odour beneath the nostrils.
<
The skies opened with an
angelic melody
on the forlorn graves,
in search of one
that drives artificial oasis
on deserted psyche.
As a networking, of much,
had become its ploy
for it had filled
its chambers with the limbic system
of the gullible;
so, with a strangled hold
it carried a platter
of catchy rhetoric
that woos the simple to its throne.
It is from such a fray
that the system began
constructing a frame
for one such Caesar-Pharaoh
in vexation,
but, he a phantom
use a white god
like medicinal herbs
to increase hold on young and old
void of prejudice
by extracting decency in ant-like bites.
So, when he was caught
in a web of ambiguity;
no one cried, or even cared:
for we see no wisdom
in folly
nor knowledge in evil,
but death for all sins
the doctrine of the offended hand,
in mosaic governance,
with B.C meanings!
<
The early years
saw him blowing fire
consuming vegetation, trees, lives, world
after which purging everything with water
then judging with autocratic authority.
This has confused this being
for He has made me built
fear, flight, rejection, rebellion:
no mystery thereof
that my role-play
be endless killings.
Why?
Why He models himself this way
yet still seeks my love?
Thou hast driven terror
in my faint bones
and this hurts like sore.
I am not a violent man
but thou art my image
Why, why carry thyself this way?
Do you seek friendship –this style?
Can a mother be so gentle
while she distributes punishment
and you be higher
and know that the balance.
Some men of your flock preach-
death, destruction, viciousness
and you they say
we should adore
or, is it serve without hesitation.
I am scared stiff –
for I thought of thee as mommy
but that is never her
You’re a dictator, a beast
working mercilessly
that I accept thee as Creator.
Change thy ways
that I love, love, just love!!
They are tho’ who love, Love
for its spiritual mode
some for its entrances
many for its seductive hold
a few for the pure craft
but
these are not of what I speak.
I speak of
a simple lust
that creates gap between the sexes
as eternal conflicts
reign in homes of ‘grown-ups’
who hold religiously to its meanings.
The hatred, and aggression
from morass egos repeating profound
simplicities the day after love’s bliss
while bitchy actions justify disfigurements
for the fear of lost zone
the uncleansed words that roll of the
lips of even Christian couples
I speak of
creative apparels
stitched to cover bastards
‘cause of love’s separation
and the bickering,
the cut of the present: frivolous insensitivity
backed by caring lies
coupled with the failure of education
to transform minds, and I
see a beast arise in
children from the love they know.
Where are the roses, the soothing tones of love,
the intertwining of feelings to make the angels
lust, the honey in the mornings, the best friend
at nights and, the peace that spells R-E-S-P-E-C-T?
Love, love becomes folly
Then, the bitter is sweet and the sweet-love.
The light shone beneath
the coloured vase, parch leaves
soaked through a red rose slit
palpitating with rhythmical tones
then music seeps in that twilight zone
and the one eye god sparkles to
entertain that eve dress code.
The You roared at the entrance
of the cleft because fragrance tinkled
those heart-throbs moves from the look
of pure split in radian fields. A make
heavenly that vegetation’s appeal. The
garden was swan like for the fruits
were seen with morning glow a call
to kneed like doe. The earth was glorified
to accept that forceful host but no sound
would signal a silent curse.
The lizard scoops the sweet base of the dew
as its instrument glides over the surface curves
smearing against scales, deserted soil, sharp
gradients and smooth picturesque without
a scratch. The liquid was unadorned in
dove like robe stirring the mower to an
earthquake’s jerk.
The Rose rolls in mimicking modes from a
coyote’s moan to a cat’s call.
Of all taught milepost this call made
the railroad tranquil. The pricks grew
fierce injecting memories of a call
pure and sweet. For words of curse
burst with a sudden force signaling
nature’s winding curves of current flows.
That drained the land of all its substance,
then the monster sinks to a corpse like pose
that signals a sunken vessel
I awoke advancing from the confines of a covenant
like leaves in an opened runlet. To see waters cascading
in from off the citadel of ravished bowels
from the acceptance of twisted and broken things.
Is it that fire purifies or kills the make of a thing
that calls for heat? For the inside of this cell is
charcoal: For with one organ he offered friendship, love
and with another he quickly gave the assistance that the
Romans bestowed on the divinity.
He formed a tie at the cut of all exits
so that the escape milieu could be construed
as having no glitch, make my eyes be filled
with the thought of that Samaritan.
But, he knitted a knot that was kinked
that all good efforts were seen.
I felt the flood gates opened to release
force on my innocent soul.
He had taken the materials of this world
to execute a craft which threatens to hijack my
profound ignorance.
The one kind that had showed concern like a
mother is now in the hands of the system: I had
revealed to this confidant the secrets chambers,
the reserves of kinship, the frequencies of failure,
and source of all under-accomplishments in
exchange for camaraderie.
I witnessed the heavens opened to curse one so wise
yet simplistic. For the voice spoke of the offerings
that made such a capture wrong. He had given winding
loops for experiences. This the perfect capture.
A rumble was heard echoing across the mountainous terrains
with eyes in search of that pearl of yester-years. A mirage arose
from within the kingdom to set the coronation afloat that appeals
in increment to all senses of the brain. It unfolded in the
midst of the earth with colours of the discos that we could
sing of its catching tones, seductive charm and delicacy’s scent.
This pearl boast of its gift in appearance for the glamour of
being in clear waters make the good comes alive. I see hungry
faces of vicious beast call all names to identify a stone so unique.
That price, that some sought to pay appears too costly a gamble
but the stake for win was being appointed god. Now who could
dear refuse such a moment in the company of kings in council.
I held the statue of something so innocent in these arms for hours;
caressing, praising, and for days sought to establish my position
with a kind so highly demanded. It was not the adorn of the
stone that caught the attention but the simplicity of its truth.
The coverings were unveiled in peacock’s pose that I should see
the mystery of the world through its offerings.
An earth angrily spoke to the uncovered mask, preaching
to him who felt a wrath. I held steadfast to a purity I loved so dear,
thinking that the freshness, glow and art were enough to make me
fight for the same diamond. But I had to let go, I need not pretend,
I had won the prize at last but the rest of the whole had paid the same amount. It took depression’s comfort for this message to seep through
these ears, that I had got a bang.
A genre crept from within the common fields to
a earth’s recognition. I observed the metamorphosis
of life’s stacked paradox in sequential flows, for the
genesis of its sunshine was not the influence to universal
standardization. But a kind of paradise that I applaud, I
saw a single unadorned petal in youth with thorns in
everglow and devilish curves. It lacked the rough
edges of time, environmental factors, others input,
and the revocation of monies’ flows to compete in
garden of established plants.
Self-glow meant nothing, the pride of being among
the orchids waters not its prominence but adds to its
aesthetic appeal. Those beginning, the formation of buds
is similar yet unique in that all forms the characteristics
yet still this one stands like freshly cut tomatoes among grapes.
The kind of seduction in time that glorifies disintegration
of the species.
The cut of a rose hides the radiance of sun rise and not
the glamour of its decay. The truth of this belle
lies in the inconsistencies of the butterfly’s fold
in individuality, and not in the robustness of the stalks.
I recognized this from on the inside of that transparent
mask: from the purity of deceit. The appeal of this goddess
follows not the rule of large sample but the virtue of exclusivity.
I saw the pricks, and interpreted the deal to be
that of flaws, as they ate away my flesh in contrast
to pine. I saw not their comeliness from within the
garden. It took the revelation of separation’s lessons,
the make of the daffodils’ weirdness, the changing of the
seasons, the fall of appearance from the decay of others,
to make me accept, the hidden loveliness, importance,
of a rose’s thorns.
I remember YOU:
NOT for your manly aggression,
NOT for your gruesome hits,
NOT for your poor judgements,
NOT for your restrictive stance,
NOT for your wordless moments,
NOT for clothing, shelter, money,
NEITHER for those ‘catlike’ eyes,
NOR for the scars your punishments left behind
OR for your childish temper
BUT
for making me view equally destructive – lies, sex, betrayal, gamble
for making me understand the idea that I am someone NOT a digit
for making me grasp the principles in tolerance
for making me see the beauty in forgiveness
for making me comprehend the secrets in education
for making me idealize excellence
for showing me that my outlook must be positive and purposeful
for making me see the difference between criticism and cynicism
for making me recognize that life is more than frolic
for all the days spent inside
for all the sleepless nights by my bedside
for being my friend
for being my feet, ear, mind and eyes oftentimes
for making me love me
so
before YOU go
You should know
I . . .LOVE . . .YOU . . . MOM!
Come see the one
clothe
in jewels of a harlot
from the shores of a lion-heart
with flashy hips, bouncy confidence,
petite smile; and the safety of a
bosom laid in a mirage of outer
beauty that’s decked in the peace of
mercifulness,
makes the eyes leap from its habitat.
Eat the fat of thine eyes
for that damsel
who in wisdom
hides the wounds and fallen
spirit of her man, lives here.
The destruction of wives – she lifts,
the shackles of hardship
that buries free intuition – she releases,
and all that’s left she
purifies with counsel.
Whoso loves peace
walks in her midst
and overthrow that
strangled hold of a furious woman:
‘Cause she authorize a lion control
that keeps the man, always, and
hides all his woes in her bosom,
and kisses infidelity with a mother’s embrace.
The truth of that life:
It’s void of bickering,
blame food and pompousness,
for the housekeeper covers
hiccups in gentleness like
a walk in newfound freedom.
Come see the damsel
clothe in white,
released for the lonesome journey.
She who makes
tear easy for men folk, will trod alone.
No man had enjoyed the natures
food
but many wiser
had hurled tunes, and
she unveil a new born spirit-
for they
had to challenge there
known serpents.
Beauty!!
Did I say beauty?
Yes!
Beauty is abstract , NOT concrete
Beauty is NOT, a colour
Beauty CANNOT be painted on;
Beauty is NOT, skin deep
To hell with your views on me!
To hell with your soap opera beaus
To hell with your magazine girls’
and boys’ physiques
I want to be ME, not you or them
Beauty is a gift, NOT a look
Beauty is about the fruits of LOVE
for Beauty is within!
Have you ever had a friend
Who does not see BEAUTY, SOCIAL STANDING,
FAME and CREDENTIAL as important?
Or, WEALTH for that matter?
But the warmth of your soul,
the blessing of you just being there,
accepting each fault as though
it was pleasantries without being hypocritical.
Seeing beyond your failures, shortfalls
So as to offer recipe’ for your future
advancement without ever wanting
anything in return but pure friendship.
When this friend is absent
and, you reminisce
it brings a smile to the muscles, strengthens the sole,
showers an eternal appreciation for humanity
that seems to flow direct from above.
You CANNOT see yourself as being inopportune,
Destitute or alienated from mankind with this life-force.
Just having this associate will subside all
FEAR, BITTERNESS, LONELINESS, NEGATIVISM
thereby igniting OPTIMISM.
When this person is around
Your misfortune, inadequacies are NOT major.
Never offering dissuasion, judgement or doom
for your ‘bad’ experiences.
Instead, a warm smile, a helpful hand, a shoulder to
cry on, silence when required, proverbs at the right moment.
It is the beauty in you that counts: Your soul’s contentment,
that assistance that your being requires for its
RENAISSANCE.
This friend makes me cry
even when I’m gay
Dreams are never shattered he would say
but, delayed for the appropriate day.
Just in favour of the right day! Oh what an experience!
How much my life has been transformed
since the day I opened my wings.
You’re a make so wonderful
You may wonder – “Have I ever had gruesome days?”
Oh Yes!
Now they are guiding experiences for tomorrows
Revelations.
My friend, this friend- a special friendship!
Each day slowly drifts afoot
pointing, inching, driving
the beginning of a scientific genesis
the creation of a whole new form
which waits with its own set of experiences
for its maturity is a blessing
bestowed not to all
but whose meaning
is a jewel on the crown of faces
making its materialization
a living organism
The day, Oh this day
this day has brought numbness, laughter, amazement to this once my barren land
words lost their meaning of expression
so tear substituted as the author
transcribing the end of an old era
a true humiliation
but this encounter made me
inadequate and complete
for this joy was different
it was now about seeing me anew
then return the tear, each tear
marks a purity
equally splendid like a successful launch of a satellite
because of such input
being so different to its output
Could this bring so much
emotions to ones being?
The feeling was spiritual
I heard the angel sing
sing so melodiously for the first time
It was a new beginning, beginning
just the right medicine for the day
there had to be a fulfiller of wants
for this time cripples: Its cripples all predecessors
The moment, this day
Of all the long list of dreams
This one, this one is special: New
This one has caused thunderous
Surge of emotions gushing
Through these closed veins
“It was never suppose to be”
Never to be!
It was awesome
It was new
I came alight like a Christmas tree
I stood beneath the heavens surprised
Then the angel spoke
“This creation from that your input is a gem, not an err, so hasten not to hide for inexperience.”
It was then
Then that I realized what had happened
I saw me stroll the parks
showing, boasting of this my input
I felt a sudden burst of young blood race in me
to place all childish games
I wanted it so desperately; desperately I waited for this day like Noah
I’ve dreamt of this like Daniel
but today, today!
Today – mine eyes have witnessed the glory of the Lord
for today, ‘The Day Has Come’
Jamaica
Jamaica
thou art the eye of the Caribbean
a hub of purity created by slaves
like a dream ye daughters of Western Civilization
stand in the midst of battle
in durability’s youth and wait for the eyes of
him who thirst for sceneries.
My love
My love for thee
was born on the pages
of Civics for Young Jamaica
because of proud
men and women of valour
who fought beyond speeches – for justice,
equality and togetherness.
That blood, their spirits
stain the corridors of our yesterday
and form the catalysts for today’s paradise.
Jamaica
Jamaica
thou art with many queens
for they stir a love for thy shores
that read in distant lands.
They blossom in the morning dew
in oils of thy forefathers’
grace, special beings.
But thou hast changed thy yesterday
like mammals of old that transcended not.
I see a new generation
twisting to the bourgeoisies’ music,
clothe in raiment of Eve, tagged,
drumming to the rhythms of transformation
and void of the doctrine of pride.
Thy history was built on decency
but a child was born without a past.
There’s no art in nudity, no pleasure
in airiness and no stories to discover
from child’s play in immature coverings.
Why?
Why hast thou fostered that culture?
Jamaica
Jamaica
thy pristine nature
is fading like a cut plant
Years of creations and vegetations
are savagely decaying like bacteria on ice.
Thy tender grapes are drying.
Hast thou seen thy immaculate harbours of
yesterday: The ones that did heal sorrows
and trample adversities?
Jamaica
Jamaica
I caught your humble Nationalism
in days of the black empowerment themes
when our folklores were paramount and
pride spelt Nationhood. And before politics
robe itself in knighthood that today
stands betwixt the brethren.
I miss those days
when children were youth and adults were
parents: For they form a division for the culture.
Mine eyes bleed from the stench on our streets
for a people of greatness, regal men, are strapped
above their feet – struggling for laughter!
Jamaica
Jamaica
Today brotherhood, freedom of spirit, creativity,
pride and camaraderie
are folding into a past.
I dread thy new tomorrow
for the writings are in -
red, earthly dread
We say globalization and liberalization
have spoilt the dove’s innocence
then, why not reclaim thy past?
God hath created thee in splendour:
The postcards speak of thee as the Garden!
Why?
Why have we washed the land of justice?
Jamaica
Jamaica
carnivals have failed to provide that avenue
for the cries have intensified
So let us wash our hands of individualism!
“MENTOR”
I see a maker
sweating away on
bare leather
without hesitation
or a sigh of frustration,
he whose make
is ancient
and infantry
sits with nature’s young,
inscribing old patterns and,
building layers
of excellence if hold-
but some twirled
away from the hammering,
reshaping and,
imprints of
humble apparels,
for the payment is praise,
many could not bear
the process
that would yield
increments of greatness
for that token hides beneath
selflessness
it seems to take too long
for vanity is the call and, this
blurs the message
still, the maker continues with
a smile
Words
Thrill me with words that can
open a rusty lock
fill the spirit with love
uplift a bitter soul
transform a sorrowful occasion
purify the being from-
lust, hatred and covetousness
subside all disappointments
strengthen a weak bone
guide a revolution
stimulate an intellectual discovery
extract hidden potential
inspire a splendid performance
soothe a sorrowful wound
cross the bridge of sarcasm
And Not those of
cruel subtlety
peaceful disunity
seductive purpose
irony of intent
Because
they
suppress the being
enslave the soul
destroy the mind’s constructiveness
and repeatedly scar the heart
even long after the user is gone
Words
more mighty than the sword
more destructive than AIDS
more revolutionary than science
more lasting than scars
more powerful than man’s future creative potential
more heart rending than toothache
more difficult than love lost
So, Keep them pure!
I sat in my homeland
just looking at the gods’ majestic creations
in amazement
when a voice muttered
“Look to the other side!”
It was then that I understood
‘That all men are not created equally’,
for a black expression was kept
struggling against the winds
without that proud ancestral stride
All that’s theirs – recycled promises
food waters not the thirst for the same place,
everything offered them was for the belly’s needs
and, that heats thunderous hurt.
What encompass its experiences but
scars, shackles, suppression and inadequacies?
This is a return to the old gods,
an existence, which spelt travail:
a confiscated mass,
a land of weep,
no pattern of joyous kinds.
Where are its leaders?
You their gods have coined them segregation!
Can’t you package them opportunities
without that note of prerequisites?
I looked, saw the naked expression
tumble in the perfect space,
Can there be that change?
that it may once again rise!
Rise with free spirits
Moreover, hide not in freedom’s hope;
but be the god of Its tomorrow!
The Office is void of a people who wear the crown of the badge in reverence to neutrality. I see a life-source scream in anguish from the impact of the pains jeered it by the executioner of power in barks of language. Who would have thought that this terra firma would have come to be a Wild West where roots feeling and cell meant nothing? But yesterday, today, and days marching onwards, all the wild lilies had distinguished marks for separate care. I see those that live above the earth parading their chattels with perturbing snouts as symbols of vigor. They demand the right to free expression, the god given claim to openness of privacy, the will to blossom from one environ to another with diminutive interference from men who execute the king’s wrath. Then I looked to the other side, just to establish the impartiality in the cultures, and saw some clusters with many hanging like ripen mangoes, where gem appears not, and numbers spelt ridicule from the king’s men.
They were drafted from off the battlegrounds of the streets where life was always in hope of something, seeing everything while not owning breeze, to an office to serve the clusters. They vowed to protect none call one, but for some inconsistencies in the throng, they operate like hungry animals, in need of a blood’s meat for that’s the only explanation for their instinctive behaviour. To have respect show them for the badge of honour, that they crave, that piece of power; I have sometimes witnessed turmoil and disfigurement without hide as the black blood walks wasted on our streets. The old are held in opaque vase by the fear of knowledge. The young open their mornings with inhumane call and by night-fall see the mild scrimmage take over of their clustered concourse by weaponry that were never used in the stone age. Each age would have experienced the cry of the blood in the streets of one they held near. The carnage was now stepping across the bridge of the nameless and the ghost stood so that our neighbours applaud our records.
Little did they foresee that those below the heavens were only tagged equals, and they understood this without ever having said this in standard language prose. But why did they accept the badge of honour from among the very clusters of which they emerge knowing that the system’s sustenance thrives on the cluster’s ruination? Is it that forward march of the present myths; is it to reconstruct, to stimulate fear, enhance the ordered division of the lilies, purge the cluster’s stench from the fools within its defence or is it just paranoid I?
Of all spoken words, did any read that the abused of a badge of honour is a king void of power? They made a vow to serve, uphold, protect, and stabilize even the flawed lilies. Today, their dreams are concretized by mutation because of an authoriy in a of badge of honour.
‘CRAZY’
i walk the streets in search of class,
knowing that leadership
mars not subordinates
but see truths
searching for something
that was yesterday tangible,
the position of ‘men’ on pedestals
i lamented from the decoration of
carcasses that pave the cities’ streets
calling for justice and peace
the good gods of the distance
pass
shivers to see the sources
of nation building
perish not by the hand of
‘backra’ but by ‘same-man’
my land
is now a nation torn
by love and cruelty,
even the joy of being
died when the leaders
cease to rise beyond
selfishness,
is this the land
for which Jeremiah wept?
today, I fear fear more than death,
for it’s a crazy place - here!
I observe the caged experience
ip through faint bones
with volcanic hate
from a cry in the wilderness,
a message that extends through
mountainous terrains
so words spoke of death void of fear
in depths
for many monsters
drill the consciousness of the dead:
for in the land of the living
where everything lacks closure
I beg for that ending
I lament with childish anger
not for bias imprisonments
of bloodless animals,
but, because spirits
came in search of a dead
I interpret their rambling meanings
as that of futility
wounds, sores, in pleasure
ate away at living flesh
then they call our names
from their lonely graves
wanting to rise from
despondency,
but their creators
have built them barracks
in
keeping with the conventional values
I see a fleshy tissue
of one racial birthright
Poverty, freedom of movement
crippled not by conflicts of
pre-1962 Jamaica
but by political tribalism,
black disintegration, ‘donmanship’,
“Saddamization” and
fatherless confused children
scrimmaging through debris streets
to unearth affection in a starved
community represents Vietnamese
undertones.
Those sporadic volcanic
uprisings among a people of the
same earthly pigmentation –
tarnish that peace needed to
unfold like the lilies in an equal world.
The confusion of this bloodless people
erupt oftentimes on playfields over tackles,
goals, ‘bad mouthing’ and over nothingness.
They - a few goblins have spread their deeds
on the harmless masses without empathy
like Hitler they swallow the innocent without
remorse. I see quilted minds with years of
struggles and history separate like a volcano.
It’s the party loyalty, the silliness called
profiteerism and years of peculiarity that has
fueled this war, injustice that stands between
the same ones.
In my land
the fear of God withers first,
then falls the love of parents
follows by the respect of family
to the detriment of all
and finally the regard of life.
Where lies the joy of being or
the craft of a being?
In our neighbourhood the socialization of
Nationality is forgotten in the curriculum.
Our streets are laid with plaques of lost youth
and silence earmarks the price for stay.
We hide in the nights with a warrior’s alertness
looking for the next twist
though we fight not aliens.
Our corners are void of flowers, filled with
the dew of grace that falls a far off and our
children play with retaliations –
and this is a reward for years of illiteracy.
Where is our sacred motto,
the teachings of Marcus and
the visions of Christianity?
Confusion, pains, fears, rejection
mar our psyche –
the years of shackles have paid dividends:
For brutality needs no explanation.
Even with much, we’re offered less
while we see our Masters – same race
in furs of Europe, drunken in the
fine wines and luxuries of the First World.
Why do they see us not nor see they the scandals
Is an X our only talent!
Only If
Only if
Only if
That is, only if
Only if…
I had not met her
Then
I would not have loved her
I wonder
Is it sadness, bewilderment or
qualm?
Well!
I don’t know
But, this I do
She was fearless to love, kind, gentle
and respectful to ALL
then…
How?
How can this be?
my mind is crippled with
unanswered questions
my eyes are bleeding from
disappointment
my mouth is packed with bitterness
my soul is drained of substance
my life is conflicting and complex
my flatulence has no godly respect
Why?
Damn it!!
Why rose so fresh had to lower the
head
Why?
There’s just NOTHING good about
this day
Is my sorrow the first stage of
insanity?
Only if
Only if
That is, only if…
Only if
I had not met her
then…
I would not have loved her
Orderly and motherly
Dark but comely
Robust yet desirous
My icon
the closest being to God’s persona
then…
What did she do wrong?
I can’t understand
No!
Does He see
Does He really understand this
Why that life?
Only if
Only if…
I had not met her
then…
I would not have loved …so much
Is it ignorance of the future
Is it love missed
Is it human fragility
Or, just God’s wish
Or, is it just life’s balancing
mechanism
that a life so promising
meet this gentle transition
a painful change to the unknown
land
leaving…
leaving without a good-bye
what a way to leave others behind..
in a mist of ambiguity
Only if
The System
They
consider not
hark naught
feel dead
help for the help’s return
express compassion in anger
demand, demand, order – claim
for the little of everything performed
Some insensitive Pharaohs,
informal merchants, money peddler
who have lost their heads
in a self-driven world of desire
so that they operate without malleable care
caught by the capitalists regime-
a make for personal disunity
making their intention
a meaningful joke-
while
injustice, inhumanity, indecency
dishonesty, social disintegration
walk them pass unshackled.
Christ, Christ, Christ
like jammed records
can’t you envisage the end
the pains of tomorrow
can’t you just open…
see the war as rewards
you’re just tinkling cymbals
with precious words of immensity.
We’re tired of a day will come
sick, sick of the perfect hope
can’t you see that we’re wounded by the blindness
crippled by the faith, do’s, don’ts
while you beg our very skeleton
for it blood
What a brutality – for your god given hold on supremacy!
Is there not physical us?
Or, is that your care
be best-expressed in reverence – mute?
We give, bestow
then build, construct, and refashion
in the appellation of sacrifice
so as to create your chateau
and watch you collect the heavens
then you give us no more than a stipend mark
in order that we may work with a hammer’s puissance
for your explanation is our consumption using inflation
What an immaculate proposition
for one so diligent in your farm!
We still give thee thanks
for being offered at least spirits
so that our thoughts can be balanced
in a world where drunkenness is no crime
otherwise a lion would be in control
Turn your heads from tithing,
elongated prayer meetings, folly teachings,
paradise engineering and hope
so that thou can see beyond the nostrils!
bitter !
Oh, bitter!
bitter more than vinegar
sick
sick of the war, crime, injustice and
hopelessness . . .
to laugh it hurts
to cry it depresses
to die it’s too costly
to think it’s burdensome
Oh fig tree!
too much!
too much, man!
Please dear nature -
how much longer –
will this weight be on my shoulders?
“freedom from outside”
Alas, I awoke from within the
shackles of veracity laid
on my charge
by the structured
autocrats of knowledge
I ended the road
fought by women
in child-birth
from within the confines
of an abnormal cell
I felt the purity
in release
as the experience
oozed gradually
away from the cerebellum
as greatness descended
like the dove with impartialities
levied by him who’s without empathy
However, I fought like a Job -
a system contrive to oppress
and in my profound ignorance
learnt all tabled mannerisms
So, I will may execute those
tailored rages
For now, the world is mine
as I stand on the void
as the navigator
to recreate those experiences,
and to lamb bast in “yester-years” pity
with precision of unbounded recurrence
but I am free on the inside …
Written 2002/28/06
“priced flows”
the old, new, encounter
see
a cry of contagious flows
watered in
with
equality has its base
as it gently
rode through the corridors of time
with refreshing droplets
like mist on a tongue
that’s felt for dead
the taste – delay realities
the incoming cool waters
of transparent make
gushed in with unison
from a mastered cistern
that opened its bowels
to release self of burden
whistle fully glided
across the sun tanned
terrains
in a battle’s rage-
that parade in regal splendour
and so, will live the full of its days
in a phantom’s memoir
while the matured unnutured breeze
kept us mortals guessing
of its next presence
all toxic waste
arose
from beneath their deads
‘til their deads
mesmerize our very patience
I saw the earth in its void
voluntarily
opened with an orchestral flair
by shedding its former fruits
while not swallowing an off spring-
in an astonishing daylight!
it was as though Noah’s Era
had revisited this sinful land, again!
but this time in mercy’s dosage
‘cause some remains awoke
in large numbers
but; just that the new preacher’s
mute, was the land’s curse
for roads, animals, vegetations
mark our engineering greatness
the mandate showered in transparent
but that only on completion
did our blood scream in anguish
from the realism
of the call
the avenue taken
had a lesson
best interpreted . . . ah, ah
for the price we pay
insomnia is here
before we could recognize
that our engineers
had bankrupt our cheque books
the gods levied their wrath
our losses are spread
by the unfolded wings of an eagle
in small amounts
like sand in a hand
as greatness formed by ‘man’
packed themselves together
and fled to tomorrow’s anger
“Propagation”
mystic is the
evolution of life
that breathes
a plethora
of unstructured remarks
unmasking the wits of
the intelligentsia
a path already chartered
that only
unearth the greatest of abstractions,
yet in rife
without the author’s input
we
create life so genuine
that unclogs ignorance
Nevertheless, believe that
you know not
for in wisdom much is hidden
so, believe not
that it begins your truth for
propagation
Students
a school is your workplace
it’s a model of the external
where life’s complexities
are refashioned, simplified
for wisdom
Your guardians withhold
the world’s painful wham
in order
that you grow with glow
that knowledge be incremental
for each day you unfold
You ask- they present!
But
have you thought of how
they acquire
or, the sorrows they tolerate
to make you someone?
What would happen
should they now go?
Would life carry …
No, No!!
Then the world’s
Logistics will unveil its plan
after which
life’s stresses will hit full on
Then, it is then
Then that you’ll experience
The earth’s crushing hands
Students
Your role, you – your role
goes beyond
fun, fun, fun!
Brands, names, tags.
The world does not pause
to make you open
neither
will it extend a hand
because you’re young
nor
shall it understand
on account of your inexperience
Students
the world’s past youth
shield you now
they mask the miseries
beneath a smile
they wear a front
not that you be enticed
but
that you be equipped
before you come
Students
life’s incidences
aren’t
glamorous
like the sunset
so
let not sex destroy the lessons
let not drugs hold you hostage
let not crime distort the mind
let not alcohol makes you imprisoned
let not looks destroy your purpose
let not residence navigate you limitations
let not absenteeism mar a superior thing
Hurting
hurting deeply
hurting severely
weeping, rolling, irritated
hurting
hurting like a caged boar
hurting like a woman in labour
hurting like a godly man prior
repentance
lamenting
lamenting like a hungry infant
outwitted by your superior craft
of segregation
stranded on a deserted island of
inferiority
burdened by excruciating pains caused
through deprivation
suffering from the wounds of
prejudices
haemorrhaging like a severed vessel-
weakened by your master culture
swamped by your perfect philosophy
imprisoned, betrayed, suppressed and
miseducated
with the perfect help plan.
Hurting, hurting, hurting!
The essence rose from the sculptured clay
twirling from decency to immorality.
It broke from within a bottle
insomuch that its mistake gradually
evolved from within the closet. Could
the potter had made such blatant err, in
a mold he fashioned without haste?
The play was swine like
in that it ate away at the flesh
of its own. The make, lifted its apparels
so that any could explore the areas
of contours, even the cloaked moles.
For the secret was hidden in the cut
of make, but for him who thirst,
it beckons come, there lies fun.
I saw the flesh rot in increments
from the proud make, for it had
loved this special beauty with a
soldier’s honour. I saw that proud
Peacock’s pose, the week before the
revelation broke, that no decency’s code
lies in the behaviour of his love.
The land was once again cultivated
by him who lived close with no fear it made a
signpost. The property had no nutrients that any
should want its surface.
Many farmers have used the hoe, and for some
the descriptions are spoken of in common prose.
Therefore, the clay fetched a penny’s price.
One specimen had loved the make,
He admired the potter’s craft
without seeing the cracks and hidden
perils. Could he be so simple, to be handled
like broken pieces?
The make had thrilled his soul:
For the contours were in their full moon
mode, and had seduced even the heaven’s hosts.
Few have farmed on this squatted soil, for none
have stayed but more than once. They boast of a
soldier’s conquest for each, many, hoes have
made the grade.
The sculptured clay is now left wanting
for someone not to have heard the words.
We all admired the clay’s glory, for we saw the
gem if it were just cleansed of all its waste.
“again”
just cry my love . . .
let the world recognize
that, that a vein is damaged;
and ‘cause of socialization’s principles
you threw self at agape’
without hesitation and in ignorance
not knowing that there’s a price for err,
and a scar fashioned forgiveness.
Cry my love
let the world teach
today’s separation lesson
to him who knows not the truth of love,
and to him who has failed to
grasp the woes of others
for the puppet of a son
has smitten thee like an angry hungry bull
making the simple boisterous, and the boisterous fatal
but this new curse ‘cause of readmission and
forgiveness shall fall you like an axe.
Cry my love
let not a freshly cut rose
from the garden of a King
charm thee on the morrow
saying ‘yesterday’s scars are for yesterday’
for the marks are many, and
have not withered with the perfume of roses
instead
they hold in innocence
and have slipped through the cracks
of pure forgiveness
mowing away with a vengeance at
love
Cry my love
let it all out
let it hang for all to see
before insanity subtlety becomes a friend, and
rebellion roam prominent and before
retaliation guide all actions; and before
you fail to love again
I awoke advancing from the confines of a covenant
like leaves in an opened runlet. To see waters cascading
in from off the citadel of ravished bowels
from the acceptance of twisted and broken things.
Is it that fire purifies or kills the make of a thing
that calls for heat? For the inside of this cell is
charcoal: For with one organ he offered friendship, love
and with another he quickly gave the assistance that the
Romans bestowed on the divinity.
He formed a tie at the cut of all exits
so that the escape milieu could be construed
as having no glitch, make my eyes be filled
with the thought of that Samaritan.
But, he knitted a knot that was kinked
that all good efforts were seen.
I felt the flood gates opened to release
force on my innocent soul.
He had taken the materials of this world
to execute a craft which threatens to hijack my
profound ignorance.
The one kind that had showed concern like a
mother is now in the hands of the system: I had
revealed to this confidant the secrets chambers,
the reserves of kinship, the frequencies of failure,
and source of all under-accomplishments in
exchange for camaraderie.
I witnessed the heavens opened to curse one so wise
yet simplistic. For the voice spoke of the offerings
that made such a capture wrong. He had given winding
loops for experiences.
The waves –
just watch them caress the banks
with childish anger
while they
conference without confrontation.
I saw
a young love in its midst,
for the unity was magnetic.
The waves –
just watch them
drum the sounds of the jazz bands, and
bellow away like furious preachers.
Watch, look, open, see!
Just watch them
race competitively for the clan’s call;
no royal coronation offers that lift –
a concept of sweet taste,
the prowess of pure language,
the scenery of priceless splendour;
too sumptuous not for partial consumption,
the beauty is dove-like, and
memoirs haunting.
The waves –
just watch them in fragility,
carving, co-authoring the unknown destiny.
Calm, settled no chilled liqueur –
a creation that justifies peace!
An input that fills the void soul
for the offerings are a wealth in piece.
The waves –
just watch them come alive
like the simplicity of the rainbow!
Unfolding with a petal’s ending,
‘unchained’ by bribery.
Shedding the old, but never new –
In the single call of an ‘eye-fall’.
The experience that wants . . .
Then, pass on that baton.
a bullet!
a single bullet!
just a piece of metal
in the wrong hand -
in the palm of a gangster
ruptured his feeble heart
burst the wrong vein
fall he him face to the ground.
a bullet!
a single bullet!
struck him like a vicious beast
crippled his future
extracted that final substance -
an untimely end,
no time
no time- for byes.
why . . . .?
why, a life so purposeful,
a life so meek,
a being so sweet,
a mortal so pure,
should meet the end this way?
Is there death more just
for one so heavenly?
It took a single bullet
just a single bullet . . .
to extinguish his flames!
“freedom from outside”
Alas! I awoke from within
shackles of veracity
laid
on my charge
by the structured
autocrats of knowledge.
I ended the road
fought by women:
in child-birth
from within
the confines of
an abnormal cell.
I felt the purity
in release
as the experience
oozed gradually
away
from the cerebellum.
I encountered greatness
as the dove descended
with the impartialities –
levied by him who’s without empathy.
Now! The world is mine –
for I stand on the void
as the navigator
to recreate those experiences,
and to lambaste in “yester-years” pity
with precision of unbounded recurrence
But I fought like a Job
in the Old Testament –
a system that’s contrived to oppress
and in my profound ignorance
I learnt all tabled mannerisms
but,
but, I will not execute my
tailored rages
“propagation”
mystic is the
evolution of life
that breathes
a plethora
of unstructured remarks –
unmasking wits
of the intelligentsia
a path that’s already
chartered y many-
that only unearth abstractions
not solutions
yet in rife
without the author’s input
we
create life so genuine
that it unclogs the ignorance
of all those who quest
explanations-
for with much
comes little
shine wisdom,
for who knows not
that he knows not
but speak
for in wisdom much is
hidden
so believe
that he knows not
that it came
begin
your truth
for propagation
Copyright@ 2001, Paul Andrew Bourne
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, copied or digitized whether manually,
electronically or otherwise without the prior
permission of the copyright owner.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Andrew Bourne is the first of three sons born to
Janet Green and Percival Bourne. Being raised by a single
parent (that is, mother) it has afforded him many and
varied experiences. These experiences were gleaned from
various schools, residences and social groups and have
impacted upon him, both positively and negatively.
His experiences, however, have forced him to analyze the
stark realities of creation, and as such have created the
appreciation for beauty in simple yet profound
happenings, and have resulted in him developing an
intellectual approach to life.
He has had the opportunity and privilege of marketing
confectionaries and other products as a vendor for his
mother during his early years even up to fifteen (15)
years. This he did for some eight (8) years in the
downtown Kingston area. He thereby believes that those
experiences have provided the invaluable exposure for
today’s varying challenges.
He is a graduate from Vauxhall Secondary School, and
University of Technology, Jamaica with a Diploma in
Business Studies from the Department of Technical
Education. Moreover, he is, currently reading for a Bachelor
of Science Degree in Economics at the University
of the West Indies, Mona Campus.
In his chosen vocation, as a mathematics teacher, he is
confronted with various situations which demand his
attention and skilful counsel. Out of such experiences
have arisen ‘Stay In School’ and ‘Graduation Day’
which clearly depict the love of people and country.
Because he is outspoken in nature, he tells it like it is.
‘The Ills’ and ‘The System’, to name a few pieces of his
works unfold Paul Bourne the person. Let his poems
stimulate and broaden your imagination, and give you an
incite into his personality.
<
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book began in 1990 when a teacher of Thumberlina Montessori
Preparatory School, off the Hope Road on Phoenix Avenue suddenly died
from cancer after only a one-week stay in hospital. She complained of being nauseous one day at work and so her family accompanied her to the
hospital where the medical personnel ran some diagnostic tests in order
to determined the cause of her complaints. The results came back
negative and as such we felt elated as members of her extended family.
This elation was short-lived as a few days later came the dreadful news
that Mrs. Watson passed off earlier that morning. As a result of the sadness
and psychological trauma that both teachers, including yours truly, and
students experienced came ‘Only If’. That piece of work vividly depicts
the life and preciousness of Mrs. Watson.
Furthermore, the materials of this my life’s thoughts have taken
some ten years to materialize in this form, and as such, my heartfelt,
sincere gratitude go undoubtedly to Ms. Dawn Muirhead, a teacher at
Vauxhall High School off the Windward Road, who inspired me to see
a book as a worthwhile option. Equally paramount in this venture is
Miss Elaine Edwards whose critique skills, daily friendship and love
assisted me in the editing, and conceptualizing of issues thus affording
me the pleasure of writing ‘A Special Friendship’ and most of the other
pieces, as part payment for the love, warmth and inspiration that she so
invaluably provided in order that I be able to express these thoughts.
And to Mrs. Dacres much heartfelt thanks in being that ear, eye and mouth.
And finally and by no means least significant are Ms. I Johnson,
Mrs. D. Bonnick and Mr. Maxwell “Bunny” Williams all of the Department
of Mathematics and Computer Studies, University of the West Indies, Mona, who despite my continuous and difficult requests stood by me like Christ to the disciples.
<
<
Life
a freshly cut rose
a prize just won
a delicacy of exotic foods
a vision in a dream
a potential lately discovered
nature in its purest form.
Life
an abstract art
a treacherous concept
a vague cue
a blank slate
an open artery
an enclosed desire.
Life
a philosophy.
I notice a land, yesterday
in exotic yields and picturesque terrain,
having that gift of youthfulness
gradually withering away in time
like frozen water in a broken cistern,
trickling to present from future
ah
with attention.
Change
though pure and inevitable
by Westerners’ grade -
a curse, degeneration; and a time for redress,
this event glides from the hairline
onwards by an invisible painter,
portraying yesterday’s realities as today’s desires.
Why, why have we created this fiend,
that disguises behind digits and reveals in
dissatisfaction?
For each reality lives in was, for Life Was!
The ills
It opened it wings
flexed its muscles
roared like a lion in travail
then raised it ugly head
like
like an avalanche from a flood’s ruin
ranting a knight’s vengeance
then it stood
stood tall like a man’s ego
unpolluted by environmental construct
for it was coming
coming
with a volcanic force
from far and deep.
It requested not the being’s consent
but attacked like a comet from on high
a change because of maturation
a biological ‘mischemistry’
a continuation, which was
aided by ignorance
no mad bull was that fierce, and
no obscenity was ever so displeased
for it lived in a ruin
of the body’s excreta.
Angry voices yelled for freedom
pleasant faces broke their civility
the ghost of a smile fades instantaneously
for hospitable beings become rebellious children
broad shoulders lowered their stance
children giggled in amusement
the very godly was filled
with much forbearance
the high and might
begged for discharge
for everyone had smelled the out-pour
The close were held its hostage
decency was marred by anger
no one commiserated with the
deficiency within the system
it made effluence’s stench
more bearable, gentle, tactful
to other prior mood destroyer
for this viper, old breath stopper
exploded like pent oxygen
as kind as a woman’s wrath.
Stumbling over hidden parts
creating the mind’s worst enemy;
a scorpion’s tool
that had stunned every scientist
outwitted all herbalists
uprooted the patient
stung the very infant
Oh!
Oh…the odour…the odour beneath the nostrils.
<
The skies opened with an
angelic melody
on the forlorn graves,
in search of one
that drives artificial oasis
on deserted psyche.
As a networking, of much,
had become its ploy
for it had filled
its chambers with the limbic system
of the gullible;
so, with a strangled hold
it carried a platter
of catchy rhetoric
that woos the simple to its throne.
It is from such a fray
that the system began
constructing a frame
for one such Caesar-Pharaoh
in vexation,
but, he a phantom
use a white god
like medicinal herbs
to increase hold on young and old
void of prejudice
by extracting decency in ant-like bites.
So, when he was caught
in a web of ambiguity;
no one cried, or even cared:
for we see no wisdom
in folly
nor knowledge in evil,
but death for all sins
the doctrine of the offended hand,
in mosaic governance,
with B.C meanings!
<
The early years
saw him blowing fire
consuming vegetation, trees, lives, world
after which purging everything with water
then judging with autocratic authority.
This has confused this being
for He has made me built
fear, flight, rejection, rebellion:
no mystery thereof
that my role-play
be endless killings.
Why?
Why He models himself this way
yet still seeks my love?
Thou hast driven terror
in my faint bones
and this hurts like sore.
I am not a violent man
but thou art my image
Why, why carry thyself this way?
Do you seek friendship –this style?
Can a mother be so gentle
while she distributes punishment
and you be higher
and know that the balance.
Some men of your flock preach-
death, destruction, viciousness
and you they say
we should adore
or, is it serve without hesitation.
I am scared stiff –
for I thought of thee as mommy
but that is never her
You’re a dictator, a beast
working mercilessly
that I accept thee as Creator.
Change thy ways
that I love, love, just love!!
They are tho’ who love, Love
for its spiritual mode
some for its entrances
many for its seductive hold
a few for the pure craft
but
these are not of what I speak.
I speak of
a simple lust
that creates gap between the sexes
as eternal conflicts
reign in homes of ‘grown-ups’
who hold religiously to its meanings.
The hatred, and aggression
from morass egos repeating profound
simplicities the day after love’s bliss
while bitchy actions justify disfigurements
for the fear of lost zone
the uncleansed words that roll of the
lips of even Christian couples
I speak of
creative apparels
stitched to cover bastards
‘cause of love’s separation
and the bickering,
the cut of the present: frivolous insensitivity
backed by caring lies
coupled with the failure of education
to transform minds, and I
see a beast arise in
children from the love they know.
Where are the roses, the soothing tones of love,
the intertwining of feelings to make the angels
lust, the honey in the mornings, the best friend
at nights and, the peace that spells R-E-S-P-E-C-T?
Love, love becomes folly
Then, the bitter is sweet and the sweet-love.
The light shone beneath
the coloured vase, parch leaves
soaked through a red rose slit
palpitating with rhythmical tones
then music seeps in that twilight zone
and the one eye god sparkles to
entertain that eve dress code.
The You roared at the entrance
of the cleft because fragrance tinkled
those heart-throbs moves from the look
of pure split in radian fields. A make
heavenly that vegetation’s appeal. The
garden was swan like for the fruits
were seen with morning glow a call
to kneed like doe. The earth was glorified
to accept that forceful host but no sound
would signal a silent curse.
The lizard scoops the sweet base of the dew
as its instrument glides over the surface curves
smearing against scales, deserted soil, sharp
gradients and smooth picturesque without
a scratch. The liquid was unadorned in
dove like robe stirring the mower to an
earthquake’s jerk.
The Rose rolls in mimicking modes from a
coyote’s moan to a cat’s call.
Of all taught milepost this call made
the railroad tranquil. The pricks grew
fierce injecting memories of a call
pure and sweet. For words of curse
burst with a sudden force signaling
nature’s winding curves of current flows.
That drained the land of all its substance,
then the monster sinks to a corpse like pose
that signals a sunken vessel
I awoke advancing from the confines of a covenant
like leaves in an opened runlet. To see waters cascading
in from off the citadel of ravished bowels
from the acceptance of twisted and broken things.
Is it that fire purifies or kills the make of a thing
that calls for heat? For the inside of this cell is
charcoal: For with one organ he offered friendship, love
and with another he quickly gave the assistance that the
Romans bestowed on the divinity.
He formed a tie at the cut of all exits
so that the escape milieu could be construed
as having no glitch, make my eyes be filled
with the thought of that Samaritan.
But, he knitted a knot that was kinked
that all good efforts were seen.
I felt the flood gates opened to release
force on my innocent soul.
He had taken the materials of this world
to execute a craft which threatens to hijack my
profound ignorance.
The one kind that had showed concern like a
mother is now in the hands of the system: I had
revealed to this confidant the secrets chambers,
the reserves of kinship, the frequencies of failure,
and source of all under-accomplishments in
exchange for camaraderie.
I witnessed the heavens opened to curse one so wise
yet simplistic. For the voice spoke of the offerings
that made such a capture wrong. He had given winding
loops for experiences. This the perfect capture.
A rumble was heard echoing across the mountainous terrains
with eyes in search of that pearl of yester-years. A mirage arose
from within the kingdom to set the coronation afloat that appeals
in increment to all senses of the brain. It unfolded in the
midst of the earth with colours of the discos that we could
sing of its catching tones, seductive charm and delicacy’s scent.
This pearl boast of its gift in appearance for the glamour of
being in clear waters make the good comes alive. I see hungry
faces of vicious beast call all names to identify a stone so unique.
That price, that some sought to pay appears too costly a gamble
but the stake for win was being appointed god. Now who could
dear refuse such a moment in the company of kings in council.
I held the statue of something so innocent in these arms for hours;
caressing, praising, and for days sought to establish my position
with a kind so highly demanded. It was not the adorn of the
stone that caught the attention but the simplicity of its truth.
The coverings were unveiled in peacock’s pose that I should see
the mystery of the world through its offerings.
An earth angrily spoke to the uncovered mask, preaching
to him who felt a wrath. I held steadfast to a purity I loved so dear,
thinking that the freshness, glow and art were enough to make me
fight for the same diamond. But I had to let go, I need not pretend,
I had won the prize at last but the rest of the whole had paid the same amount. It took depression’s comfort for this message to seep through
these ears, that I had got a bang.
A genre crept from within the common fields to
a earth’s recognition. I observed the metamorphosis
of life’s stacked paradox in sequential flows, for the
genesis of its sunshine was not the influence to universal
standardization. But a kind of paradise that I applaud, I
saw a single unadorned petal in youth with thorns in
everglow and devilish curves. It lacked the rough
edges of time, environmental factors, others input,
and the revocation of monies’ flows to compete in
garden of established plants.
Self-glow meant nothing, the pride of being among
the orchids waters not its prominence but adds to its
aesthetic appeal. Those beginning, the formation of buds
is similar yet unique in that all forms the characteristics
yet still this one stands like freshly cut tomatoes among grapes.
The kind of seduction in time that glorifies disintegration
of the species.
The cut of a rose hides the radiance of sun rise and not
the glamour of its decay. The truth of this belle
lies in the inconsistencies of the butterfly’s fold
in individuality, and not in the robustness of the stalks.
I recognized this from on the inside of that transparent
mask: from the purity of deceit. The appeal of this goddess
follows not the rule of large sample but the virtue of exclusivity.
I saw the pricks, and interpreted the deal to be
that of flaws, as they ate away my flesh in contrast
to pine. I saw not their comeliness from within the
garden. It took the revelation of separation’s lessons,
the make of the daffodils’ weirdness, the changing of the
seasons, the fall of appearance from the decay of others,
to make me accept, the hidden loveliness, importance,
of a rose’s thorns.
I remember YOU:
NOT for your manly aggression,
NOT for your gruesome hits,
NOT for your poor judgements,
NOT for your restrictive stance,
NOT for your wordless moments,
NOT for clothing, shelter, money,
NEITHER for those ‘catlike’ eyes,
NOR for the scars your punishments left behind
OR for your childish temper
BUT
for making me view equally destructive – lies, sex, betrayal, gamble
for making me understand the idea that I am someone NOT a digit
for making me grasp the principles in tolerance
for making me see the beauty in forgiveness
for making me comprehend the secrets in education
for making me idealize excellence
for showing me that my outlook must be positive and purposeful
for making me see the difference between criticism and cynicism
for making me recognize that life is more than frolic
for all the days spent inside
for all the sleepless nights by my bedside
for being my friend
for being my feet, ear, mind and eyes oftentimes
for making me love me
so
before YOU go
You should know
I . . .LOVE . . .YOU . . . MOM!
Come see the one
clothe
in jewels of a harlot
from the shores of a lion-heart
with flashy hips, bouncy confidence,
petite smile; and the safety of a
bosom laid in a mirage of outer
beauty that’s decked in the peace of
mercifulness,
makes the eyes leap from its habitat.
Eat the fat of thine eyes
for that damsel
who in wisdom
hides the wounds and fallen
spirit of her man, lives here.
The destruction of wives – she lifts,
the shackles of hardship
that buries free intuition – she releases,
and all that’s left she
purifies with counsel.
Whoso loves peace
walks in her midst
and overthrow that
strangled hold of a furious woman:
‘Cause she authorize a lion control
that keeps the man, always, and
hides all his woes in her bosom,
and kisses infidelity with a mother’s embrace.
The truth of that life:
It’s void of bickering,
blame food and pompousness,
for the housekeeper covers
hiccups in gentleness like
a walk in newfound freedom.
Come see the damsel
clothe in white,
released for the lonesome journey.
She who makes
tear easy for men folk, will trod alone.
No man had enjoyed the natures
food
but many wiser
had hurled tunes, and
she unveil a new born spirit-
for they
had to challenge there
known serpents.
Beauty!!
Did I say beauty?
Yes!
Beauty is abstract , NOT concrete
Beauty is NOT, a colour
Beauty CANNOT be painted on;
Beauty is NOT, skin deep
To hell with your views on me!
To hell with your soap opera beaus
To hell with your magazine girls’
and boys’ physiques
I want to be ME, not you or them
Beauty is a gift, NOT a look
Beauty is about the fruits of LOVE
for Beauty is within!
Have you ever had a friend
Who does not see BEAUTY, SOCIAL STANDING,
FAME and CREDENTIAL as important?
Or, WEALTH for that matter?
But the warmth of your soul,
the blessing of you just being there,
accepting each fault as though
it was pleasantries without being hypocritical.
Seeing beyond your failures, shortfalls
So as to offer recipe’ for your future
advancement without ever wanting
anything in return but pure friendship.
When this friend is absent
and, you reminisce
it brings a smile to the muscles, strengthens the sole,
showers an eternal appreciation for humanity
that seems to flow direct from above.
You CANNOT see yourself as being inopportune,
Destitute or alienated from mankind with this life-force.
Just having this associate will subside all
FEAR, BITTERNESS, LONELINESS, NEGATIVISM
thereby igniting OPTIMISM.
When this person is around
Your misfortune, inadequacies are NOT major.
Never offering dissuasion, judgement or doom
for your ‘bad’ experiences.
Instead, a warm smile, a helpful hand, a shoulder to
cry on, silence when required, proverbs at the right moment.
It is the beauty in you that counts: Your soul’s contentment,
that assistance that your being requires for its
RENAISSANCE.
This friend makes me cry
even when I’m gay
Dreams are never shattered he would say
but, delayed for the appropriate day.
Just in favour of the right day! Oh what an experience!
How much my life has been transformed
since the day I opened my wings.
You’re a make so wonderful
You may wonder – “Have I ever had gruesome days?”
Oh Yes!
Now they are guiding experiences for tomorrows
Revelations.
My friend, this friend- a special friendship!
Each day slowly drifts afoot
pointing, inching, driving
the beginning of a scientific genesis
the creation of a whole new form
which waits with its own set of experiences
for its maturity is a blessing
bestowed not to all
but whose meaning
is a jewel on the crown of faces
making its materialization
a living organism
The day, Oh this day
this day has brought numbness, laughter, amazement to this once my barren land
words lost their meaning of expression
so tear substituted as the author
transcribing the end of an old era
a true humiliation
but this encounter made me
inadequate and complete
for this joy was different
it was now about seeing me anew
then return the tear, each tear
marks a purity
equally splendid like a successful launch of a satellite
because of such input
being so different to its output
Could this bring so much
emotions to ones being?
The feeling was spiritual
I heard the angel sing
sing so melodiously for the first time
It was a new beginning, beginning
just the right medicine for the day
there had to be a fulfiller of wants
for this time cripples: Its cripples all predecessors
The moment, this day
Of all the long list of dreams
This one, this one is special: New
This one has caused thunderous
Surge of emotions gushing
Through these closed veins
“It was never suppose to be”
Never to be!
It was awesome
It was new
I came alight like a Christmas tree
I stood beneath the heavens surprised
Then the angel spoke
“This creation from that your input is a gem, not an err, so hasten not to hide for inexperience.”
It was then
Then that I realized what had happened
I saw me stroll the parks
showing, boasting of this my input
I felt a sudden burst of young blood race in me
to place all childish games
I wanted it so desperately; desperately I waited for this day like Noah
I’ve dreamt of this like Daniel
but today, today!
Today – mine eyes have witnessed the glory of the Lord
for today, ‘The Day Has Come’
Jamaica
Jamaica
thou art the eye of the Caribbean
a hub of purity created by slaves
like a dream ye daughters of Western Civilization
stand in the midst of battle
in durability’s youth and wait for the eyes of
him who thirst for sceneries.
My love
My love for thee
was born on the pages
of Civics for Young Jamaica
because of proud
men and women of valour
who fought beyond speeches – for justice,
equality and togetherness.
That blood, their spirits
stain the corridors of our yesterday
and form the catalysts for today’s paradise.
Jamaica
Jamaica
thou art with many queens
for they stir a love for thy shores
that read in distant lands.
They blossom in the morning dew
in oils of thy forefathers’
grace, special beings.
But thou hast changed thy yesterday
like mammals of old that transcended not.
I see a new generation
twisting to the bourgeoisies’ music,
clothe in raiment of Eve, tagged,
drumming to the rhythms of transformation
and void of the doctrine of pride.
Thy history was built on decency
but a child was born without a past.
There’s no art in nudity, no pleasure
in airiness and no stories to discover
from child’s play in immature coverings.
Why?
Why hast thou fostered that culture?
Jamaica
Jamaica
thy pristine nature
is fading like a cut plant
Years of creations and vegetations
are savagely decaying like bacteria on ice.
Thy tender grapes are drying.
Hast thou seen thy immaculate harbours of
yesterday: The ones that did heal sorrows
and trample adversities?
Jamaica
Jamaica
I caught your humble Nationalism
in days of the black empowerment themes
when our folklores were paramount and
pride spelt Nationhood. And before politics
robe itself in knighthood that today
stands betwixt the brethren.
I miss those days
when children were youth and adults were
parents: For they form a division for the culture.
Mine eyes bleed from the stench on our streets
for a people of greatness, regal men, are strapped
above their feet – struggling for laughter!
Jamaica
Jamaica
Today brotherhood, freedom of spirit, creativity,
pride and camaraderie
are folding into a past.
I dread thy new tomorrow
for the writings are in -
red, earthly dread
We say globalization and liberalization
have spoilt the dove’s innocence
then, why not reclaim thy past?
God hath created thee in splendour:
The postcards speak of thee as the Garden!
Why?
Why have we washed the land of justice?
Jamaica
Jamaica
carnivals have failed to provide that avenue
for the cries have intensified
So let us wash our hands of individualism!
“MENTOR”
I see a maker
sweating away on
bare leather
without hesitation
or a sigh of frustration,
he whose make
is ancient
and infantry
sits with nature’s young,
inscribing old patterns and,
building layers
of excellence if hold-
but some twirled
away from the hammering,
reshaping and,
imprints of
humble apparels,
for the payment is praise,
many could not bear
the process
that would yield
increments of greatness
for that token hides beneath
selflessness
it seems to take too long
for vanity is the call and, this
blurs the message
still, the maker continues with
a smile
Words
Thrill me with words that can
open a rusty lock
fill the spirit with love
uplift a bitter soul
transform a sorrowful occasion
purify the being from-
lust, hatred and covetousness
subside all disappointments
strengthen a weak bone
guide a revolution
stimulate an intellectual discovery
extract hidden potential
inspire a splendid performance
soothe a sorrowful wound
cross the bridge of sarcasm
And Not those of
cruel subtlety
peaceful disunity
seductive purpose
irony of intent
Because
they
suppress the being
enslave the soul
destroy the mind’s constructiveness
and repeatedly scar the heart
even long after the user is gone
Words
more mighty than the sword
more destructive than AIDS
more revolutionary than science
more lasting than scars
more powerful than man’s future creative potential
more heart rending than toothache
more difficult than love lost
So, Keep them pure!
I sat in my homeland
just looking at the gods’ majestic creations
in amazement
when a voice muttered
“Look to the other side!”
It was then that I understood
‘That all men are not created equally’,
for a black expression was kept
struggling against the winds
without that proud ancestral stride
All that’s theirs – recycled promises
food waters not the thirst for the same place,
everything offered them was for the belly’s needs
and, that heats thunderous hurt.
What encompass its experiences but
scars, shackles, suppression and inadequacies?
This is a return to the old gods,
an existence, which spelt travail:
a confiscated mass,
a land of weep,
no pattern of joyous kinds.
Where are its leaders?
You their gods have coined them segregation!
Can’t you package them opportunities
without that note of prerequisites?
I looked, saw the naked expression
tumble in the perfect space,
Can there be that change?
that it may once again rise!
Rise with free spirits
Moreover, hide not in freedom’s hope;
but be the god of Its tomorrow!
The Office is void of a people who wear the crown of the badge in reverence to neutrality. I see a life-source scream in anguish from the impact of the pains jeered it by the executioner of power in barks of language. Who would have thought that this terra firma would have come to be a Wild West where roots feeling and cell meant nothing? But yesterday, today, and days marching onwards, all the wild lilies had distinguished marks for separate care. I see those that live above the earth parading their chattels with perturbing snouts as symbols of vigor. They demand the right to free expression, the god given claim to openness of privacy, the will to blossom from one environ to another with diminutive interference from men who execute the king’s wrath. Then I looked to the other side, just to establish the impartiality in the cultures, and saw some clusters with many hanging like ripen mangoes, where gem appears not, and numbers spelt ridicule from the king’s men.
They were drafted from off the battlegrounds of the streets where life was always in hope of something, seeing everything while not owning breeze, to an office to serve the clusters. They vowed to protect none call one, but for some inconsistencies in the throng, they operate like hungry animals, in need of a blood’s meat for that’s the only explanation for their instinctive behaviour. To have respect show them for the badge of honour, that they crave, that piece of power; I have sometimes witnessed turmoil and disfigurement without hide as the black blood walks wasted on our streets. The old are held in opaque vase by the fear of knowledge. The young open their mornings with inhumane call and by night-fall see the mild scrimmage take over of their clustered concourse by weaponry that were never used in the stone age. Each age would have experienced the cry of the blood in the streets of one they held near. The carnage was now stepping across the bridge of the nameless and the ghost stood so that our neighbours applaud our records.
Little did they foresee that those below the heavens were only tagged equals, and they understood this without ever having said this in standard language prose. But why did they accept the badge of honour from among the very clusters of which they emerge knowing that the system’s sustenance thrives on the cluster’s ruination? Is it that forward march of the present myths; is it to reconstruct, to stimulate fear, enhance the ordered division of the lilies, purge the cluster’s stench from the fools within its defence or is it just paranoid I?
Of all spoken words, did any read that the abused of a badge of honour is a king void of power? They made a vow to serve, uphold, protect, and stabilize even the flawed lilies. Today, their dreams are concretized by mutation because of an authoriy in a of badge of honour.
‘CRAZY’
i walk the streets in search of class,
knowing that leadership
mars not subordinates
but see truths
searching for something
that was yesterday tangible,
the position of ‘men’ on pedestals
i lamented from the decoration of
carcasses that pave the cities’ streets
calling for justice and peace
the good gods of the distance
pass
shivers to see the sources
of nation building
perish not by the hand of
‘backra’ but by ‘same-man’
my land
is now a nation torn
by love and cruelty,
even the joy of being
died when the leaders
cease to rise beyond
selfishness,
is this the land
for which Jeremiah wept?
today, I fear fear more than death,
for it’s a crazy place - here!
I observe the caged experience
ip through faint bones
with volcanic hate
from a cry in the wilderness,
a message that extends through
mountainous terrains
so words spoke of death void of fear
in depths
for many monsters
drill the consciousness of the dead:
for in the land of the living
where everything lacks closure
I beg for that ending
I lament with childish anger
not for bias imprisonments
of bloodless animals,
but, because spirits
came in search of a dead
I interpret their rambling meanings
as that of futility
wounds, sores, in pleasure
ate away at living flesh
then they call our names
from their lonely graves
wanting to rise from
despondency,
but their creators
have built them barracks
in
keeping with the conventional values
I see a fleshy tissue
of one racial birthright
Poverty, freedom of movement
crippled not by conflicts of
pre-1962 Jamaica
but by political tribalism,
black disintegration, ‘donmanship’,
“Saddamization” and
fatherless confused children
scrimmaging through debris streets
to unearth affection in a starved
community represents Vietnamese
undertones.
Those sporadic volcanic
uprisings among a people of the
same earthly pigmentation –
tarnish that peace needed to
unfold like the lilies in an equal world.
The confusion of this bloodless people
erupt oftentimes on playfields over tackles,
goals, ‘bad mouthing’ and over nothingness.
They - a few goblins have spread their deeds
on the harmless masses without empathy
like Hitler they swallow the innocent without
remorse. I see quilted minds with years of
struggles and history separate like a volcano.
It’s the party loyalty, the silliness called
profiteerism and years of peculiarity that has
fueled this war, injustice that stands between
the same ones.
In my land
the fear of God withers first,
then falls the love of parents
follows by the respect of family
to the detriment of all
and finally the regard of life.
Where lies the joy of being or
the craft of a being?
In our neighbourhood the socialization of
Nationality is forgotten in the curriculum.
Our streets are laid with plaques of lost youth
and silence earmarks the price for stay.
We hide in the nights with a warrior’s alertness
looking for the next twist
though we fight not aliens.
Our corners are void of flowers, filled with
the dew of grace that falls a far off and our
children play with retaliations –
and this is a reward for years of illiteracy.
Where is our sacred motto,
the teachings of Marcus and
the visions of Christianity?
Confusion, pains, fears, rejection
mar our psyche –
the years of shackles have paid dividends:
For brutality needs no explanation.
Even with much, we’re offered less
while we see our Masters – same race
in furs of Europe, drunken in the
fine wines and luxuries of the First World.
Why do they see us not nor see they the scandals
Is an X our only talent!
Only If
Only if
Only if
That is, only if
Only if…
I had not met her
Then
I would not have loved her
I wonder
Is it sadness, bewilderment or
qualm?
Well!
I don’t know
But, this I do
She was fearless to love, kind, gentle
and respectful to ALL
then…
How?
How can this be?
my mind is crippled with
unanswered questions
my eyes are bleeding from
disappointment
my mouth is packed with bitterness
my soul is drained of substance
my life is conflicting and complex
my flatulence has no godly respect
Why?
Damn it!!
Why rose so fresh had to lower the
head
Why?
There’s just NOTHING good about
this day
Is my sorrow the first stage of
insanity?
Only if
Only if
That is, only if…
Only if
I had not met her
then…
I would not have loved her
Orderly and motherly
Dark but comely
Robust yet desirous
My icon
the closest being to God’s persona
then…
What did she do wrong?
I can’t understand
No!
Does He see
Does He really understand this
Why that life?
Only if
Only if…
I had not met her
then…
I would not have loved …so much
Is it ignorance of the future
Is it love missed
Is it human fragility
Or, just God’s wish
Or, is it just life’s balancing
mechanism
that a life so promising
meet this gentle transition
a painful change to the unknown
land
leaving…
leaving without a good-bye
what a way to leave others behind..
in a mist of ambiguity
Only if
The System
They
consider not
hark naught
feel dead
help for the help’s return
express compassion in anger
demand, demand, order – claim
for the little of everything performed
Some insensitive Pharaohs,
informal merchants, money peddler
who have lost their heads
in a self-driven world of desire
so that they operate without malleable care
caught by the capitalists regime-
a make for personal disunity
making their intention
a meaningful joke-
while
injustice, inhumanity, indecency
dishonesty, social disintegration
walk them pass unshackled.
Christ, Christ, Christ
like jammed records
can’t you envisage the end
the pains of tomorrow
can’t you just open…
see the war as rewards
you’re just tinkling cymbals
with precious words of immensity.
We’re tired of a day will come
sick, sick of the perfect hope
can’t you see that we’re wounded by the blindness
crippled by the faith, do’s, don’ts
while you beg our very skeleton
for it blood
What a brutality – for your god given hold on supremacy!
Is there not physical us?
Or, is that your care
be best-expressed in reverence – mute?
We give, bestow
then build, construct, and refashion
in the appellation of sacrifice
so as to create your chateau
and watch you collect the heavens
then you give us no more than a stipend mark
in order that we may work with a hammer’s puissance
for your explanation is our consumption using inflation
What an immaculate proposition
for one so diligent in your farm!
We still give thee thanks
for being offered at least spirits
so that our thoughts can be balanced
in a world where drunkenness is no crime
otherwise a lion would be in control
Turn your heads from tithing,
elongated prayer meetings, folly teachings,
paradise engineering and hope
so that thou can see beyond the nostrils!
bitter !
Oh, bitter!
bitter more than vinegar
sick
sick of the war, crime, injustice and
hopelessness . . .
to laugh it hurts
to cry it depresses
to die it’s too costly
to think it’s burdensome
Oh fig tree!
too much!
too much, man!
Please dear nature -
how much longer –
will this weight be on my shoulders?
“freedom from outside”
Alas, I awoke from within the
shackles of veracity laid
on my charge
by the structured
autocrats of knowledge
I ended the road
fought by women
in child-birth
from within the confines
of an abnormal cell
I felt the purity
in release
as the experience
oozed gradually
away from the cerebellum
as greatness descended
like the dove with impartialities
levied by him who’s without empathy
However, I fought like a Job -
a system contrive to oppress
and in my profound ignorance
learnt all tabled mannerisms
So, I will may execute those
tailored rages
For now, the world is mine
as I stand on the void
as the navigator
to recreate those experiences,
and to lamb bast in “yester-years” pity
with precision of unbounded recurrence
but I am free on the inside …
Written 2002/28/06
“priced flows”
the old, new, encounter
see
a cry of contagious flows
watered in
with
equality has its base
as it gently
rode through the corridors of time
with refreshing droplets
like mist on a tongue
that’s felt for dead
the taste – delay realities
the incoming cool waters
of transparent make
gushed in with unison
from a mastered cistern
that opened its bowels
to release self of burden
whistle fully glided
across the sun tanned
terrains
in a battle’s rage-
that parade in regal splendour
and so, will live the full of its days
in a phantom’s memoir
while the matured unnutured breeze
kept us mortals guessing
of its next presence
all toxic waste
arose
from beneath their deads
‘til their deads
mesmerize our very patience
I saw the earth in its void
voluntarily
opened with an orchestral flair
by shedding its former fruits
while not swallowing an off spring-
in an astonishing daylight!
it was as though Noah’s Era
had revisited this sinful land, again!
but this time in mercy’s dosage
‘cause some remains awoke
in large numbers
but; just that the new preacher’s
mute, was the land’s curse
for roads, animals, vegetations
mark our engineering greatness
the mandate showered in transparent
but that only on completion
did our blood scream in anguish
from the realism
of the call
the avenue taken
had a lesson
best interpreted . . . ah, ah
for the price we pay
insomnia is here
before we could recognize
that our engineers
had bankrupt our cheque books
the gods levied their wrath
our losses are spread
by the unfolded wings of an eagle
in small amounts
like sand in a hand
as greatness formed by ‘man’
packed themselves together
and fled to tomorrow’s anger
“Propagation”
mystic is the
evolution of life
that breathes
a plethora
of unstructured remarks
unmasking the wits of
the intelligentsia
a path already chartered
that only
unearth the greatest of abstractions,
yet in rife
without the author’s input
we
create life so genuine
that unclogs ignorance
Nevertheless, believe that
you know not
for in wisdom much is hidden
so, believe not
that it begins your truth for
propagation
Students
a school is your workplace
it’s a model of the external
where life’s complexities
are refashioned, simplified
for wisdom
Your guardians withhold
the world’s painful wham
in order
that you grow with glow
that knowledge be incremental
for each day you unfold
You ask- they present!
But
have you thought of how
they acquire
or, the sorrows they tolerate
to make you someone?
What would happen
should they now go?
Would life carry …
No, No!!
Then the world’s
Logistics will unveil its plan
after which
life’s stresses will hit full on
Then, it is then
Then that you’ll experience
The earth’s crushing hands
Students
Your role, you – your role
goes beyond
fun, fun, fun!
Brands, names, tags.
The world does not pause
to make you open
neither
will it extend a hand
because you’re young
nor
shall it understand
on account of your inexperience
Students
the world’s past youth
shield you now
they mask the miseries
beneath a smile
they wear a front
not that you be enticed
but
that you be equipped
before you come
Students
life’s incidences
aren’t
glamorous
like the sunset
so
let not sex destroy the lessons
let not drugs hold you hostage
let not crime distort the mind
let not alcohol makes you imprisoned
let not looks destroy your purpose
let not residence navigate you limitations
let not absenteeism mar a superior thing
Hurting
hurting deeply
hurting severely
weeping, rolling, irritated
hurting
hurting like a caged boar
hurting like a woman in labour
hurting like a godly man prior
repentance
lamenting
lamenting like a hungry infant
outwitted by your superior craft
of segregation
stranded on a deserted island of
inferiority
burdened by excruciating pains caused
through deprivation
suffering from the wounds of
prejudices
haemorrhaging like a severed vessel-
weakened by your master culture
swamped by your perfect philosophy
imprisoned, betrayed, suppressed and
miseducated
with the perfect help plan.
Hurting, hurting, hurting!
The essence rose from the sculptured clay
twirling from decency to immorality.
It broke from within a bottle
insomuch that its mistake gradually
evolved from within the closet. Could
the potter had made such blatant err, in
a mold he fashioned without haste?
The play was swine like
in that it ate away at the flesh
of its own. The make, lifted its apparels
so that any could explore the areas
of contours, even the cloaked moles.
For the secret was hidden in the cut
of make, but for him who thirst,
it beckons come, there lies fun.
I saw the flesh rot in increments
from the proud make, for it had
loved this special beauty with a
soldier’s honour. I saw that proud
Peacock’s pose, the week before the
revelation broke, that no decency’s code
lies in the behaviour of his love.
The land was once again cultivated
by him who lived close with no fear it made a
signpost. The property had no nutrients that any
should want its surface.
Many farmers have used the hoe, and for some
the descriptions are spoken of in common prose.
Therefore, the clay fetched a penny’s price.
One specimen had loved the make,
He admired the potter’s craft
without seeing the cracks and hidden
perils. Could he be so simple, to be handled
like broken pieces?
The make had thrilled his soul:
For the contours were in their full moon
mode, and had seduced even the heaven’s hosts.
Few have farmed on this squatted soil, for none
have stayed but more than once. They boast of a
soldier’s conquest for each, many, hoes have
made the grade.
The sculptured clay is now left wanting
for someone not to have heard the words.
We all admired the clay’s glory, for we saw the
gem if it were just cleansed of all its waste.
“again”
just cry my love . . .
let the world recognize
that, that a vein is damaged;
and ‘cause of socialization’s principles
you threw self at agape’
without hesitation and in ignorance
not knowing that there’s a price for err,
and a scar fashioned forgiveness.
Cry my love
let the world teach
today’s separation lesson
to him who knows not the truth of love,
and to him who has failed to
grasp the woes of others
for the puppet of a son
has smitten thee like an angry hungry bull
making the simple boisterous, and the boisterous fatal
but this new curse ‘cause of readmission and
forgiveness shall fall you like an axe.
Cry my love
let not a freshly cut rose
from the garden of a King
charm thee on the morrow
saying ‘yesterday’s scars are for yesterday’
for the marks are many, and
have not withered with the perfume of roses
instead
they hold in innocence
and have slipped through the cracks
of pure forgiveness
mowing away with a vengeance at
love
Cry my love
let it all out
let it hang for all to see
before insanity subtlety becomes a friend, and
rebellion roam prominent and before
retaliation guide all actions; and before
you fail to love again
I awoke advancing from the confines of a covenant
like leaves in an opened runlet. To see waters cascading
in from off the citadel of ravished bowels
from the acceptance of twisted and broken things.
Is it that fire purifies or kills the make of a thing
that calls for heat? For the inside of this cell is
charcoal: For with one organ he offered friendship, love
and with another he quickly gave the assistance that the
Romans bestowed on the divinity.
He formed a tie at the cut of all exits
so that the escape milieu could be construed
as having no glitch, make my eyes be filled
with the thought of that Samaritan.
But, he knitted a knot that was kinked
that all good efforts were seen.
I felt the flood gates opened to release
force on my innocent soul.
He had taken the materials of this world
to execute a craft which threatens to hijack my
profound ignorance.
The one kind that had showed concern like a
mother is now in the hands of the system: I had
revealed to this confidant the secrets chambers,
the reserves of kinship, the frequencies of failure,
and source of all under-accomplishments in
exchange for camaraderie.
I witnessed the heavens opened to curse one so wise
yet simplistic. For the voice spoke of the offerings
that made such a capture wrong. He had given winding
loops for experiences.
The waves –
just watch them caress the banks
with childish anger
while they
conference without confrontation.
I saw
a young love in its midst,
for the unity was magnetic.
The waves –
just watch them
drum the sounds of the jazz bands, and
bellow away like furious preachers.
Watch, look, open, see!
Just watch them
race competitively for the clan’s call;
no royal coronation offers that lift –
a concept of sweet taste,
the prowess of pure language,
the scenery of priceless splendour;
too sumptuous not for partial consumption,
the beauty is dove-like, and
memoirs haunting.
The waves –
just watch them in fragility,
carving, co-authoring the unknown destiny.
Calm, settled no chilled liqueur –
a creation that justifies peace!
An input that fills the void soul
for the offerings are a wealth in piece.
The waves –
just watch them come alive
like the simplicity of the rainbow!
Unfolding with a petal’s ending,
‘unchained’ by bribery.
Shedding the old, but never new –
In the single call of an ‘eye-fall’.
The experience that wants . . .
Then, pass on that baton.
a bullet!
a single bullet!
just a piece of metal
in the wrong hand -
in the palm of a gangster
ruptured his feeble heart
burst the wrong vein
fall he him face to the ground.
a bullet!
a single bullet!
struck him like a vicious beast
crippled his future
extracted that final substance -
an untimely end,
no time
no time- for byes.
why . . . .?
why, a life so purposeful,
a life so meek,
a being so sweet,
a mortal so pure,
should meet the end this way?
Is there death more just
for one so heavenly?
It took a single bullet
just a single bullet . . .
to extinguish his flames!
“freedom from outside”
Alas! I awoke from within
shackles of veracity
laid
on my charge
by the structured
autocrats of knowledge.
I ended the road
fought by women:
in child-birth
from within
the confines of
an abnormal cell.
I felt the purity
in release
as the experience
oozed gradually
away
from the cerebellum.
I encountered greatness
as the dove descended
with the impartialities –
levied by him who’s without empathy.
Now! The world is mine –
for I stand on the void
as the navigator
to recreate those experiences,
and to lambaste in “yester-years” pity
with precision of unbounded recurrence
But I fought like a Job
in the Old Testament –
a system that’s contrived to oppress
and in my profound ignorance
I learnt all tabled mannerisms
but,
but, I will not execute my
tailored rages
“propagation”
mystic is the
evolution of life
that breathes
a plethora
of unstructured remarks –
unmasking wits
of the intelligentsia
a path that’s already
chartered y many-
that only unearth abstractions
not solutions
yet in rife
without the author’s input
we
create life so genuine
that it unclogs the ignorance
of all those who quest
explanations-
for with much
comes little
shine wisdom,
for who knows not
that he knows not
but speak
for in wisdom much is
hidden
so believe
that he knows not
that it came
begin
your truth
for propagation