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