EVENING

and the evening ibis floats
graceful peaceful
with contented wing-stroke
on a gentle evening wind
heading home to nest to rest
from another day’s foraging

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

A FROSTY CHRISTMAS

(for Master LeRoy Clarke, prince, poet, painter, philosopher, patriarch,
photographs of whose paintings adorned the walls of my room in 1970)

I spent a Frosty Christmas
In my warm December tropics;
Robert, Pinsky, Browning, Burns and others
I read on poetic, philosophic topics.

The uncaged birds they ate my banana
And sang their freedom song;
I swear I heard the sonorous voice of Maya
Say, “Freedom is an onerous illusion.”

That man, like D. H. Lawrence,
Be doomed to condemnation;
The beast among the birds and flowers
(A rose by any other name’s a thorn?)

I surfed the wondrous worldwide web
In search of Walcott, LeRoi and roots;
I got the Jones and the Laureate herb
But found no Clarke except the boots.

The uncaged birds they ate my banana
Then bruised their heads on window glass;
They came in through the open door
But departing could not find the pass.

I spent my Christmas money,
All, on Kipling, Keats and Yeats;
A solace to my lonely, my only
Feasts were served on meditative plates.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

BLACK SISTER

black sister black sister
beautiful black sister
let me savour the sweetness
of your blackness the sensuous
nature of your black soul
let me ride the mental subways
of your chocolate city
home to your heavenly body
and at the end of the day
after bath and banquet table-
lay light a pink candle
to massage the aching night
with your purple passion
in a blue-negligeed bedroom

of my venetian fantasy

black sister black sister
booty-full black sister
make me a bouquet
of your blood-red rose
let me sip and savour all night
the bouquet of your red red wine
drunken me and drown me
in the musky music
of your primal pleasure
and in the tropic
of your midnight heat
let me drink deeply the flavour
of sun-ripe purple fruit
taste your succulent plump berries

bursting with sensual juices

black sister black sister
bountiful black sister
let me touch the swollen buds
of emotional awakening
of nocturnal orchid opening
and when the morning mist rises
like wild amazonian jungles
from pillars of your thick brown thighs
let me climb and explore
your high hillocks
tremblingly groping to the top
among wet clouds of raining love
descending deep canyons and caverns
the deep dark valleys of your soul
until like mysterious waterfalls
or oysters with hidden pearls

your deep dark secrets unfold

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

PHOOLAN DEVI (ELEGY FOR A DRAVIDIAN PRINCESS)

Phoolan Devi, I cry for you,
millions of Dalit maidens too;

oh Bandit Queen, Rebel of the Ravines,
may the scales of justice absolve your sins.

Oh Diva of Durga, Dacoit
leader, you swooped with heart so stout,

swooped on the Thakur, avenging angel,
and sent their upper caste souls straight to hell.

We mourn your loss, young life cut short
by bigotry you fearless fought;

from the Ravines to India’s Parliament
let all her oppressed echo your lament.

You died with pride in New Delhi
in your yard under a neem tree

far from mud huts on banks of Yamuna
River which flows through Gorha Ka Purwa.

Your noble soul from Dalit flesh,
an egret, to Uttar Pradesh

returned on wings of the wind to a hut,
humble home, where your navel string was cut;

the hut from where at tender ten
you were traded by evil men,

by Maiyadin, for the cost of a cow,
to marriage abuse the law allowed.

Even then your daring was great,
you walked out of that old man’s gate,

hundreds of lonely miles, back to your hut –
your mother in shame accepted you not;

with Dravidian pathetic pride,
the one way out was suicide

so she told you to go jump in the well;
you cast out outcast lore – said go to hell.

Instead you graciously cut grass
and gave your buffalo to graze

for the buffalo was your only friend –
although you held congress with many men;

and stubborn as your buffalo,
at Maiyadin insults you threw

till one fateful day in a fit of rage
your cousin resolved to break your courage,

to clip your wing once and for all
by engineering your downfall;

with Police friends the ignominious gnome
got you arrested for breaking his home

and perpetrating sad outrage
the rats on you took advantage –

for one month in a cell of no escape,
subjected to hell of beatings and rape,

victim of their sadistic game,
sated themselves to their own shame

and though on you inflicted twisted thrill
could hardly daunt indomitable will.

Broken rag doll on dirty floor,
their perverse torture did endure;

you whimpered, suffered and silently swore
stony resilience would wax even more,

swore allegiance to resistance
to battle against circumstance;

thence the seed of struggle already sown
burst the earth to surface later full-blown.

July, nineteen seventy-nine
for you was the end of the line,

came the Monsoon with foul raging water
of Babu Gujar, ‘twas the final straw

when again you were subjected
to injustice that blew the lid –

the notoriously feared Dacoit leader
abducted, subjected you to another

sordid episode of beatings
and rape to satisfy cravings,

sick cravings for lust, power and abuse –
three days your body and your soul he bruised

till his worthless life was ended
when his lieutenant shot him dead,

Vikram Mallah shot him dead and captured
your heart, retrieving your life enraptured.

He taught you to love and to sing,
he taught you to shoot and to kill;

to be not just a Bhagi co-leader
but later a fearless freedom fighter.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

SNAIL PACE

If you stand
in one place
long enough

moving snail
at snail pace
will pass you.

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

PLANTING

there is something sensual
and earthy about planting
clearing scrub and grasses

forking mulching squatting
getting fingers dirty
opening holes

in dark-brown soil
carefully inserting
seeds and plant parts

covering watering
tending back bending
hunched over hoe handle

sweating fertilizing
spraying day after day
ogling healthy green growth

waiting waiting waiting
and in the end plucking
fondling handling ripe fruits

tasting savouring sweet juice
and tangy flavour
of loving labour

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

ADAMANT

Eve
adamant
it was a damn
ant

told her secret
to Adam
miserable little insect
envious of the serpent

its breathtaking scaly beauty and its length
meddling little insect
unwanted little insect
uninvited little insect

busybody little insect
always in the middle
of other people’s business
irritating little insect

always getting into places
causing grimaces on faces
not of pleasure
but of pain and discomfort

the serpent on the other hand
when he stings
discharges so much venom
causes death or delirium

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

SOMETHING FELL, I KNOW NOT WHAT

Something fell, I know not what,
a feeling came over me;
it floated gently down to earth
like leaves or flowers from a tree.

When poui blossoms pave earth’s floor,
oh what a sight it is to see;
such splendour has not half the awe
as the spell that fell on me.

Nor deciduous cedars, after moulting
and sprouting first fragrant buds of beauty,
has not in new foliage of spring
the aura that surrounds me.

It fell and spread, not with a thud
but with an air of mystery;
radiant as light, soft as a cloud,
like a nimbus over me.

I asked my Muse, my Muse arcane,
grant sweetness to my poetry;
perhaps ‘twas inspiration’s rain
that fell and gently watered me.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE LITTLE HUMMER

Scintillating ruby-topaz,
golden-green and shimmering red,
iridescent brilliant colours
on gorgeous gorget and crown of head;

this miniature helicopter
against morning garden sun
at honeyed heart of heliconia
hovers, with sonic wing-beat hum

then agile as alien saucer
winging off to bright hibiscus
seeks another source of nectar
to pierce with probing proboscis,

pirouetting one long second
sweet before flitting with a twit
to scented centropogon
to sample one more treat,

penetrating with promiscuous
proboscis, hour after hour,
centropogon and hibiscus
to ravish flower after flower.

Said the jealous heliconia
to her faithful friend, the fern,
that polygamous little hummer,
do you think he will return?

Variety, scent and colour
may briefly satisfy
but indulgence will soon tire
the lustful voyeuristic eye

and then he will remember
your heliconiac honeyed taste
and know that flitting, from flower
to flower, is such an awful waste.

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

ALL FOURS

Heroes of a thousand wars!
Stand up! Stand up for a cause,
Stand up! Stand up and raise your paws,
raise them off the ground
and slam your trump card down
hard with defiant thumb
and break the table down
but hold your ace card back
to hang oppressor jack.
Brew the pack, shuffle the pack.

For too long,
far too long,
you’ve been just a joker,
a joker in the pack
toting load like a jack-
ass, while oppressors ride your back,
reneging on bald compromise,
broken promise and brazen lies,
gorging and gorging big bellies,
not impregnated but bloated
on the rich sauces of your soil,
your natural gas and oil,
while your ketch-ass belly
rumbling with flatulence
and discontent
from unnatural gas and leftovers.

While you starving, big bandits thiefing
cards from the pack, thiefing the lift,
thiefing the chalks in front your eyes,
thiefing as if it legalize,
thiefing your mind with mamaguise,
distracting you with old-talk,
robbing you blind behind your back
and flying free with the spoils.

Mr. Marker! Mr. Marker!
This is not a game for the lame –
this is a serious game
called the Tournament of Life –
This is war!
And the stakes is survival!

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE MILKING SEASON

This is the milking season
when Machiavellians
hold out dry titties
with more promises
of milk and money.
This is the mating season
when political miscreants
commit necrophilia
and, with necromancy,
romance dead ethnic consciences.
This is the witching season
when power-lust witches and warlocks
invoke sycophant sympathies
and subtle, subliminal,
subterranean prejudice
in this political catacomb.
This is the magic season
when walking Merlins and Houdinis
advertise and mesmerize the masses
into a mental morass
of amnesia for another five years
of disappearance in tinted Benzes.
This is the silly season
when hugging and kissing jackasses
lift up and embrace little babies
while telling large lies
with straight faces.
This is selection season
when merchants, mercenaries, mendicants,
maniacs, morons, monsters and monks
rant and rend, rend and rant,
rant and rave, rave and rant,
presiding over unholy masses,
preaching from political pulpits
on portable potty soapboxes,
shouting, “Vote for we! Vote for me!”

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

ROMEO ON THE RUN

We slept under the open sky,
my pony, Rex, and I;
the wind was cold,
the clouds they rolled,
the bats and owls did fly and cry
and chilled my wretched soul.

For Rex ‘twas nothing new nor strange,
for me a drastic change
to spread my bed
on grass instead
in room of Hotel Open Range
with earth beneath my head.

It was a night of eclipse moon
yet dark could not impugn
mosquitoes’ sight,
they saw to bite
while others hummed incessant tune
and added to my plight.

No fire could we light nor keep,
nor fragrant tea bag steep;
great was my fear,
the foe was near,
my thoughts and insects did not sleep…
a chill was in the air.

The miserable rain came down
and tried my bed to drown,
cried, “Woe is me!”
I climbed a tree –
could fall asleep and fall to ground,
‘t would be a tragedy.

Dread! We knew not what new danger
grim night would engender…
dim as a dirge,
the moon emerged,
like Tonto without Lone Ranger
and with the clouds did merge.

The one I loved, I longed to hold,
to touch her would be gold –
but Jane was far,
like Orion star,
and the foul night did scowl and scold,
“It’s love your life did mar!”

Love brought me here, I did reflect,
jealousy, more correct,
half-killed her man
with my bare hand
and knowing well what to expect,
I ran and ran and ran.

None can deny the sordid fact,
‘twas dastardly an act;
to my regret
could cause my death
sure as Romeo and Juliet’s pact –
Montague to Capulet.

Troubles come soft but hard to go –
can bow retrieve arrow?
From one moment
inadvertent,
many moments be spent in woe
and sad sackcloth garment.

The dismal night we did survive,
the morning did arrive –
brought one more day
to run away
and thank God we were still alive
to keep the dogs at bay.

Day after day, night after night,
we rode and rested light –
with open eyes
we sleep and rise,
free, in furtive, fugitive flight
beneath the open skies.

Since then I have not loved again
nor found another Jane –
no time for one
while on the run,
my life and love went down the drain,
fleeing the furious gun.

Perhaps, one day we’ll grow weary
of the rolling prairie –
lie down and die
under the sky
and finally be truly free,
my pony, Rex, and I.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

MAYARO

Kernahan junction, old East Indian woman
squats, chuku-muku, waiting transportation,
waiting chauffeur willing to move at slow pace,
to place bags of bodi in trunk, if he has space.
From the ricelands of Barrackpore, South Trinidad or North India,
agricultural squatter, on State Land, wetlands of Nariva.

Sitting beneath breadfruit tree at Mayaro,
beach-breezing under coconut tree at seaside,
watching seine surround, around foolish fish they go,
salt, sweat, sunburnt sinew pit against riptide;

struggling pace of progress so moroccoy-slow,
lagging, straggling, behind exploration and drill location,
rabid exploitation of rapid gas and petroleum flow
since the first gushing discovery in nineteen hundred and one.

I sit silent, patient, like sand, and bide my time,
overwhelmed, held spellbound by the Atlantic roar,
scaling, gutting, slicing cavali and washing it with lime
while angry waves slowly washing away your coconut tree,
dashing against your shoreline, rapidly claiming more and more
from under me, shifting sands of wasted opportunity.

I hear Michael reminding you of your history
and the lizard-man who love hole, the Zandolie,
coming out of unholy hole to make you whole and happy,
to tickle Mildred fancy with an earthy, dirty ditty
while on the other side is stiff extempore bois from Gypsy,
the stickman, bussing head with double entendre impunity.

At Radix Point, poor fishermen, like pelicans, fish for bait
while oligarchic parasites speculate sky-high real estate;
at Galeota, conscientious corporations prospect black gold,
at Connor Park, conscienceless cocaine jumbies quickly grow old.

I feel forlorn, hopeless as stone-throwing terrorist Arabs
against the Goliath, Israel, hopeless as the tied up crabs
sold by the scrunting, soliciting, hopeful roadside vendor
together with the stingy strings of conchs and cascadura:
who will crusade the cause of trussed-up, culinary crustacea?
Who will crusade and come to my rescue while I slowly flounder.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

TENSES AND SENSES

The present, interminable present,
though seeming to linger forever,
said the sage, is but a fleeting moment,
which, once gone, once flown, can never
return, no matter what effort, the event
to now, this second, this minute, this hour.

The present, the pleasurable present,
like an athlete, fleet and mighty of feet,
can a marathon make, with excitement,
by sheer speed seem a hundred metre heat;
soon forgot, the vanquished participant
in memory will linger defeat.

The past truly is forever,
with memories put out to pasture,
some to forget and some to remember;
nostalgia a flashback seesaw
even time, the great healer, cannot cure;
the past endures, the future is unsure.

The future, the uncertain future,
its aspirations are the placenta
which embryo of nascent dreams nurture
in faith, the amniotic water,
in the cervix of hope till desire
sires with love and with labour
the now, before later becomes after.

Youth, brash youth, makes a bold statement,
believing itself heaven-sent,
oft-time appears rash and irreverent;
age, reserved, with syncopated accent
expresses a sentient sentiment
sometimes tinged with regret and resentment.

Young men use strength,
old men use art, a wise old man once said.
Young men measure the length
while they count the ways,
with might and mane they forge fearless ahead;
old men measure the breadth
and number the days
as they ruminate more and more on the dead.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

GAY ABANDONED

Remember when great poets of the day
delight in writing words that rhyme with gay
was done with gay abandon, as they would say;
dead Wordsworth would turn over in dismay
at diction’s sad decadence and decay
if he knew the meaning of the word today.

It’s true there were more than a few among
poets of the past whose sonnet and song,
the Spear included, were oft suspected
to be dedicated to limp-wristed
affairs which most men would consider wrong
and which even today seem to abound.

Robin Hood and his merry men in tights,
those who feasted on festive Sherwood nights,
with no maid except Marianne in their sights,
on poached game and other sundry delights
looted from the Sheriff’s men in many fights;
would they have fought today, fought for gay rights?

Today the word gaiety is okay
but make no mention, whether jest or play,
in serious prose or light-hearted poetry
of that sad word of shame lest straightaway
by rumourmonger malice one fall prey
to suspicion or be branded that way.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

BEHIND ENEMY LINES

My acrimonious jezebel
deafened me with the decibel
of her cruel, incessant nagging;
to add fire to the fuel
I told her she could go to hell
and felt my libido flagging.

She said I was a selfish bitch,
I thought she was an evil witch,
oh how I hate the fighting;
like a long-eared animal at the hitch,
frayed nerves exposed without a stitch,
I feel like kicking and biting.

She has a wicked way with words,
more cruelly cuts than sharpened swords;
without employ a single blow,
as ruthless as ancient warlords
while the bloodthirsty arena applauds,
lays low my manhood and my ego.

Once we were each other’s friend,
we thought our love could never end
like all lovers come-a-courting;
emotion’s twigs when green may bend
but dry and broke can never mend
though tied up with a string or ring.

Pray tell me where did we go wrong,
love looked so lovely in wedding gown,
with starry eyes declared ‘I do’,
but not for long before the clown
Cupid’s arrow with poison stung
and love dried up like morning dew.

Ye lusty lads and wassy wenches
in matrimonial foxholes and trenches,
firing volleys across the law
with venom so copious it drenches;
be it better to sit on the benches
or spread marital beds of follies and war?

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

MAIN RIDGE

(In memory of my great, great, great grandfather, Congo Brown who possessed the same powers and shared the same plight as Gan-gan Sarah)

Lonely backbone
of a prehistoric, pangaeaic, fossil creature,
looking over her exiled children –
Brothers Rock, Sisters Rock, St. Giles and others,
lamenting over her adopted children,
lamenting, over her self-exiled children,
yes, she has self-exiled children too,
far from her once paradisal land,
too far away to look after.

My Main Ridge, where deer once dwelled
when the trees were not felled
and the hounds
no harlot of their bloody art were,
yes, she has history too –
the first declared
Forest Reserve of the Hemisphere,
perhaps the whole world,
by the French in seventeen sixty-five

for the protection of the rains.
My Main Ridge has watched over
colonial wars upon her shores –
French, English, Dutch and other
bloated colonial corpses floating,
colonial blood and aspirations flowing,
desecrating the sanctity of her waters –
Englishman Bay, Bloody Bay, Dead Bay and others
which by names commemorate and coronate.

Lo! In your hills, I hear faint echoes
of your distant pristine past –
an Arawak or a Carib,
fed on farine and cassava bread,
filling his peace pipe with tobacco
and your secret, sacred herbs
for his first initiate rite;
and a European named you Tobago
for the shape of his pipe.

Recently my father, my first mystic,
fed on farine and cassava bread,
corn cu-cu and plantain tum-tum too,
niam dasheen and yam
and good niniam,
my father gave me a bush bath in a boli,
from your calabash tree,
filled with your secret, sacred herbs
for my first initiate rite;

yes, you know that Gan-gan Sara
was my great, great, great grandmother.
Do you remember when,
from your highest peak,
you guided her ashore
on a trade wind, together
with the dust from the Sahara,
to join her abducted brother and sister,
Middle Passage property of Massa,

survivors of the sardine packed slaver,
those whose hopes refused to succumb
to the stench,
to sink with bloated bodies thrown
overboard to sharks?
Did you desert or embrace
her when she ate salt
meat and lost her power
to fly back home to Africa?

But there was a wind much stronger,
in nineteen sixty-three, called Flora –
traumatized your flora and your fauna
causing your land to slide
leaving bare hillside
which took many a year to repair;
and then a brutal wind even stronger,
a plague, His Imperial Venereal, AIDS,
devastated and decimated

the descendants of Gan-gan Sara,
in wasted youth they died
leaving your future, like hillside, bare;
how long will it take to repair?
My Main Ridge, protector of the rains,
I taste the salt of tears in your rainwater.
Could you not protect your peccaries
from the harlot hounds?
Could you not protect her picaninnies,

in their innocence and honesty,
from the harlot hunters
bearing tourist dollars
to turn them into beach bum gigolos
and beach bunny escort ‘ho’s?
Could you not guard and guide the guides?
Could you not protect them from the peddler
bearing blood-money US dollar
and pure-as-white death-powder

and dirty-blue camcorder?
Could you not protect them from themselves –
from incestuous shame
and political game
of land and love for sale?
Who will stand their bail
when they sentence themselves
to a new colonial jail
in a small island

of a large new plantation
tourist economy,
a large new polluted plantation,
pouring sewer into your once pristine water?
Could you not protect your pristine innocence?
Gone forever is your innocence.
Where, oh where, will her children dwell
when their terrestrial birthright they sell?
Can US dollar pay for the pain

of Gan-gan Sara’s slave labour?
Sometimes when she could not bear
the pangs of the whipping
she would use her obeah to transfer
the pain to Massa son or daughter,
yet like Christ crucified again and
again by unrepentant sinner,
each time they sell they whip her.
Where will her children,

your adopted children dwell?
Perhaps with the yatchie in the sea
or underground with bottle water in a Bloody Bay well;
perhaps with the cocrico in the air,
a national pest I do declare;
or the flying fish flying fast to nowhere,
siphoned off in stealth,
with your gas and oil and brains
and self-determination;

or extinct, a mere memory,
like the mythical mermen
who once romped with the dolphin
around Sisters Rock,
like your deer or the yeti,
mountain spirit no longer roaming free;
or swell the brain-drain ranks
of your self-exiled children;
to what and where will they return?

Leroy has his El Tucuche
and I my Main Ridge;
you are my small island,
my smaller island,
my sister island El Tucuche.
My melancholy Main Ridge,
do you have any tears to spare?
For I too am lamenting
and if I had extra tears I would lend you some.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

JOSHUA

one Moses
the true Merlin died
overwhelmed with emotion
this Moses
the new Merlin cried
tears of elation
in jubilation
that he had lived long
enough to witness at long last
this modern magic
this Joshua enter
the Promised Land
this Joshua lead
his people out
from bondage
of willy-nilly Lynch philosophy
into the house
that once
was all white
one Joseph
the true dreamer died
believing that one day
character
and not colour
would determine
the worth
of a man’s skin
this Joseph
the new dreamer sighed
so much depends
upon
this one head
on this head
the crown of thistles
weighs and wears heavy
so beware
young man and protect
our head from the hairless head
of Three-Lettered Aberration

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

CITY GATE

Clattap, clattap, clattap, all one
One half turn through the new day dawn
Dawn for those who have a care
Care for self and home and spend
Spend the time to make the turn
Turn but half, it’s never full
Full of joy, or peace, or hope
Hope only for the will to go on
On to stress and cold and rain
Rain that falls on the ambition of a soul
Soul caught tight in the jaws of toil
Rattrap, rattrap, rattrap, rattrap.

Copyright ©2003 by Judy Rocke

THOUGHTS OF HOME

Today I stopped at a baby’s smile
Caught off guard by its total lack
of defense and boundary,
without a care for walls to hold at bay
a world grown cold and dull with pain.
I stopped and paid homage to that smile
because it gives me hope that one day, I would be at home.

Sometimes I reflect on those who are stranded in time
whose reality lie shattered at the feet of the callous,
reliving their painful circumstances in some instinctive way
satisfies the longing for human connection,
evidence, at least, that even dementia cannot break the mold;
We are and must all strive to be twain.
We must all have the hope that one day “I would be at home”.

For now I wander through one day to the next,
they are the rooms of a house bereft
of furnishings and warmth
whose bare walls just give respite
from the cold night air and harsh sunlight.
I plod on through these empty spaces and times
because of my hope that one day, I would be at home.

Copyright © 2003 by Judy Rocke

SCARBOROUGH

I

the naked claustrophobia
of a small town is a tapeworm
that gnaws away at the innards
a nameless yearning to escape
its oppressive confinement
to alluring adventure and romance
of the large unknown cities overseas
you watch the ships in her tiny harbour
and your mind sails off sails over
the Atlantic and you wonder
why some discoverer named her after
another small town way over yonder
in a small island called Great Britannia
the boom of the boat as it raises boom
forewarns you as you take one long last look back
that one day your heart will yearn to return
to your prison of Scarborough
and as you spend the vigil of your wake
watching the frothing wake of your Mayflower
a solitary seagull squawks
a warning "don’t damn the waters you cross"
and it dawns on you the size of your loss
your small island grows small on the skyline
as you turn north to face fresh horizons
and you spare her one final angst-fraught thought
for now for you know you cannot
forget she will never allow
her ex-convict to forget that
a small island has a wry way
of retort to rhetoric without words
as innocuous as the droppings of birds

II

my small island capital Scarborough
my small town of Scarborough Tobago
if these two worn ‘up and down’ streets could talk
could tell the tourist their true history
could count the times that foreign feet trampled
upon her people’s dignity
if these quaint old edifices could walk
away walk from their dilapidated
state from their impending demolition
away from their destiny
and be restored to their once great glory
as cantos of colonial chronicles
oh what cruel tales of tort and torture
oh what cruel tales they would tell
what sordid stories what tales of terror
what terrible testimony
of unjust constructs founded on foundations
funded by fornications with demons
who sacrificed the souls and psyche of slaves
whose flesh was ground into the ground
whose fate was pounded in mercantile
mortars of mortality
like chocolate or chilibibi
with European pestles of brutality
for pounds and guilders francs and pesetas
this tale of pity and morbidity
is not a tale of two cities
it is a tale of colonies
it is a tale of slavery
it is a tale of history
it is a tale of two islands
it is the tale of these islands

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

BABASH

On the still
of stagnation,
the cauldron bubbles.

From the stench
of ferment
comes water,

pure and potent
Devil water;
still with a sweet stench.

Light a fire with the first-drop,
liquid fire clear and sparkling;
throw the crystal

beads and inhibitions,
throw them up
into the air

and see them disappear
before you,
evaporating mountain dew.

On the still
of stagnation,
the bog bubbles.

The Devil,
busy with the idle,
releases from the bottle

of babash,
the genial spirit
and in a flash,

a car crash, whip lash,
backlash, a cutlass clash;
and spirit lash

steals spirits,
souls and cadavers
from us.

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

ROAR

Roar! Roar!
The beast is risen,
the beast has arisen.

Dinosaur bones go
thump, thump;
stomping down carnival streets.
Monsters murder their peers,
minotaurs murder by pairs.

Roar! Roar!
The beast is risen,
the beast has arisen.

Butterfly bones go
thump, thump,
thump in tamboo bamboo dreams.
The phoenix falls, is falling,
has fallen, is fallen.

Roar! Roar!
The beast is risen,
the beast has arisen.

Roar! Roar!
Great men build ruins
and Nero plays Pan
or Pan father, while…
home burns.

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE OLD MAN

he would sit there
evening after evening
the old lonely man
on the old wooden bench
as if he had all the time left
in his world
to recollect and regret
lives and opportunities
aborted that now haunted

sometimes the lady
of the night wafted
redolent of past pleasures
as the wind flapped
thread worn tattered curtain
and twilight would reveal
silhouette of a caring
face hovering behind
tottering window sill

in his eyes were untold stories
but there was never time
to stop and listen

one evening the old
lonely man and wooden bench
were no longer there

the old house with thread bare
curtain and caring face
were no longer there

someday I will no longer
smell the white night flower

someday I will no longer
pass that way

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE WRITER AS GOD

with pen in hand
and sword at side
one wave of wand
ten warriors died

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

SISTERS ROCK

How many times have I, in my mind’s-eye,
in soaring, free flights of wistful fancy,
on a fair trade wind, floated out to sea

to land upon your jagged peaks and clefts,
there where the breeding, brooding boobies nest
on steep crests whitewashed with pelican mess,

among fledgling terns, featherless but furred;
or circled high above, a frigate bird,
then swooped so fast an osprey, vision blurred

to graceful cotillions of man o’ wars
and Spanish flotillas or armadas
that once did proudly prowl and prey your shores;

or mingled in the froth of crashing waves,
washing your feet and rushing at your caves
where many pirates rest in watery graves

and seaweeds waltz to solemn siren songs
among the shells of pacro, whelks and conchs
and salt-cured cedar ribs of galleon bones;

or scubaed with the groupers and the sharks,
with fish gills in your underwater parks,
and marveled at your reefs, your coral arks,

then, like a submarine to ocean floor,
would dive dark depths, discover and explore
cavorting creatures mythical of lore,

descending deep into your timeless sands
to sift encrusted gold coins in my hands
and lift the plundered treasures of your lands.

Then, like your loosened stones, my daydreams sink
for treasure I possess naught but this ink;
my buried navel string will never clink.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

CLOUD NINE

(In memory of Garfield Blackman,
a prince who walked among us)

Cloud nine
will only cloud your mind
and make you get left behind;
cloud nine
will only cloud your mind,
you’ll get caught, hook, sinker and line.
You’ll end up doing time,
broke without a dime,
among the vagrant slime,

no reason, no rhyme;
dirt and grime
and a life of crime.
So the media extol
the virtues of alcohol,
they still sell tobacco
even though
the CMO say no.
You think that it macho,

it hip to be high,
instead you end up so low,
feel you want to die.
Trying to fill that void,
all you get is paranoid
in a life demeaning,
of meaning devoid.
You living a delusion,
chasing an illusion;

all you get is hallucination
and your life full with frustration.
Following bad company,
now who is bad company,
now you is bad company,
you never listened to your mammy
pulling you off that track,
that rocky road to crack;
thought she was wack,

now you know is a fact,
friend does carry
but don’t bring you back.
The world is now your enemy,
can’t face reality;
you been taken for a ride
down the road to suicide.
The world is now your enemy,
can’t face your family;

you lied and denied,
they cried and they cried,
Lord knows they tried,
no longer can you hide
a curse and a disgrace,
don’t want to see your face.
Your name is Distress,
a perfect pest,
now you under arrest

and you feeling depressed.
You thought you was hard,
you was doing hard dope,
now you know that you soft,
you softer than soap;
you can’t even cope
and you don’t have a hope.
Now you suffer and suffer,
can’t satisfy this hunger,

can’t afford to feed the monster
eating out inside you,
what you gonna do?
You done sell all you had
but the monster still mad,
so you steal and you steal
and you sell and you sell;
is ill that you ill
and you heading for hell.

Your name is Distress,
a perfect pest,
if the law don’t hold you
somebody will kill you.
You making people suffer
while the dealer getting richer;
just a mindless user
being used by the pusher
cause you hooked,

hook, line and sinker.
Just a pathetic jumbie,
reduced to a non-entity,
a despicable nobody,
fugitive from society;
it killing you softly,
slowly but surely,
destroying your mind,
your soul and your body.

From the womb to the tomb,
is doomed you doomed,
from the crib to the crypt,
you on a death trip;
now is the time,
you running out of time.
Be quick! Be quick!
You have to break that line.
Cloud nine

will only cloud your mind
and make you get left behind.
You have to live
positive and constructive,
keep clean
and stay green,
like a fruitful tree,
a healthy human being,
positive and productive,

contributing,
to the upliftment of humanity.
Don’t have to be sick
to get high off the music,
could be your final fix,
is nothing to kix,
falling from a cloud
into a latrine hole,
floating around

in a toilet bowl.
Climb out of the pit,
that deep, dark hole,
quit that hit
and regain control,
kick that habit
and redeem your soul.
Be bold! Be bold!
You have to break that hold.

Behold! Life’s treasure
across the threshold.
Get off cloud nine
and you will feel fine,
forget cloud nine
and look to the Divine.
Make haste! My brother,
make haste!
A mind is a treasure

too precious to waste
and life is a treasure
much too precious to debase.
Cloud nine
will only cloud your mind...
and make you get left behind;
cloud nine
will only cloud your mind,
you’ll get caught, hook, sinker and line...

Copyright ©1991 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE BLACK CRANE BARACK

(An adaptation of William Carlos Williams’
‘The Red Wheelbarrow’)

"The stone which the builders refused
is become the head stone of the corner."
Psalm 118:22

so much depends
upon

a black O-
bama

dazed McCain
Sarah

beside the white
pigeons

it will take more
power

than red wheel
barrow

a black crane
Barack

to lift Ame-
rica.

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE ARENA OF LIFE

I

In the arena of life, my son,
there are no laws, no rules, but one;

the battle fought be lost or won,
the vanquished and the victory run,

the also ran, the marathon,
the game of love, the pro, the con;

my son when all is said and done
there’s naught but self preservation.

The leader’s never at frontline;
in war he always leads behind

to save his precious rear and mind,
there to count the dead and dying

and console the widows crying,
and mothers’ sacrifice consign

their sons’ corpses in box of pine
except the ones they never find.

It was a wise man said before
that all is fair in love and war,

cat plays a game of paw and claw
alas the rat will play no more;

love’s worth living, and dying, for;
but whatever life has in store

of you this one thing I implore –
no idol or hero adore.

II

I chanced upon a maid one day
and down fell love like rain in May

on my love life, as dry as hay,
with passion wet, suffice to say

she moulded me like potter’s clay
and made my heart a harp to play

etudes of love, how sweet the lay,
like Judas’ kiss would soon betray.

Sweet Siren Love left me no choice,
I heard her soft seductive voice

‘bove din of waves, the crashing noise,
on treach’rous rocks to shipwreck poise.

III

After dry season earth will rejoice
when showers convert dry dirt to moist

and slumbering seeds their heads will hoist
as if to escape her swollen joist,

but then submerged by swelling flood,
raging rivers, like haemorrhage blood,

her short-lived joy will drown and clod
vital organs with stifling mud.

Her habitants cry, “Why, oh Lord,
must life be bruised on scrubbing-board?”

The thunder heard and answer roared,
the lightning, hearing, struck accord,

“Love spareth not the loved to know
there is but one, one way to grow;

the mother bird in time must show
the baby bird it’s time to go,

to spread new-feathered wings and flow
upon the wind where it may blow,

to fly nest never left hitherto
to hither, thither, to and fro.

In time, my son, you’ll come to learn
to face the fire, though you may burn,

to ride the tide on prow and stern
through ocean calm, or chop and churn;

to challenge life at every turn
while lesser men may sit and yearn,

to sail beyond horizon known
and thence triumphantly return.”

IV

“Turbulent seas will smooth the stone,
striving strengthens sinew and bone,

and though the blade to rust is prone
the grinding stone its edge will hone;

carbon may under pressure groan
but diamond shine would not bemoan;

in dungeon thrown or royal throne
know that you never are alone.

In you there’s ohm to overcome,
to seize the wind and ride the storm,

lies sleeping like the lily corm
awaiting rain in earthy dorm

to spring anew and take true form,
survive adverse, like desert palm,

a source to draw sustenance from
and super strength beyond the norm.

Does subject meet exalted King,
Sitting at home with beads praying?

Or goeth forth, early morning,
with resolve and gifts a bearing,

toward palace, humbly hoping
for earthly favour and blessing…

when all at once he hears a bird sing,
‘Why seek abroad the King within?’

Trust not in chariots and horses,
but harness your inner forces;

count blessings, forget your losses;
greed adds, and multiplies crosses;

anchorless, turbulence tosses,
rudderless drifts shipwreck courses;

one ocean, with many sources,
one Source, with many oases.”

V

To you I hope my words make sense –
fruits they are of experience,

picked from the tree intelligence,
the centre of the forest dense;

while I was lost in fears immense,
stripped bare of ego and pretence,

I climbed the tallest tree, and thence
reached through the clouds of recompense

to sky above the canopy,
from where I saw the land and sea

of human woe with clarity;
and then I soared, my spirit free,

defiant of my misery,
as if by some divine decree

my eyes opened my soul to see
the spectre of divinity.

Then stone-like did I sink and dive
with carnal did I strug’ and strive

in mire till, more dead than live,
instinct amniotic to survive

and senses many more than five,
through dark and deadly subway drive,

guided me safely to arrive,
at last, the born-again archive.

And then my spirit soared again
graceful, an ibis or a crane,

over plateau and over plain
where fettered flesh could ne’er attain;

the bowed old man threw ‘way his cane
and rose above life’s old-age pain,

rode like a horse without a rein
like Pegasus with wind-blown mane.

VI

Then doubt and guilt of Adam’s sin,
through broken dike, came rushing in

with malice of a million jinn
and hit me squarely on the chin,

then on the floor my neck did pin,
said, “Give up now you cannot win!”

but iron will with split-lip grin
quipped, “Courage be my kith and kin.”

Yea, ten times ten did I fall down
but never once stayed on the ground;

with analytic notes profound
my mind stood up, conversed with Jung

and sung Marley’s ‘Redemption Song’;
my soul, refusing to be bound,

soared once more with sonorous sound
as of mallet striking a gong.

Like waves over the ocean spread,
my soul went where the sound waves led,

in universe and in my head,
even where angels dare not thread;

no longer paralyzed by dread
nor chased by fierce bulls in the mead

from which in nightmares I had fled
by learning first to fly in bed.

VII

My son, I have seen thick and thin,
refused admittance in the inn;

accepted too like Rasputin
then waylaid by the assassin;

a victim of the serpent-sting,
a mendicant for love, begging;

a eunuch in the king’s harem,
soul shorn apart like yang from yin.

I had my share misfortune too,
methinks I more than paid my due;

yes, expiate holocaust Jew
but let Massa too take a clue

and calculate the slaves’ accrue’
lest niggarding we come to rue:

it’s time to write history anew,
true point of view and not askew.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

MADAME SPIDER

"There is a way that seemeth right unto a man,
but the end thereof are the ways of death."
Proverbs 14:12, 16:25

“Come into my web-bed boudoir,”
said seductress Madame Spider
to the bar-fly on the wall;
“I’ll strip you and beat you
and whip you and eat you
and whip you till you bawl,
and whip you till you crawl.”

“Come into my web-bed boudoir,”
said domi'trix Madame Spider
to the gullible bar-fly;
“I’ll strip you and chain you
and whip you and drain you
and whip you till you sigh,
and whip you till you die.”

“Come into my web-bed boudoir,”
said seductress Madame Spider…

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

TREASURE FOUND

What greater pleasure
can there be,
to find some treasure
rare and free?
Can joy of gain,
bereft of cost,
negate the pain
of what was lost,
negate the pain
of one who lost?

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

ON THE CATWALK

mobile mannequins
and animated paper dolls
sashay sensuously
elegantly down the catwalk stage
satin lacy silky sequined things
midst cheers and catcalls
swish sassily
flamboyant flashing floral corsage
super sexy
souped up coutured super models
all pretty petite neat
and beneath a certain age
some chic
some anorexic most centrefolds
posed and exposed
upon the playboy page
beauty’s temporal fragile
orchid petals
exploited
under neon spotlight vantage
oh how quickly the flower fades
and falls
ere the lust
for life and love it can assuage
but the glitzy
glamorous tinsel world
still enthrals
young models with old dreams
along life’s catwalk stage

Copyright ©2000 by G. Newton V. Chance

PORTRAIT OF THE POET

In him beats the warm heart of the poet,
with pounding blood of idealistic youth;
forever he pursues, off beaten path,
the absolute of idealistic truth.

Upon his face the light of beauty shines,
imagination burns pastoral shade,
to change the world with but his virtuous lines,
the virtuous innocence of virgin maid.

The poet seeks perfection, it’s his quest,
the order of the universe, his goal;
as glorious sun each day sails east to west,
a cosmic orbit guides the poet’s soul.

With glorious words his pen attempts to paint
a world where all may live in pride, not want,
and on experience-canvas, a portrait
of contentment and acceptance, not vaunt.

Nature’s secret language he converses,
with birds and beasts and trees, and hidden things,
and muses, he writes his lovely verses
so eloquent of earth that heaven sings.

To right the wrongs, the right he writes, he tries,
fearless and unflagging verbal assault;
with words of solace, dries the widows’ eyes
and plasters tyrants’ wounds with caustic salt.

And when Chronos etches lines upon his face,
in rocking chair recline, hairline recede;
though slowed down in his idealistic chase,
no soil can slough its germinating seed

for though planet, moon, and star should pass away
and darkness overtake the shining sun,
as surely as the word will ever stay,
the poet’s work, forever, shall live on.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

SILK-COTTON TREE

Proudly you stand there, so regal, in your gargantuan majesty,
a gentle, verdant giant, towering over the canopy;
in leafless April, swaying, silken tresses, your kapok crown adorn,
beautiful maiden betrothed, bedecked upon her marital morn.

There was a time not long ago, it’s said, when
Houleyg, Socouyant, Papa Bois, La Diablesse and Douen,
Garbie, Jumbie, Lagahou and many a ghoulish fiend
would walk and stalk the land disguised as men;
that in that time, when men feared the four-road,
your buttressed tent served a ghostly abode.

Should I believe that under buttressed tent
sinister strangers, strange, of evil bent,
money-hungry men with diabolical intent,
ambition and achievement, would go to any length
at the witching-hour, with Faustian pact cement
fleeting financial success with debenture dement,

confront Mephistoph' at midnight, by candlelight,
and faint-hearted men turn ghastly white,
with thought of flight, transfixed by fright,
in the middle of the still, dark night,
deal with the Devil, in season of penitent Lent,
and sell souls to eternal damnation and torment…

or when measuring tape your wing could not encompass,
Rangers recording ‘exceeding twenty five feet girth’;
on scaffolding, courageous men would climb, and with axe
achieve the daunting, the seeming impossible feat,
chop, chop, chop after chop, bring you crashing down to earth,
prostrate, humbled at their feet, in deafening defeat;

or that many primitive years, not so long ago,
Amerindians dug soft belly for drum and canoe,
with Warahoon ritual incantation, a shaman
would beseech benediction to bless expedition
from Mainland to sacred old hill of Naparima
or to send young warriors off to adventure or war.

Ceiba, your trunk spans centuries, continents and oceans,
your kapok crown spreads across the Old World to the New;
you who soothed the uneasy dreams of kings and queens
with sweet repose on kapok-filled mattress and pillow,
so mighty, once “monarch of all you survey”, it’s true,
in this age of destruction, what lies ahead for you?

Can spiny armour protect you from marauding man
as he wantonly decimates your habitation?
Will you one day, like pawi, be faced with extinction.
Pentandra, like legendary son of Pendragon,
King Arthur, will you meet your demise, meet your Camlan,
by power-saw, skidder and bush fire, at the hand

of mankind’s civilized, globalized insanity?
A shaman said, when rivers dry and rain forest die,
sacrificed on altars of progress and expediency,
only then will humanity truly come to see,
beyond misguided messiahs, science and technology,
that you and I, and nature, all life, are one, Silk-cotton tree.

Proudly you stand there, so regal, in your gargantuan majesty,
a gentle, verdant giant, towering over the canopy.
O Tree of Life, will your silent strength be enough to conquer, the monster
concrete jungle who, your primal jungle, seeks to devour, forever.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

HALLOWEEN

Halloween is importing horror in October
just as in August we import summer
in a land without spring, autumn, winter.
What next? Thanksgiving Day or July Fourth?
What the hell wrong with we? Maybe is time,
with all the cable programming and crime,
to change we nationality and birth
certificate from Trinidad and Tobago
and be known, henceforth, wherever we go,
as the United Island States of America.
I say what the hell foolishness is this,
this wicked, immoral, Devil business
of imperial cultural interest?
I say, go to hell with Halloween propaganda.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

ISLAND-MAN

(for Dr. Edwin Carrington, Secretary General of CARICOM)

From a Third World,
within a Third World,
within the Third World;
forgotten, behind God’s back,
there, where I found you at the end of a donkey track,
now a pothole road donated by the Doc,

ending by a river where no bridge was worth building
to cross over; the same river,
running into your history,
running into your destiny,
running into a bloody bay,
polluted by pirate blood

spilled in criminal,
colonial wars of yore,
wars for position and possession.

Black and blue, my great grandfather
toiled, on your indigo plantation,
(when sugar-cane was king;
there was no beet or saccharine
to sweeten the coffee of the Queen),
by force, he had no choice.

Then later, my mother toiled, on your estate,
(when copra and coconut-oil was king;
there was no soya-bean
to lower the cholesterol of the Queen),
for a ha’penny and a farthing,
she had no choice.

Yesterday, I toiled, in your food basket,
(when dasheen and yam and cassava was king;
there was no oil-boom
to overflow the coffer of the Queen),
for a shilling, for next to nothing,
I had no choice;

until you bring your employment project,
to hell with your food-basket;
I will still make a little hustle in the sea,
plant a little garden and thing, maybe.
But now the dollar is king,
now I don’t need no gayap or len’an’

I can do without tradition
because money is king
and if thing too slow, I can go to town
on a pothole road;
except when rain come down
and block or break away the road;

or even better, I can cross the water,
by steamer, the same coastal steamer
that yesterday used to dock from bay to bay
to pick up my dasheen and cassava,
when the road was a muddy track,
now a pothole road that will bring me back

to a Third World,
within a Third World,
within the Third World,
still behind God’s back;
the lights and the water and the telephone
taking so long to come.

Sucked by houleyg and soucoyant,
and mosquito and vampire,
sucked and raped by politician,
sucked, raped, plundered by businessman,
by Frenchman and by Dutchman
and Portuguese and German,

American and Englishman.
I have produced coffee, cocoa, cotton and sugar,
indigo and copra, ground provision and timber,
fish by the boatload, and great men;
men of integrity, dignity and honesty;
men of high honour, and valour;

I am a man, to my word; I will always be here,
come rain, come sun, or river come down,
expect Island-man to be there.

Copyright ©1995 by G. Newton V. Chance

SILENCE

Let silence resound
for silence is more, much more,
than the mere absence of sound.

There is note and there is rest-note;
the ocean laps against the boat,
the tide subsides and makes no note.

Let silence abound
for silence is more, much more,
than the mere absence of sound.

There is sound and there is silence
but the ear, to hear the silence,
listens… beyond the ken of sense.

Let silence resound
for silence is more, much more;
it is the celestial sound.

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

MY COMPUTER

My computer was a cocoyea broom
that swept and cleared the cobweb
from the corners of my cranial room.
Anansi on the World Wide Web,
with new-found hunger, did consume
food for thought, gray-matter bread,
with new-found thirst, cactus in bloom,
drank deeply from the watershed
of knowledge, its light illumed the gloom
inside an instant, infinite library, read and read
and dormant faculties did exhume,
with apathy and lethargy now dead and buried,
spun fine silk of wisdom at the loom –
the creative factory in my head.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

O MORTALITY

(In memory of my sister, Elva Phillips-Thomas)

O Mortality,
tyrannical in your finality,
that feeds and thrives on fleshly frailty,
you nursery of fearful man’s misgivings,
afflicter alike of paupers and kings,

from time immemorial you have oppressed,
lo, your curse has cowered even the blessed
since crawling sin first reared its ugly head
in Eden Garden and innocence died
when Adam, trembling, heard God’s awesome tread
and with fig leaf covered and tried to hide.

Then Eve gave birth in pain and mankind bled
when Cain, with sinful stone, struck Abel dead,
God of his whereabouts did enquire;
abashed and unrepentant, Cain’s reply,
non-confessed, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
deceptive stratagem, guilt did belie.

O Mortality,
some say the sin of disobedience,
when Eve, then Adam, gave acquiescence…
the Serpent with the apple and the lie
unleashed you with, “Thou shall not surely die!”

to wreak your tribulation and your woe
on man and lesser beings here below
till Adam’s Seed should bruise your hoary head
and smote your grand design on Calv’ry cross;
before the Christ your victory has fled
“O Death where is your sting?” Here is your loss,

for in your greed, your lust to destroy all,
therein lay, ultimately, your downfall,
to underestimate redemption plan,
the greatest love, the greatest sacrifice
of God’s covenant, ere the fall of man,
that with lifeblood His Son would pay the price.

O Mortality,
your devastation be but for a time,
on mortal flesh you wreak your deadly crime;
so carry on your carnage till that Day
of Judgement when the Lord of All shall say,

“O Death where is thy sting? Release my saints!”
and henceforth banish your dreadful constraints,
together with the Serpentine Liar,
the author of deceit and temptation,
forever in the flames of hellfire,
you tyrant, to final conflagration.

For dread as you are in your affliction,
bow you shall before the resurrection
and, hugging sin, shall fall upon your knees;
then prostrate you will lie upon the ground,
cremated corpse with every foul disease,
for paradise shall once again be found.

O Mortality,
tyrannical in your finality,
that feeds and thrives on fleshly frailty,
your ashes shall be flung to the four winds
and henceforth vanish from immortal minds.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

TO LABOUR

To labour,
that grim taskmaster,
man, a slave must always be;
forever,
working to be free
from want and poverty.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

O MIGHTY ONE

Om

Omnipotent,
Omnipresent,
Omniscient,

O Mighty One
Who dwells on High
Was never born,
Can never die;

O Nameless One,
O Faceless One,
You are the Sun,
The Bush That Burned;

You are the Dawn,
You are the Sky,
You are the One
Created I;

I thank You Lord,
By thought and word,
I thank You for Your Glory;

I thank you God,
By deed and word,
Let every living entity,

In one accord,
By thought and deed and word
Give praise and thanks to Thee.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

FOUR HUNDRED YEARS AFTER

Four hundred years after
and the black man still in chains.
Iron chains have been replaced

by thick gold chains around the neck –
gold chains and gangsta attitudes;
manacles have been replaced

by gold bangles and slave bands;
cattle brands have been replaced
by tattoos, with willy-

nilly Lynch philosophy,
and hip, big, bad brand-name tags
that make brand makers wealthy

and black brand wearers poor;
iron chains and manacles
are replaced by self-hatred,

by economic shackles
and mental chains around the brain.
Four hundred years later

he calls himself 'Nigger';
four hundred years after
and the African still no free.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

PITY THE URBAN MAN

pity the urban man
no fresh-mown grass he can
inhale on morning farm
nor feel the morning calm
far from the madding rush
nor touch the midday hush
the squirrel under brush
the swampland full of slush
birds more than two in bush
no poniar' in the palm
that shrub alone does harm
he knows not the clear spring
with water gurgling
he knows not of the brook
prolific as a book
brimful of fatted trout
begging to ”fish me out”
nor hears the crowing cock
woodpecker’s cryptic knock
its rhythmic soldier’s drill
to bore bole-hole not kill
nor watch the cockpit hawk
which hapless prey will stalk
and swooping like a jet
scoops up in talon net
unfortunate rabbit
grown careless through habit
nor earthworm’s tiny plough
and fertilizing cow
chewing contented cud
happy as hog in mud
a fat and filthy sow
a dog barking bow-wow
the smell of milking pail
and fresh brewed ginger ale
common fowl eggs for sale
no mule with swishing tail
and flies that make you flail
the plover and the rook
the donkey’s surly look
no traffic-less night-sleep
and silly-looking sheep
nor mongrel midday snore
and fireplace folklore
nor waterfall’s allure
and capuchin’s loud roar
the village general store
for credit on all goods
the shade under the woods
the evening’s many moods
the fresh and natural foods
and neighbours’ petty feuds
pity the urban man
for only rural can

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

O MUSE

O Muse,
you who into dead words of prose
breathes the fire and love of verse
and like the Christ, by lowly birth,
descends from heaven to the earth...

O Muse,
infuse my poor prose with pathos
as empty soul, with Holy Ghost,
is filled by God’s redeeming grace
that sole uplifts the human race...

O Muse,
from your dam of wisdom impart
so that my pen may touch one heart
and like your siblings, three-square blest,
beauty and art from mundane wrest...

O Muse,
my humble brooding make profound,
transform to joy, let love abound;
as hounds after the hart they pant,
capture and with romance enchant...

O Muse,
of pleasant personality,
grant sweetness to my poetry
and let your inspiration flow
from heaven down to earth below,

over my brow, my breast, my toe
and round my hand like saint’s halo.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

TREASURE LOST

Take me to that monolithic
place of hidden musings reposit,
in some dusky cellar or musty attic
where song and poetry never writ,
or to memory’s haloed, hallowed halls commit,
lie languishing in dusty secret,
forgotten bottles of choicest wines, they sit,
aging to maturity,
awaiting rediscovery
like priceless sunken treasure,
long lost beneath the ancient sea.

Copyright ©2000 by G. Newton V. Chance

GIVERS AND TAKERS

There are givers,
there are takers,
the givers are but few;
a giver
or a taker,
dear lover,
tell me, which one are you?

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE GODS

The gods
are they
who have found
a way
to extricate themselves
from limitations
of time
and space
and matter
and mortality.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE CUSP OF EQUINOX

On the cusp of equinox,
the mystic morning sun
creeps across strafed landscape
of Tagore’s Gitanjali;
stockholders and tycoons
of Wall Street
are counting ill-gotten gains,
coolly conducting commerce
with the glabrous souls of men;
bellicose men exchanging
breath of life
with trees of life
then callously cutting them down;.
The green is groaning
at instant men grown distant,
distancing self from distant past;
and a tiny ant,
back broad as Atlas,
carries the news
to my long forgotten father.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE CITY NIGHT NEVER SLEEPS

The city night never sleeps,
its concrete face bright as day,
oblivious of the company it keeps,
neon lights shine in grand array;
a nameless streetwalker pauses and peeps,
through barred glass, at window display.

A pity city eyes never see,
by the ethereal glow of the moon,
the night sky in all starry glory
or hear its celestial tune;
eyes and ears which to squalid and gory
have gradually grown immune.

The jungle too knows no sleep;
though countenance fearsome and dark,
bright eyes pierce the nocturnal deep,
fireflies freely twinkle and spark
while the moon and stars frolic and leap
over Noah’s scotopic open ark.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

MOUSE

Filthy creature once so scorned,
stealthier than the sun at dawn,
lowly entity now reborn,

my hand pets you like a lover
nibbling at a lover’s ear;
is it a lion’s roar I hear?

Filthy creature once considered vermin,
by click or curse may now determine
the future of mankind.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

TO A DONKEY

You can lead a horse to a tributary
but you cannot make it drink;
you can lead an ass to a university
but you cannot make it think.

So the next time,
before you commit a crime
of felling that tree unnecessarily,
STOP! Think seriously, ponder deeply,

really, am I less intellectual
than a lowly donkey?
Is that dumb animal
more intelligent than me?

For that dumb jackass
will eat all the grass
but never fell a tree;
haw-hee, haw-hee, haw-hee…

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE WEST INDIANS

The irony of three wooden ships
that set sail from Palos in Spain
to discover...

is that Cristobal planned to go east,
to reach India, by sailing west
around the world.

The confused Old World Europeans called
New World natives Amerindians
and Red Indians.

After demise of Amerindians
they brought sturdy West Africans,
then East Indians,

douglarised them to the West Indians,
and left them all in confusion
in the Third World,

in a tall, New, Old World Order.

Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance

O, DEATH, I FEAR YOU NOT

O, Death, I fear you not,
your wintry stranglehold,
your bowels have never begot
nor ever can claim my soul.

You have stalked me prior to my birth,
before my mother called my name,
yet my body will return to earth,
my soul immortal whence it came.

So blow, you chill winds, blow,
blow me over the cliff’s cold edge,
for when my time is come to go,
go fearless… be my pledge.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE MORPHINE MAN

When the missiles whined and shrieked,
sling-shot nerves snapped and ricocheted,
and my body jerked, and convulsed,
involuntarily, in the stinking trenches
of injustice, at the shattered sound;
and the shrapnel lodged in my mind,
and soul, and the broken bone
protruded from the gaping wound…

The mental scabs are real;
real as the scar, on my left leg,
I cannot remember receiving in this life;
real as the pain and shame,
the degradation,
the hurt and humiliation,
I try to forget
with the opiate of denial.

I forgave, but how can I forget the hate,
the lies and twisted excuses,
when they hung my uncle, Tom,
by his tortured thumb;
and his charcoal hide did flagellate
till his blessed soul, from his wretched body,
departed, liberated, to a better place.

I feel the hurt;
his hurt, my hurt, every time
you call me Negro, or Colored,
or Creole or Nigger;
had you asked me,
I would have told you,
I am…African.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

A KISS

A kiss can say so much,
much more than just a touch;
much harder is a kiss to fake
than a keep-your-distance handshake…
maybe it was a kiss sublime
made Mona Lisa smile
that timeless smile
of reminisce;
a kiss that lingers
long upon the lips;
not the kiss of death that fingers,

with which misguided Judas,
in the Garden of Gethsemane,
his Master did betray,
the Loving Shepherd, Jesus,
handed over, a lamb
of sacrifice to slaughter,
sold out to Roman soldier
for thirty dirty pieces
of sackcloth-sullied silver
imprinted with the face
of the Roman Emperor;

nor the nuisance kiss of annoyance
by older folks who care
which, like the tousling of the hair,
a schoolboy’s scorn
contemptuously wipes away;
nor the kiss of romance worn and old,
the kiss that lovers spurn;
a kiss can be hot, a kiss can burn,
a kiss can be warm,
a kiss can be so cold,
a kiss can be dry, a kiss can be wet,
a kiss can be tainted
with malodorous breath
or spiced with anisette;

not the kiss of maternal,
paternal, fraternal,
motherly, brotherly,
sisterly love
planted with a pout
on cheek and not on mouth
that may come with platonic hug
but the kiss you miss,
the long kiss, the tongue kiss, the deep kiss,
the French kiss, the sweet kiss,
more of Hayez canvas than Klimt,
the kiss of life, the kiss of love
that can transform
this creature from the bog.

This humble request
may evince a wince
or even slap face or wrist
but would you kiss this frog
and turn him to a prince,
and turn him to your prince?
I promise I would floss first
and fresh my breath with mint.
Dear Princess,
this frog's intent is not, was never meant,
to appal, to annoy or to bug
but tell me this;
if I were Apollo, Eros or Adonis,
would you refuse my kiss?

Dear Princess,
after writing all of this,
don't you believe
that I deserve
a kiss?

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE LOVE I FELT FOR YOU

The love I felt for you
it grew and grew and grew,
it grew until it towered
and my defences lowered,
till the high of love was allowed
to block my point of view.

For love is blind, it clouds the mind,
a lover has not a clue
if love be cross or love be kind,
whether it be false or true.

You watered not the garden
nor tended it with care;
the soil began to harden,
the weeds grew everywhere.

My love you did not cherish –
tall weeds did grow and choke;
you, love, you were too selfish
to care about the heart you broke.

The love I felt for you it sunk,
it shrunk and shrunk and shrunk,
it shrunk till it was covered
by weeds that overpowered
and, sober, I recovered
from the potion I had drunk.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

LOVE TO YOURSELF BE TRUE

Love to yourself be true, oh love be true –
let not languor quench your fire
but rather let passion your heart imbue
with flames of burning desire;
let not ardour infidelity rue
or sully your soul with ire.

For out of your bosom does emanate
all beauty, all lovely, all good,
from your womb all things wonderful and great
were conceived that ever was wooed
and what union your breath does consecrate
let none consider crude or lewd.

Nor baser vibration of jealousy
have you room for it in your breast,
but beware the pitfalls of vanity,
see you act not at her behest,
nor ambitious bane of humanity,
the ego, fail not to arrest.

Give me the sweet of unfermented vine,
taste as fresh as the morning dew,
‘fore the rot sets in of corrupting wine
that depresses the sky to blue;
or the innocence of a virgin mind
that sad misfortune never knew
ere the tears and cares of the ties that bind
colour carefree a different hue.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

ONE MILLIONAIRE

If there was one million here
for one million men to share,
then one man would want
to be one millionaire.

For one man to own one million,
one million men must each own one;
nay, one million men must each own none.

For one man to own one million, give or take a few,
and one million men to each own one too,
there would have to be not one million but two;

but if there were two million here
for one million men to share,
then one man would want
to be one multi-millionaire.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE FIRE SEASON OF '87

It was early as warm-hearted, cold-nighted December,
Robin, the weather-soothsayer, his ominous oracle did
foretell,
observing the sky...warned, "Expect evil weather...
nineteen eighty-seven will be bone-dry and hot
as in hell."
Softly and gently the moist morning dew-drops,
upon the oppressed buds, condensed, they lay;
evaporated like arid desert tear-drops
on the cheeks of a parched dry-season day,
while it anxiously awaits the blessed rain-drops
of a hopeful, messianic month of May.

The immortelle and poui their blooms they did shed
to cover the ground, coloured pink, yellow, red,
the frogs, the toads and crapauds croaked and cried
and watched as their resident water-holes dried,
the capuchin monks, they prayed, howled and begged,
the iguana's egg-laden belly, in the sand, dragged,
low-legged;
but the tyrannical sun he refused to relent,
and the errant rain-clouds they refused to repent,
the cicada called 'til his wing-beat burst his
belly-drum
and still the rains, they refused to come.

Then one fateful March morning it finally happed.
An illiterate, ignorant, idiotic infidel insect,
perhaps
a firefly or bug or loathsome, two-legged crawler,
struck ferocious flint to spark tender tinder,
shouting, "Burn baby, burn baby, burn baby, burn."
The flames of devastation heavenward leaped,
in their eagerness to ignite the funeral pyre,
until many ruinous conflagrations later,
how costly the lesson, we came to rue and to learn
that the ash was (much) too much for the urn.

As Vulcan's red rage swept thru farm and thru field,
his fiery sword of destruction did wield,
like mighty, valiant Achilles, enraged,
on Troy's battlefield, ruthlessly avenged
the slaying of Patroclus, his dearest friend;
waded through the unfortunate foe
like a caiman thrashing the marsh water,
till no blood was there left, to flow...only woe,
till his awesome fury finally was expended,
till the anger that fuelled his fire was no more,
and only broken, burnt-out, lifeless, limbless corpses
lay strewn on the forest floor.

To sanctuary some fauna, from the fiery war,
by fortune, or Mother Nature, were led,
or perhaps Papa Bois, as to safety they wildly fled;
but the weak, the infirm, the slow and the flora
they perished, they burned and they bled—
trees wilted and withered...and counted the dead.
A forest wept years for the many that did not escape
the fierce wrath of the engulfing fire-storm,
shaken, survivors stood still, thru tears of sap did
they gaze,
in awe, at the fury the ravaging, ravishing sun had
become;
but its merciless rapier rays, they continued to raze
and still the rains, they refused to come...

And when the deluge, at last, it came down,
alas! The damage it was already done.

I pray never to see such dread days return
as the fire season of eighty-seven.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

SALVATION

grown tired of going hungry
on Gospel Sundays
while the word was freely given
as the grass the cattle grazed
in their barbwire-penned pastures

grown weary of doing nothing
on welcome Sabbaths
and the rest of the week
while nothing seemed to work

too proud to harvest bottles
score gullible alms
solicit offerings from garbage cans or rummage
through hopeful landfills

hats ties and churches
choke and confine the spirit he said
they are straightjackets that control the manic
until subdued and sacrificed
to barbiturates of doctrines

public confessionals of ignorance
and professional walls
proudly diplay diplomas and degrees
from colleges of illusions
with promises of salvation

the shaman’s incantations and charms
like his childhood dentist
may have been unnerving even disarming
but certainly not charismatic or charming
relief he wonders while he wanders the world
is it worth the trauma of exorcism

a child’s suffering is a mortal sin
to suffer in silence
to be heard and ignored
to be trapped strapped and shouted at
stop crying
or I will give you
something to cry about

Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance

TO WHOM MOST SECRET...

To whom most secret thought can one confide
if unrevealed the grave would deign to hide?
’Lysian cohabitant or spousal state
may wheedle every secret from a mate
(friend too, or kin, most trusted, true and tried)
but loftier the love, deeper the hate

when blissful bed becomes a battleground,
and loyalty no longer honour-bound.
Compunctious compulsion untold will tell
(rat’s tongue, it’s said, its head and life will sell)
and then lament treachery on burial mound.
Prudence be proud, your secrets to guard well

for charging other men your own to keep,
which you cannot, shall surely make you weep.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

RIO CLARO AT 5.45 A.M.

a crowing cock
like a chiming cuckoo clock
crows and crows
Mu'azzin Bilal proclaims
the Fajr Azan
from the minaret of a mosque
God’s creation
man’s invention
a motor in motion
disturbs the daybreak’s
waking meditation
hungry birds arise
in squawking jubilation
5.45
morning comes alive
a slight soothing drizzle
relieves the night’s distended
bladder you open
your windows to welcome
fresh air of a new day
as a stealthy sun parting
cloudy curtain-frills
of darkness smiles
and slowly peeps
over April hills
of your eastern horizons
to suddenly reveal
an incandescent sky
a beautiful day
and a buenos días
Rio Claro
ciudad de Trinidad

Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance

GRA’MA

Gra’ma, whose x-ray eyes
could peer over a pair
of spectacles perched
on tip of Negroid nose-bridge,
like limers on a precarious rail,
and invade skeletal secrets,
piercing soul, prising pale lies,
surprising you with her profound
old-people-say insight
to coax apart pretence’s mascaraed mask—
Gra’ma’s rusting coal-pot iron,
that pressed one thousand stiffly starched
hotel linens and immaculate bakra uniforms—
and caused chronic arthritis—
could not erase
the years’ chronicles wrinkled
on the kindness of her pleated face.
These years that erode rust-clay canyons,
tarnish and corrode shining metals, these years,
adorned with gray hairs,
these years have been unkind.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

NOW FOR NOW

(in memory of my cousin George Daniel, tailor/ musician)

In this ready-made age,
the village tailor’s
thimble-armoured thumb
lies stitch-less, naked,
numb and dumb,
subdued
by designer-needle’s evil-eye,
no longer nimble,
no longer needed.

The neighbourhood cobbler
has long succumbed—
his last lathe can be found
among the cobblestones;
his late art lies rotting
and forgotten,
under an anonymous
headstone
at the foot

of a huge, sedentary,
cemetery samaan tree
in a neglected plot—
a neglected plot is his final lot.
Meanwhile, the careless, carefree
consumer is consumed, covered,
buried by now-for-now,
buy now for now,
gluttonous eye-gratification.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

WILD PLACES

There are places in my mind
where forests have been lost—
wildernesses without sign-
post, where thought forms have been tossed

like broken branches in the storm
of wild imaginings,
discarded for the norm-
al, banal everyday things;

places dark and mysterious
as the virgin forest— deep
springs lined with lichens and moss,
whence inspiration seep;

wild places where a child
would laugh and play with fair-
ies and, with neither guilt nor guile,
knew magic without fear.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

AN OLD HOUSE

(for Sandra Dopson, painter
of old houses)

An old house is a haunted thing,
with echoes of the past living
quietly in the woodwork still,
existing in the number nil;

emotions, be they love or hate,
its walls will always permeate,
which, though senses fail to reveal,
the sensitive may touch and feel;

and if the new neglect to bless,
sometimes themselves make manifest
and then refuse to leave unless
unpleasant past is laid to rest.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

FLAG-WOMAN

(for the late, great Aldwyn Roberts
who was never awarded the Trinity Cross)

Planted in blood,
perspiration and eye-flood
on totem poles

of fertile bamboo and futile steel.

Unfurling, gyrating, waving, undulating,
unifying, dividing, signifying,
with cultural symbolism
of colours and emblems,
nations, religions, traditions,

the sacred and profane.
Antenna to orgies
of sacrifice and pain;
I sing of Gods and gorges
and dance to history’s sad refrain –

(something slain for something gained,
make no mistake, I stake my claim).
Forged in passion, forged in flame,

from tamboo-bamboo to fertile steel,

receiving and transmitting,
transmitting and receiving;
win’ing, win’ing, win’ing,
waving, waving, waving,
win’ing and waving,

waving and win’ing,
win’ing, win’ing, win’ing,
waving, waving, waving,
win’ing, win’ing, win’ing
in the wind.

Copyright ©2000 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE LONELY YEARS

This desert that we call our own,
these barren lives of sand and stone,

where bubbling springs of love and mirth
have dried up leaving hate and hurt…

Barriers of boulders separate
castled hearts behind padlocked gate.

Here conscience hid her face and fled
and progress rides the back of the wretched;

tyrants of suspicion and fear
oppress like faithless unanswered prayer

which pleads only material things,
ignoring treasure that eludes kings –

tranquillity and peace of mind,
implicit trust of child and blind…

And we relive the lonely years –
the happiness held in arrears.

Let every care be laid to rest
when evening retires to her nest.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

GREEN WORDS

An educated child, I laughed,
in derision, at language
as expressed by Mother.

Years later, I learned
my folly to scoff
at ethnic elision —
her truncated ‘h’ of hurt

as in eart’ where tap roots
of resistance refuse
to wither with wilted stem.

Stumps of trees, torn
asunder from timber, sheds
old bark, bleeds
red sap and shoots

fresh leaves in a new
coppice of herbs, green words
or healing verbs.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

TONIGHT THE WORLD IS RAINING

tonight
the world is raining on my leaking roof
but my bed is dry
dark clouds weeping above me float aloof
high up in the sky
the sound of the rain on my roof soothes me
like the tears I cry
waters the garden of humanity
and none can deny
that the falling rain makes the plants happy
and the wretched sigh

tonight
the world is raining on a homeless child
exposed on the street
to the elements like trees in the wild
above and beneath
the night-world is cold your son your daughter
has nothing to eat
rain has passed hours after no laughter
nowhere to retreat
nowhere dry to rest his head drain water
swirls around his feet

tonight
the world is raining on a coke zombie
craving for a high
lips lungs fingertips blistered by empty
brandy bottle fry
only concern to support his habit
cons or steals to buy
he cannot eat cannot sleep cannot quit
seems futile to try
the cooling relief of the rain’s respite
helps the night go by

tonight
the world is raining on a destitute
living in the park
clouds above her weeping obscure the truth
she lives in the dark
what difference does it make dry or wet
nakedness so stark
at least abject deprivation has let
her free as a lark
live her unobtrusive life until death
frees her lot at last

tonight
the world is raining on my lonely heart
drizzling drip by drip
the pleasure of its pitter patter has
for me no kinship
no sweet nectar of love song or love kiss
from a lover’s lip
the wind brings a chill I cannot dismiss
hugs me in its grip
and melancholia is the wine of bliss
on which this night I sip

tonight
the rain has passed but rain clouds never stop
hovering above
the roofs and trees still shed rain and teardrop
crying out for love
my heart the child the addict and the waif
still hunger and starve
vulnerable still tossed like a dry leaf
far from God’s golden glove
in winds of the vicissitudes of life
far from her treasure trove

tonight
the world is raining on my leaking roof
but my bed is dry
dark clouds weeping above me float aloof
high up in the sky
the sound of the rain on my roof soothes me
like the tears I cry
waters the garden of humanity
and none can deny
that the falling rain makes the plants happy
and the wretched wonder why

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

GIZIE GUMBIE

So you don’t believe them monkey story how man does turn beast
and drag chain whole night; how man have prayers to turn gizie
gumbie and enter people house like spirit to interfere with their
wife and girl-children.

I never believe either until one night I come home late from a lime
with the boys.

So going home I was thinking it odd how Tommy wasn’t in the
lime that night and Tommy don’t ever miss a free rum — he is the
one does say “you wasting the rum” when man break the seal and
tip the bottle for the spirits, he is the one does steupse and say
“people still believe in them stupidness”.

As I enter my gap I hear Dorothy groaning as if somebody killing
she; so I bawl out “Dorothy, Dorothy” and rush the door. All I hear
is voosh and I feel like a breeze pass me — you know is then I find
out, is then I realize is a gizie gumbie was harassing my wife.

Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance

AND DEATH

And Death………

Death, that old procrastinator,
hovers cold above man’s shoulder
like an impotent, impatient vulture,
stalks and slinks from a safe distance,
stalks, and stinks, distinguished bird of disgust,
connoisseur of carrions and cadavers;

knowing full well a Guardian Angel
can protect for only so long,
though anxious, Death bides like a hyena
who knows in famine there is no hunger
(the last bite of offal will tide him over);
Death, cognisant that he can tarry a bit longer,

like a caring undertaker,
waits on man to meet his maker,
macabre waiter in funeral parlour
who cares more for your tipping corpse,
loathsome corbeau one can well live without
serves and smiles with toothless lop-sided mouth.

And Death………

Death, that great grinning scavenger
of iniquitous inequalities,
Death drives a waste disposal truck
on irregular beats around the block
and refusing refuse rifled by dogs
scoops up, alike, vagrants and lords.

Copyright ©2000 by G. Newton V. Chance

AIDS (THE RICH HARVEST)

Grim Reaper stood guard at the cold front-gate of hot Hades,
cloaked in condoms and prophylactic propaganda,
assisted by the callous inaction of world-power,
and the conscienceless patented piracy of the profiteer,
warmly greeted and welcomed, with little fanfare,
the throng, overflowing, he plucked the rich harvest of AIDS,

hapless victims of wanton Desire's sexual onslaught and slaughter,
the fallen in the carnal, coital war of promiscuity and infidelity.
Was the infected the infidel— the selfish, salacious, lewd, lascivious, fornicating, self-gratifying adulterer,
protagonist of same sex, sado-sex, homosex, bi-sex, free-sex, pay-sex, gay-sex, loose-sex, libertine liberty,
long-tongued, short-thonged libertines, gratuitous, grand and gay—
O Thespis! Is this the price we pay for their innocuous Russian roulette play?

Or the junk-needle, the bleeding, bloodletting, blood-giving,
blood-banking, blood-sharing, fluid-sharing, needle-sharing, innoculating;
was it an indictment on loving, giving, sharing, life-saving,
when the substance of life became the channel of dying;
(motherless babes are daily dying and crying,
innocent lives cut short, infected in childbearing)
did the fear of ignorance or the ignorance of fearing
overpower the care of love or the love of caring?

Or malicious, malignant, malevolent, genocidal, suicidal, sinister scientists,
or blame the African Rhesus, but was it them or us, this green macaque monkey business?
(at least this hypothesis seems to support the Darwinist apologist.)
Is the African Diaspora a victim of headless penis-power supremacist
belief or the lead character in a power-play plot on a genocide hit-list?
We witness the viciousness of patented pharmaceutical avarice,
the obscene millions made from drugs dispensed by pharmacists
while millions who cannot afford, the world can ill afford, suffer in silence and perish.

Can the ‘safe sex with a single partner’ solution be the answer?
But how can you be sure you are your single partner’s single partner?

Will we, shamefully, shamelessly, selfishly, take things in hand, like Onan
of old, and spill the future upon the barren ground?

Or is this the golden, monastic dawn of the Age of Celibacy
when man, perforce, by force, must he an ascetic be?

Will mankind find the cure, save our future from disaster sure?
Que sera, sera! There are more questions than answers, by far.

Grim Reaper's aide lurked in the shadows at the front-gate of Hades,
cloaked in condom campaigns of misinformation and hypocrisy,
assisted by fear, denial, ignorance, prejudice and uncertainty,
and the conscienceless profiteer's patented piracy,
worked assiduously, his illustrious attaché,
the throng, overflowing, they plucked the rich harvest of AIDS.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

AIDS (THE VICTIM)

I

I watched you
from a distance,
from a safe distance;
I watched you wither away
into your twilight of despair,
into a darkness darker than the darkest night—
Night descended and a blanket of woes
blacker than my funeral clothes,
like a blight, covered and smothered
your young life.

II

Your life became a desert island,
a deserted island of shame,
desolation and pain,
and confusion.
I watched you in your desperation,
shipwrecked, nerves wrecked,
stretched upon the rack
of self-torturing thoughts and doubts,
full of turmoil and trauma—
your boli cracked, your boli broken,
your life scrambled—
a cracked and scrambled egg,
sad omelette fried
in fears and tears.

Ah life, life is a fragile eggshell…

I watched you, reduced
to a mere shell of your former self,
fighting to keep afloat,
to keep the fragments of your disappointment
from falling apart;
so disconsolate, isolated, ostracised,
by your friends and relatives,
abandoned by all.

III

That day your world fell in,
fell apart and hope imploded
upon itself when you learnt
the dreaded HIV,
harbinger of certain death,
was alive and well and dwelling
in the crucible of your body
fluids, in your blood.

IV

You knew—
your numbed brain
comprehended
that your days were numbered;
and you surrendered.

V

Your life ended
and you became a living dead,
sick
with worry and anxiety,
submerged to subterranean realm,
abysmal well of fear and dark despair,
depression and self-pity,
long before your system of immunity,
your city of Troy,
its walls of Trojan condom breached,
white corpuscles, trembling and bleached,
succumbed
to Trojan horse
of villainous viral invasion.

VI

To prolong your pain was not an option
for you could not afford their cocktail of hope
so your ailment progressed
to full-blown AIDS—
here was your Hades
and your only dope
was the thought of heaven.
And as you degenerated and quickly grew old,
the doctors diagnosed and you were told
the grim, the grave, prognosis…
it was just a matter of time.

VII

And I in my fear
and ignorance and suspicion,
my fear of social sanction,
like all the others, distanced myself
and did nothing
to ease the severity of your suffering.
I wondered how did you get it.
Who did you get it from?
Who did you give it to?
What if you give it to me?
What if you gave it to me?
What if you had given it to me?
And all I could do was pray for a cure,
for the future of the children,
for the children of the future.
And I resolved never to be a victim.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance