(for my wife, Dr. Judy Rocke, who exchanged vows with me on 12/12/2004 and 26/12/2004 and for the survivors of the tsunami of 26/12/2004)
once a man
one New Years Day met
what he thought
was a woman
born
to be his soul mate
it was as if they had met
and known
each other somewhere before
it was so easy to tell
her all his secrets
she told him all her secrets
except her name
that man and woman
declared a vow
that within one year
they would exchange vows
which they kept
on the twelfth of the twelfth
and the twenty sixth of the twelfth
two thousand and four
who can forget
the tsunami that brought
such destruction and death
yet could not silence
love and life and hope and faith
or the memory
that Christ can
calm the raging sea
and so she renewed his faith
that a story can
really end
as a fairy tale
romance
and live happily ever after
trudging along a long and dusty desert trail
famished and parched almost to death
to find
his oasis
his nurse
full of love and life and peace
his Florence
not quite a nightingale
but more than a woman
almost an angel
Copyright © 2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
CONDOMS
Come,
let us sow
condominiums
that quickly sprout
and grow
into slums.
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
let us sow
condominiums
that quickly sprout
and grow
into slums.
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Saturday, December 12, 2009
SOURCE OF THE RIVER
Water embarked on long mystic journey
From mountain spring arcane and obscure,
Barely terrestrial trickle, so clean, so fresh, so pure;
Wending winding way eventually,
Through many miles, to sea and shore,
From forest green, rural serene, to urban roar.
Explorer embarked on long mystic 'venture
From chemical city, poisoned, polluted and smelly,
Crawled through wet jungle swelter on belly;
Determined to reach source of the river,
To experience firsthand, thrill of discovery,
Unravel and witness God's marvellous mystery.
Water continued on long mystic cycle
From sea, ascending, to nimbus cloud of vapour;
Till pregnant and heavy-burdened with moisture,
Chac, the Rainmaker, in mercy, with caesarian sickle,
Burst weary water-bag, inducing labour,
Quenching earth's thirst with heaven's sweet shower.
Explorer continued on long mystic quest,
Eyes drank pristine beauty of nature
As soul sang psalm of praise, sang in awe,
Proceeded on ‘pilgrim’s progress’ to next
Station, spurred on, lured on by Dionysus’ allure
Like mighty Hiawatha to wigwam of Minnehaha.
Water completed long mystic mission,
Flowed along barren ground and forest floor,
Percolated where green, eroded where bare
Denuded hillside gush to lazy valley siltation
Submerged, baptized, to spring once more,
Emerged, sanctified, from within earth’s core.
Explorer completed long mystic expedition,
Came face to face with Aquarian grail,
Of form transmuting as Merlin’s alchemical veil,
Fluid flow to solid ice, vaporous air to condensation:
Flooded with insight, upon consciousness prevailed,
That source of life and river, in every detail,
Is same; clear as blind can read by Braille,
Man can Creator see through wonder of creation.
Copyright ©2000 by Newton V. Chance
From mountain spring arcane and obscure,
Barely terrestrial trickle, so clean, so fresh, so pure;
Wending winding way eventually,
Through many miles, to sea and shore,
From forest green, rural serene, to urban roar.
Explorer embarked on long mystic 'venture
From chemical city, poisoned, polluted and smelly,
Crawled through wet jungle swelter on belly;
Determined to reach source of the river,
To experience firsthand, thrill of discovery,
Unravel and witness God's marvellous mystery.
Water continued on long mystic cycle
From sea, ascending, to nimbus cloud of vapour;
Till pregnant and heavy-burdened with moisture,
Chac, the Rainmaker, in mercy, with caesarian sickle,
Burst weary water-bag, inducing labour,
Quenching earth's thirst with heaven's sweet shower.
Explorer continued on long mystic quest,
Eyes drank pristine beauty of nature
As soul sang psalm of praise, sang in awe,
Proceeded on ‘pilgrim’s progress’ to next
Station, spurred on, lured on by Dionysus’ allure
Like mighty Hiawatha to wigwam of Minnehaha.
Water completed long mystic mission,
Flowed along barren ground and forest floor,
Percolated where green, eroded where bare
Denuded hillside gush to lazy valley siltation
Submerged, baptized, to spring once more,
Emerged, sanctified, from within earth’s core.
Explorer completed long mystic expedition,
Came face to face with Aquarian grail,
Of form transmuting as Merlin’s alchemical veil,
Fluid flow to solid ice, vaporous air to condensation:
Flooded with insight, upon consciousness prevailed,
That source of life and river, in every detail,
Is same; clear as blind can read by Braille,
Man can Creator see through wonder of creation.
Copyright ©2000 by Newton V. Chance
Friday, November 27, 2009
CLIMATE CHANGE
and the lion
shall lie down
with the ass
and the tiger
shall forsake
flesh for grass
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
shall lie down
with the ass
and the tiger
shall forsake
flesh for grass
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Saturday, November 14, 2009
I AM GOING TO AMERICA
I am going to America,
land of freedom
and opportunity,
where you can
be anything you want to be,
even an illegal alien
or even a deportee.
I am going to America,
the world's greatest
democracy,
where half the population
are Republican
and the other half
Democrats and minority.
I am going to America
where a mulatto can
be president
four hundred years after
we built this city on
rock and roll and genocide,
employing raw slave labour.
I am going to America
where an ignorant immigrant can
tear down environment and health
commitments while building up
tall walls to keep immigrants out,
and a black man's life is worth
the cost of a copper's bullet.
I am going to America,
land of barrels
and prosperity,
where an immigrant can
work three menial jobs
and study while
still sending home some money.
I am going to America
where it really doesn't matter
whether feet are wet
or dry or cold once footprints
are embedded in revolution
and republican history where
the soil is a little darker.
I am going to America,
who wants to go to Africa?
Better by far to be
a European refugee
than to lose a hand or foot
or head in belligerent Belgian,
tribal, genocidal stupidity.
I am going to America,
the world's greatest
economy,
where you can
peg your dollar and float your treasury
without having to devalue
your devalued currency.
I am going to America
and I don't mind
standing in a long line
extending down Marley Street.
Better join the line and wait
than to reach
with wet, cold feet.
I am going to the USA
to work and study
thrice as hard;
to live the blues and brrrs
and wait and wait and wait...
in hope one day
of copping a green card.
© 2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
land of freedom
and opportunity,
where you can
be anything you want to be,
even an illegal alien
or even a deportee.
I am going to America,
the world's greatest
democracy,
where half the population
are Republican
and the other half
Democrats and minority.
I am going to America
where a mulatto can
be president
four hundred years after
we built this city on
rock and roll and genocide,
employing raw slave labour.
I am going to America
where an ignorant immigrant can
tear down environment and health
commitments while building up
tall walls to keep immigrants out,
and a black man's life is worth
the cost of a copper's bullet.
I am going to America,
land of barrels
and prosperity,
where an immigrant can
work three menial jobs
and study while
still sending home some money.
I am going to America
where it really doesn't matter
whether feet are wet
or dry or cold once footprints
are embedded in revolution
and republican history where
the soil is a little darker.
I am going to America,
who wants to go to Africa?
Better by far to be
a European refugee
than to lose a hand or foot
or head in belligerent Belgian,
tribal, genocidal stupidity.
I am going to America,
the world's greatest
economy,
where you can
peg your dollar and float your treasury
without having to devalue
your devalued currency.
I am going to America
and I don't mind
standing in a long line
extending down Marley Street.
Better join the line and wait
than to reach
with wet, cold feet.
I am going to the USA
to work and study
thrice as hard;
to live the blues and brrrs
and wait and wait and wait...
in hope one day
of copping a green card.
© 2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
THE SUN CAME OUT AGAIN
The sun came out again,
the rainbow promised no more rain;
the waters withdrew from the flood,
‘Nopheles hunted blood.
The noble Roble raised its head,
its broken branch had bled
before at one hundred years old
yet each year bloomed its rich bright gold.
The Kiskidee shook out his cloak
and woke the forest folk.
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
the rainbow promised no more rain;
the waters withdrew from the flood,
‘Nopheles hunted blood.
The noble Roble raised its head,
its broken branch had bled
before at one hundred years old
yet each year bloomed its rich bright gold.
The Kiskidee shook out his cloak
and woke the forest folk.
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Friday, September 18, 2009
5 MINUTE RAIN
5 minute rain
river in road again
the forest crying
flood
too much shedding
of tree
blood
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
river in road again
the forest crying
flood
too much shedding
of tree
blood
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Saturday, August 22, 2009
WE HAVE LIVED
We have lived to see so many
Things our fathers never did,
For unto us is now revealed
The things that once were hid.
To see the earth from outer space
And outer space from earth;
To view the womb as from within
And baby before birth.
To watch the cotyledon sprout
By time-lapse photography;
To witness the Oceanic Ridge
Submerged beneath the sea.
To read the double helix book,
Grow cattle and sheep from clone;
Build virtual worlds with avatars
From chips of silicon.
To travel the superhighway
Of knowledge in a flash;
From coins and paper currency
To plastic cards for cash.
We have broken the sound barrier,
Heard the roar of the Concorde;
We have seen His hand in nature
But not yet the face of God.
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Things our fathers never did,
For unto us is now revealed
The things that once were hid.
To see the earth from outer space
And outer space from earth;
To view the womb as from within
And baby before birth.
To watch the cotyledon sprout
By time-lapse photography;
To witness the Oceanic Ridge
Submerged beneath the sea.
To read the double helix book,
Grow cattle and sheep from clone;
Build virtual worlds with avatars
From chips of silicon.
To travel the superhighway
Of knowledge in a flash;
From coins and paper currency
To plastic cards for cash.
We have broken the sound barrier,
Heard the roar of the Concorde;
We have seen His hand in nature
But not yet the face of God.
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Saturday, July 25, 2009
THE CRAB-CATCHERS
the crabs ran no
it was not Easter Tuesday in Tobago
no novelty crab race
with thousands of tourist all over the place
they were running to lay
millions of eggs along the bay
they were running to get away
from ravenous bags of crab-catchers
from Sunday tables of callalloo eaters
from plates of curry crab and dumpling
running for their life
running for dear life
running with their precious cargo
of future cradling crablings
destined to be fodder
for fishes and birds and other
natural predators the focus of their
fetes and festivals of frenzied feeding
how many will survive to grow
to adulthood to be enticed from holes
to be seduced from safety under earth
into bamboo joints to be caught
their freedom cut short
like suffering slaves of old
tied up tight with torturous string
hung up in bundles on bamboo poles
or held out in the imploring
hand of a roadside hawker
enduring heat and hunger
from shady forest ground
to open searing sun
victims of the curse
of the ravages of commerce
waiting to be sold
who cares
who cares about his brother
who cares about crustacea
to count the population
who cares for conservation
how many studies have been done
to determine its role
its niche in the ecology
who cares in this country
to advocate its value in the chain
to quantify the quota caught and sold
to quantify the annual toll
say crab and is only food on mankind brain
even though crab hardly have meat to eat
they like to crack the gundy with their teeth
the weapon meant for its protection
is the object of its destruction
the irony of its vulnerability to man
poor crab
red crab blue crab rain crab hairy crab
no discrimination
no distinction same condition
no one cares its catch to regulate
perhaps we will when it’s too late
from under ground in coconut estate
to coconut oil-down on pepper plate
from eating dasheen in dasheen field
to dasheen bush in Sunday meal
from brackish water of mangrove
to hot water on stove
no permit no season
no pity no reason
they say crab can’t done
worth they say crab have none
crab not worthy of consideration
crab not worthy of conservation
where are the conservationists
where are the environmentalists
where is the society
for prevention of cruelty
to animals in this country
who cares in this country
the crabs ran no
it was not Easer Tuesday in Tobago
it was crab running in Mayaro
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
it was not Easter Tuesday in Tobago
no novelty crab race
with thousands of tourist all over the place
they were running to lay
millions of eggs along the bay
they were running to get away
from ravenous bags of crab-catchers
from Sunday tables of callalloo eaters
from plates of curry crab and dumpling
running for their life
running for dear life
running with their precious cargo
of future cradling crablings
destined to be fodder
for fishes and birds and other
natural predators the focus of their
fetes and festivals of frenzied feeding
how many will survive to grow
to adulthood to be enticed from holes
to be seduced from safety under earth
into bamboo joints to be caught
their freedom cut short
like suffering slaves of old
tied up tight with torturous string
hung up in bundles on bamboo poles
or held out in the imploring
hand of a roadside hawker
enduring heat and hunger
from shady forest ground
to open searing sun
victims of the curse
of the ravages of commerce
waiting to be sold
who cares
who cares about his brother
who cares about crustacea
to count the population
who cares for conservation
how many studies have been done
to determine its role
its niche in the ecology
who cares in this country
to advocate its value in the chain
to quantify the quota caught and sold
to quantify the annual toll
say crab and is only food on mankind brain
even though crab hardly have meat to eat
they like to crack the gundy with their teeth
the weapon meant for its protection
is the object of its destruction
the irony of its vulnerability to man
poor crab
red crab blue crab rain crab hairy crab
no discrimination
no distinction same condition
no one cares its catch to regulate
perhaps we will when it’s too late
from under ground in coconut estate
to coconut oil-down on pepper plate
from eating dasheen in dasheen field
to dasheen bush in Sunday meal
from brackish water of mangrove
to hot water on stove
no permit no season
no pity no reason
they say crab can’t done
worth they say crab have none
crab not worthy of consideration
crab not worthy of conservation
where are the conservationists
where are the environmentalists
where is the society
for prevention of cruelty
to animals in this country
who cares in this country
the crabs ran no
it was not Easer Tuesday in Tobago
it was crab running in Mayaro
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
SEE THAT OLD MAN
See that young man going there,
head held high without a care
’fore the billows of time roll
over him and take their toll.
See that old man going there,
that could be you in a year
or two; he too was once young,
vibrant and young and headstrong.
That old man with cane in hand,
every footstep dogged by pain,
has left footprints in the sand
tide or time cannot erase.
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
head held high without a care
’fore the billows of time roll
over him and take their toll.
See that old man going there,
that could be you in a year
or two; he too was once young,
vibrant and young and headstrong.
That old man with cane in hand,
every footstep dogged by pain,
has left footprints in the sand
tide or time cannot erase.
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Saturday, May 16, 2009
SEWER CITY
I
the town was stink
stinker than the sugar-
shit saturated Cipero
in crop-time
ever noticed how each town
has its own unique stench
maybe it’s the drains and sewers
II
the stagnant fish funk of the waterfront
had long been cleaned up
filthy funny-coloured ghetto drains
with floating plastic
now halfway clean
flowed lazy into the city
swamp-sulphur fumes and
black smoke from urban landfill
lined with rows of corbeaus
no longer billowed foul welcome
to Sewer City
the horrible salt fish factory fumes
no longer hung and clung like a cloak
choking the lungs and life out of the city
but the town still stank
III
it was still illegal to loiter or litter
but it was legal to live
on the streets of the city
to squat to lounge
to sleep to wake
to piss to defecate
on the city pavements
under the high rise buildings
and skyscrapers
any time of day or night
one has rights you know
like the right to thumb one’s nose
or any other dirty body
part at the right to human dignity
IV
a vagrant awoke
rubbed his rheumy eyes
calmly stepped out from the bedroom
of his cardboard condominium
spat and proudly exposed
his manhood
to the indifferent midday crowd
V
damn those rats are fat
almost as fat as the real rats
they live well on the leftovers
from garbage bins
and garbage heaps
rummaged by vagrants
and stray dogs
VI
the mayor
called in the pied piper
that was a failure
maybe the pied piper
was a cocaine piper
blowing on a brandy bottle
or zoosh pipe
instead of a flute pipe
maybe the mayor or the piper
was unsure whether
it was the rats the dogs
the corbeaus or the vagrants
to be removed
so all remained
after all who or what would
follow a fruity-toot flute
when there was so much pirate music
piping in the city streets all day and all night
VII
gradually a strange thing happened
one could no longer differentiate between
the rats
the corbeaus
the stray dogs
the vagrants and
the human beings
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
the town was stink
stinker than the sugar-
shit saturated Cipero
in crop-time
ever noticed how each town
has its own unique stench
maybe it’s the drains and sewers
II
the stagnant fish funk of the waterfront
had long been cleaned up
filthy funny-coloured ghetto drains
with floating plastic
now halfway clean
flowed lazy into the city
swamp-sulphur fumes and
black smoke from urban landfill
lined with rows of corbeaus
no longer billowed foul welcome
to Sewer City
the horrible salt fish factory fumes
no longer hung and clung like a cloak
choking the lungs and life out of the city
but the town still stank
III
it was still illegal to loiter or litter
but it was legal to live
on the streets of the city
to squat to lounge
to sleep to wake
to piss to defecate
on the city pavements
under the high rise buildings
and skyscrapers
any time of day or night
one has rights you know
like the right to thumb one’s nose
or any other dirty body
part at the right to human dignity
IV
a vagrant awoke
rubbed his rheumy eyes
calmly stepped out from the bedroom
of his cardboard condominium
spat and proudly exposed
his manhood
to the indifferent midday crowd
V
damn those rats are fat
almost as fat as the real rats
they live well on the leftovers
from garbage bins
and garbage heaps
rummaged by vagrants
and stray dogs
VI
the mayor
called in the pied piper
that was a failure
maybe the pied piper
was a cocaine piper
blowing on a brandy bottle
or zoosh pipe
instead of a flute pipe
maybe the mayor or the piper
was unsure whether
it was the rats the dogs
the corbeaus or the vagrants
to be removed
so all remained
after all who or what would
follow a fruity-toot flute
when there was so much pirate music
piping in the city streets all day and all night
VII
gradually a strange thing happened
one could no longer differentiate between
the rats
the corbeaus
the stray dogs
the vagrants and
the human beings
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Thursday, May 7, 2009
OH MOTHER
Oh mother who worries and cares too much,
The child in me still craves your gentle touch,
That soothing touch that healed my injured knee,
Banished my fears and eased my misery.
Who can know agony of motherhood,
The ordeal, which with deep love, you withstood
And pushed and pushed against the gnawing pain
And bravely did it many times again
Or share your depth of anguish and despair,
Feel your children’s distress not knowing where,
With grim foreboding await the sad news
Which calls friends and family to the pews?
Who can know the inhumane ills you bear
Through love of fledgling stronger than your fear,
Domestic abuse silently endure;
For a true mother’s love there is no cure.
But who can experience a mother’s joy?
It is more priceless than precious alloy;
The boundless pleasure of love victorious,
The bubbling treasure of life vicarious.
She needs no justification or price,
No compensation for her sacrifice
And even when forced into fatherhood,
To catch, to kill and then to cook the food,
In her satisfaction to watch them grow
Resides, like rivers into ocean flow,
Pride in her bosom at her child’s success;
Was worth all of the pain she will confess.
Many days you went hungry and undone
With sleepless nights from the day I was born,
Oh mother, how can I repay you, for
Boundless love, I will owe you evermore.
Though there were times when, in my ignorance,
I thought that life was mine to take the chance
And felt stifled by your nagging concern,
In life’s fast lane I had to bruise to learn;
The years taught me the wisdom of the old,
Like Solomon’s temple inlaid with gold,
Was wrought with tribulation’s nuggets stored
Beginning with the love and fear of God.
To you it matters not what I have done –
Hurt at what I have or have not become,
Unconditional love always assured,
Your love is stronger, stronger than your word.
And Lord forbid that day of woe should come,
You pass on before me, forever gone,
I know I never could repay the cost
Or substitute that which I had and lost.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
The child in me still craves your gentle touch,
That soothing touch that healed my injured knee,
Banished my fears and eased my misery.
Who can know agony of motherhood,
The ordeal, which with deep love, you withstood
And pushed and pushed against the gnawing pain
And bravely did it many times again
Or share your depth of anguish and despair,
Feel your children’s distress not knowing where,
With grim foreboding await the sad news
Which calls friends and family to the pews?
Who can know the inhumane ills you bear
Through love of fledgling stronger than your fear,
Domestic abuse silently endure;
For a true mother’s love there is no cure.
But who can experience a mother’s joy?
It is more priceless than precious alloy;
The boundless pleasure of love victorious,
The bubbling treasure of life vicarious.
She needs no justification or price,
No compensation for her sacrifice
And even when forced into fatherhood,
To catch, to kill and then to cook the food,
In her satisfaction to watch them grow
Resides, like rivers into ocean flow,
Pride in her bosom at her child’s success;
Was worth all of the pain she will confess.
Many days you went hungry and undone
With sleepless nights from the day I was born,
Oh mother, how can I repay you, for
Boundless love, I will owe you evermore.
Though there were times when, in my ignorance,
I thought that life was mine to take the chance
And felt stifled by your nagging concern,
In life’s fast lane I had to bruise to learn;
The years taught me the wisdom of the old,
Like Solomon’s temple inlaid with gold,
Was wrought with tribulation’s nuggets stored
Beginning with the love and fear of God.
To you it matters not what I have done –
Hurt at what I have or have not become,
Unconditional love always assured,
Your love is stronger, stronger than your word.
And Lord forbid that day of woe should come,
You pass on before me, forever gone,
I know I never could repay the cost
Or substitute that which I had and lost.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
ON MENDED WING
Soaring up and up
No limit to the heights and sights
Then panic, pain, worry, fear;
Ambition must disconnect from the rare clean air
The wing is hurt.
Who cares for a wounded bird?
The dream seemed lost.
But the story did not end.
This lucky bird found a friend
And the wing is on the mend.
Soaring again but slowly now
Setting limits to the clear blue sky.
© Judy Rocke, 2009
No limit to the heights and sights
Then panic, pain, worry, fear;
Ambition must disconnect from the rare clean air
The wing is hurt.
Who cares for a wounded bird?
The dream seemed lost.
But the story did not end.
This lucky bird found a friend
And the wing is on the mend.
Soaring again but slowly now
Setting limits to the clear blue sky.
© Judy Rocke, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
I WILL BE REMEMBERED
I will be remembered long after my death
But what good would it do me then
If my name is whispered in the same breath
As the wise and the famous of men.
But why should my name be remembered
When my time here on earth is done;
I have built no great architecture,
Pyramid, I have raised not one.
No nation have I subjugated
Nor people subjected to oppression;
I have built no great world empire
By the blood of the sword and the gun.
No continent have I discovered
Nor patented great invention;
No physical or chemical law
Have I theorized or chanced upon.
No philosophy promulgated
Nor established a world religion
So why should my name even be mentioned
When the sand in the glass is gone.
But when rock erected upon rock
Has crumbled to dust and to ruins
Someone shall recall my temerity
To have penned these few indulgent lines.
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
But what good would it do me then
If my name is whispered in the same breath
As the wise and the famous of men.
But why should my name be remembered
When my time here on earth is done;
I have built no great architecture,
Pyramid, I have raised not one.
No nation have I subjugated
Nor people subjected to oppression;
I have built no great world empire
By the blood of the sword and the gun.
No continent have I discovered
Nor patented great invention;
No physical or chemical law
Have I theorized or chanced upon.
No philosophy promulgated
Nor established a world religion
So why should my name even be mentioned
When the sand in the glass is gone.
But when rock erected upon rock
Has crumbled to dust and to ruins
Someone shall recall my temerity
To have penned these few indulgent lines.
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Sunday, March 8, 2009
I WANT YOU MANTRA
Can you feel the emptiness
in my home?
Can you feel the loneliness
in my room?
Can you feel the emptiness
in my bed?
Can you feel the loneliness
in my head?
Come fill this empty space
in my heart.
Come fill this lonely place
in my heart.
I need some love right now.
I need someone. You are the one.
I need you.
I want you, I want you.
I need your love right now.
I need someone. You are the one.
I need you.
I want you, I want you.
I want you, I want you,
I want you,
I want you, I want you,
I want you, I want you…
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
in my home?
Can you feel the loneliness
in my room?
Can you feel the emptiness
in my bed?
Can you feel the loneliness
in my head?
Come fill this empty space
in my heart.
Come fill this lonely place
in my heart.
I need some love right now.
I need someone. You are the one.
I need you.
I want you, I want you.
I need your love right now.
I need someone. You are the one.
I need you.
I want you, I want you.
I want you, I want you,
I want you,
I want you, I want you,
I want you, I want you…
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
EMPTY THE HEART
Empty the heart where love has not a home,
owned or leased or rent or even squatted,
nor Venus ever worshipped in its dome,
nor Cupid pierced with arrow, love-charted,
sent with rose-scented aim of desire
to breed new life, even bleed or destroy,
on love’s altar in her sacred fire,
as story of Helen and fallen Troy,
nor conceived cantankerous commotion
of children’s cute chameleon screams of joy
and crying, as copious as an ocean
filled with playthings, but love is not a toy.
Empty the home where love has not a heart,
where Cupid’s bow has hurled a poison-dart.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
owned or leased or rent or even squatted,
nor Venus ever worshipped in its dome,
nor Cupid pierced with arrow, love-charted,
sent with rose-scented aim of desire
to breed new life, even bleed or destroy,
on love’s altar in her sacred fire,
as story of Helen and fallen Troy,
nor conceived cantankerous commotion
of children’s cute chameleon screams of joy
and crying, as copious as an ocean
filled with playthings, but love is not a toy.
Empty the home where love has not a heart,
where Cupid’s bow has hurled a poison-dart.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
Friday, February 20, 2009
ANOTHER GULF (REVISITED)
I. Blimp
of blimps limps
wimps pimps
shrimps crimps chimps
dimps gimps nimps
and bloody bloated blasted
blooming blinking flatulent
inflated imps
in the sky
on the ground
and underground
II. Woop Woop
men dying
women crying
children missing
people shaking
country quaking
bodies piling
guns piling
drugs piling
record breaking
murderers walking
monsters stalking
minotaurs hiding
nobody talking
the three digit
whe whe beast
with cell phone
roaming
law leaders
clueless cools
law men
law unto themselves
woop woop
whoops whoops
oops oops
loops loops
call the police
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
of blimps limps
wimps pimps
shrimps crimps chimps
dimps gimps nimps
and bloody bloated blasted
blooming blinking flatulent
inflated imps
in the sky
on the ground
and underground
II. Woop Woop
men dying
women crying
children missing
people shaking
country quaking
bodies piling
guns piling
drugs piling
record breaking
murderers walking
monsters stalking
minotaurs hiding
nobody talking
the three digit
whe whe beast
with cell phone
roaming
law leaders
clueless cools
law men
law unto themselves
woop woop
whoops whoops
oops oops
loops loops
call the police
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Thursday, February 12, 2009
TO YOU, DEAR LOVE
(For Dr. Judy Rocke, Happy Valentine)
To you, dear love, to you, my heart I trust
and swear by love, the lifeblood in my veins,
will pump until it falters as it must;
when life is gone, and grief is all remains,
true feelings too, the space replaced by lust,
fealty wanes, turmoil and sorrow reigns,
then love will pulse and spurt with life anew
and broken hearts and bridges she will mend
or break and tame the wild and stubborn shrew
and make of every foe a lifelong friend;
then mortal love will blend immortal brew
for even death our love shall never end,
when ‘dust to dust’ divides between us two,
I will eternally be loving you.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
BOOGSIE
Boogsie
pan hero
pounding note with finesse
of rubber-wrapped wand
beyond ken of tuning mace
natural
sweet steel
archetypal as Ogun
runs of sharps and flats resound
with soul of unshackled
originality of creativity
chromed chromatic
sheets of steel sounds
stealing ears and hearts
with bravura of midnight robber
circle in tunings of fifths
inside spider-web
drum belly of speech band orations
liberating the goddess
Calypso
epic unschooled genius
virginal virtuosity
akin to Mozart
bursting oceanic boundaries
of island innovation
like overheated goatskin
of Tobago tamb'rine
on Bongo Night
galvanize sheds shining
with patient sweat in late-night panyards
Boogsie
Trinidad maestro
inner whirl of steel invention
imagination
improvisation
King Rama J
expanding sonic boundaries
making foundry fathers
of tamboo-bamboo
and pan pioneers proud
Phase II
unfazed too
from St. James streets
sweet dougla notes rise and shimmer
like radiation of Shakti
above the tuner’s fire
with thunderous power of Shango’s hammer
Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance
pan hero
pounding note with finesse
of rubber-wrapped wand
beyond ken of tuning mace
natural
sweet steel
archetypal as Ogun
runs of sharps and flats resound
with soul of unshackled
originality of creativity
chromed chromatic
sheets of steel sounds
stealing ears and hearts
with bravura of midnight robber
circle in tunings of fifths
inside spider-web
drum belly of speech band orations
liberating the goddess
Calypso
epic unschooled genius
virginal virtuosity
akin to Mozart
bursting oceanic boundaries
of island innovation
like overheated goatskin
of Tobago tamb'rine
on Bongo Night
galvanize sheds shining
with patient sweat in late-night panyards
Boogsie
Trinidad maestro
inner whirl of steel invention
imagination
improvisation
King Rama J
expanding sonic boundaries
making foundry fathers
of tamboo-bamboo
and pan pioneers proud
Phase II
unfazed too
from St. James streets
sweet dougla notes rise and shimmer
like radiation of Shakti
above the tuner’s fire
with thunderous power of Shango’s hammer
Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance
PLEASURE AND PAIN
I
Take your pen and write these things, oh poet,
Write down the dilemma of the ages,
Has perturbed the minds of many sages,
The journey of man between birth and death,
The pleasure and the pain of life in stages.
The months of morning sickness and regret,
From pleasure, harrowed thoughts of pregnancy,
On whether to abort or let it be;
Sometimes conception can, as much, be threat
To hapless mother as to helpless baby.
The midwife shares experience but not pain
Of labour, to deliver when it’s due,
Duty is honour to usher a new
Life, the womb’s late loss is the world’s new gain
Without which pain there would be no me or you.
After nine long months of uncertainty,
(Sadly, sometimes it can be premature
Or, even worse, sometimes it can be more,)
Appears the object of expectancy
Who, after a mother’s tears, opens the door.
A mother’s tears and baby’s skin now dry,
The cord of physical attachment cut,
(Though emotional connection cannot,)
Swift slap on butt elicits a sharp cry
Of first breath, pleasure and pain portends her lot.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
Take your pen and write these things, oh poet,
Write down the dilemma of the ages,
Has perturbed the minds of many sages,
The journey of man between birth and death,
The pleasure and the pain of life in stages.
The months of morning sickness and regret,
From pleasure, harrowed thoughts of pregnancy,
On whether to abort or let it be;
Sometimes conception can, as much, be threat
To hapless mother as to helpless baby.
The midwife shares experience but not pain
Of labour, to deliver when it’s due,
Duty is honour to usher a new
Life, the womb’s late loss is the world’s new gain
Without which pain there would be no me or you.
After nine long months of uncertainty,
(Sadly, sometimes it can be premature
Or, even worse, sometimes it can be more,)
Appears the object of expectancy
Who, after a mother’s tears, opens the door.
A mother’s tears and baby’s skin now dry,
The cord of physical attachment cut,
(Though emotional connection cannot,)
Swift slap on butt elicits a sharp cry
Of first breath, pleasure and pain portends her lot.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
Thursday, February 5, 2009
WE WADED
we waded
tall grass and prickly sedge
wet thickets thick and dark
as memory
of Nubian maidens’ legs
the murky moon
a ghost-grey
and silver schooner
raced past competing clouds
through choppy Sargasso
canopy into open sky
simultaneously as
we stumbled
into a clearing
a breath-catching break
in the undergrowth
winged-insect string
and woodwind orchestras
hummed
bowed and blew their high-pitched
high-strung Wagnerian warhorses
fearsome irksome folksongs
of impending aggravation
stunted tree limbs
with winged trunks
and stilt roots stretched
supplicant silhouettes shifted
sinister shapes like childhood clouds
sleepless stealthy apparitions
and trudged on stomped on
trudged on stomped on
marching merging melting
marching merging melting
marching merging melding
into night’s misty shadows
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
tall grass and prickly sedge
wet thickets thick and dark
as memory
of Nubian maidens’ legs
the murky moon
a ghost-grey
and silver schooner
raced past competing clouds
through choppy Sargasso
canopy into open sky
simultaneously as
we stumbled
into a clearing
a breath-catching break
in the undergrowth
winged-insect string
and woodwind orchestras
hummed
bowed and blew their high-pitched
high-strung Wagnerian warhorses
fearsome irksome folksongs
of impending aggravation
stunted tree limbs
with winged trunks
and stilt roots stretched
supplicant silhouettes shifted
sinister shapes like childhood clouds
sleepless stealthy apparitions
and trudged on stomped on
trudged on stomped on
marching merging melting
marching merging melting
marching merging melding
into night’s misty shadows
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
MILK OF LIFE
some dark lonely
night a maiden
in pain succumbs
to labour and
entering the tunnel
to liberation's light
she travels she welcomes the
end of travail and troubles
until a baby’s wail
tugs gently on her silver
cord the mid-wife severs
with a magic sword
the umbilical cord
and mother first beholds her joy
a precious little baby-boy
a child though frail
as fragile as life itself
ample reward her travail
she holds her blood-smeared bundle
to her bosom
so that he can feel
love love love love
the talking-drum-
beat of her heart
pump pump pump pump
pumping the milk of
life as he reaches
for maternal breast
Copyright ©1995 by G. Newton V. Chance
night a maiden
in pain succumbs
to labour and
entering the tunnel
to liberation's light
she travels she welcomes the
end of travail and troubles
until a baby’s wail
tugs gently on her silver
cord the mid-wife severs
with a magic sword
the umbilical cord
and mother first beholds her joy
a precious little baby-boy
a child though frail
as fragile as life itself
ample reward her travail
she holds her blood-smeared bundle
to her bosom
so that he can feel
love love love love
the talking-drum-
beat of her heart
pump pump pump pump
pumping the milk of
life as he reaches
for maternal breast
Copyright ©1995 by G. Newton V. Chance
Sunday, February 1, 2009
APRIL
(in memory of April Blackman)
Like an April shower, an April rain,
Into the dry season of our lives you came;
And departed so soon, a truncated refrain,
Oh April, the Piparo forest still echoes your name.
At Stone Road I can still see the oval mango of your face,
A gemstone most exquisite cut, in the Blackman’s crown,
Radiating inner loveliness time can never erase;
Oh how brilliantly your perennial beauty shone.
Then with nary a fuss, quietly and quickly left,
You left the Circle of Love a sad memory;
Like a note ascending bass to treble clef,
Spiraled up and out, into the Circle of Eternity.
Perhaps the Soca Father, later, heard your call,
Somewhere above the rainbow, followed your song;
And joined you, in some haloed, hallowed hall
To sing and play heavenly Jahmu all day long.
We may never forget, nor ever learn
To reconcile, the loss of one so dearly loved;
For what may have been, though yet we yearn,
Life’s mission we fulfil, till duty be faithfully served.
But this I know we have the faith,
Someday, the Love Circle will be unbroken;
And all God’s children joyously liberate,
Through Christ, to sing and dance in heaven.
Copyright ©2001 by Newton V. Chance
Like an April shower, an April rain,
Into the dry season of our lives you came;
And departed so soon, a truncated refrain,
Oh April, the Piparo forest still echoes your name.
At Stone Road I can still see the oval mango of your face,
A gemstone most exquisite cut, in the Blackman’s crown,
Radiating inner loveliness time can never erase;
Oh how brilliantly your perennial beauty shone.
Then with nary a fuss, quietly and quickly left,
You left the Circle of Love a sad memory;
Like a note ascending bass to treble clef,
Spiraled up and out, into the Circle of Eternity.
Perhaps the Soca Father, later, heard your call,
Somewhere above the rainbow, followed your song;
And joined you, in some haloed, hallowed hall
To sing and play heavenly Jahmu all day long.
We may never forget, nor ever learn
To reconcile, the loss of one so dearly loved;
For what may have been, though yet we yearn,
Life’s mission we fulfil, till duty be faithfully served.
But this I know we have the faith,
Someday, the Love Circle will be unbroken;
And all God’s children joyously liberate,
Through Christ, to sing and dance in heaven.
Copyright ©2001 by Newton V. Chance
THE ART OF WIRE BENDING
I who can’t understand
big hard-bones man
big hard-back man
win’ing up in hot sun
making antics in hot sun
drinking whisky and rum
in some skimpy costume
say they having fun
they not making movie
they playing the mas
I who used to drive taxi
seventeen miles to town
or sail the ocean
or fly the sky
or submarine below the sea
in a cardboard box below the house
say maybe
they living out
their boyhood fantasy
down Broadway and South Quay
and across the Savannah
having a grand time a gay time
sorry I mean making merry
in the festivity
on my tv
they used to show me
women in gyrating frenzy
but not again
since all them prude
say the mas too rude
all them hypocrite complain
about vulgarity
they say Poison
poisoning children mind
and morality
they say Hart
could give old men hard
or even heart attack
maybe the solution
is dosage by prescription
at prohibitive price
like a pill
ending in afil
so when them Varga girl
and Vegas showgirl
kick up their leg
according to Kitchener
to make their manima
to show off and expose their pride
camera ducking for cover
photographer trying to hide
so they start showing me
man bam-see questionable bam-see
in thongs on my tv
they turn me off
so I turn my damn tv off
who want to see man bam-see
what madness is this
this male chauvinist
bacon producer
say what you doing there
what in hell you doing there
give the women a chance
to free up and play
the women say
better to be in a band
where you could get wet
with rain and sweat
and beer
under a cosmopolitan cloud of colour
in a sea of masqueraders
than to get sand
in your thong and beach bikini
you could do that all day after
up Maracas or down Manzanilla
the King and Queen is the true mas lover
them costume cost dinero mucho in US dollar
the King and Queen costume is a wonder
a truly wonderful work of art
but I can’t help but wonder
how the King and Queen does pay for that
and destroy it after
where is the copper work of Bailey
the tradition and the legacy
the carnival artefact museum
the carnival art gallery
bring back the Dragon and the Bat
the Bookman the Speech Band the Peirrot Grenade the Wild Indian the Jab Jab the Midnight Robber the Fancy Sailor the Minstrel the Devil Mas the Historical Mas the Fantasy Mas the banner the headpiece the staff the flag
but leave the blessed bathing suit alone
leave the women to wine as they want
is their constitutional right
to wine if they want
how they want
when they want
where they want
on who they want
after all is only for a day or two
and after is prim and proper as usual thank you
and maybe a little ashes too
all I ask
is that the flabby hide their flab
and cover their flubber
better to be a Minshall true believer
and work the street theatre
than to beach and quiver
all that Moby Dick blubber
even Bacchus must balk at the thought
is a serious thing
in this time of fender bending
in this time of gender bending
in this time of mind bending
I asking
where the wire bending
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
big hard-bones man
big hard-back man
win’ing up in hot sun
making antics in hot sun
drinking whisky and rum
in some skimpy costume
say they having fun
they not making movie
they playing the mas
I who used to drive taxi
seventeen miles to town
or sail the ocean
or fly the sky
or submarine below the sea
in a cardboard box below the house
say maybe
they living out
their boyhood fantasy
down Broadway and South Quay
and across the Savannah
having a grand time a gay time
sorry I mean making merry
in the festivity
on my tv
they used to show me
women in gyrating frenzy
but not again
since all them prude
say the mas too rude
all them hypocrite complain
about vulgarity
they say Poison
poisoning children mind
and morality
they say Hart
could give old men hard
or even heart attack
maybe the solution
is dosage by prescription
at prohibitive price
like a pill
ending in afil
so when them Varga girl
and Vegas showgirl
kick up their leg
according to Kitchener
to make their manima
to show off and expose their pride
camera ducking for cover
photographer trying to hide
so they start showing me
man bam-see questionable bam-see
in thongs on my tv
they turn me off
so I turn my damn tv off
who want to see man bam-see
what madness is this
this male chauvinist
bacon producer
say what you doing there
what in hell you doing there
give the women a chance
to free up and play
the women say
better to be in a band
where you could get wet
with rain and sweat
and beer
under a cosmopolitan cloud of colour
in a sea of masqueraders
than to get sand
in your thong and beach bikini
you could do that all day after
up Maracas or down Manzanilla
the King and Queen is the true mas lover
them costume cost dinero mucho in US dollar
the King and Queen costume is a wonder
a truly wonderful work of art
but I can’t help but wonder
how the King and Queen does pay for that
and destroy it after
where is the copper work of Bailey
the tradition and the legacy
the carnival artefact museum
the carnival art gallery
bring back the Dragon and the Bat
the Bookman the Speech Band the Peirrot Grenade the Wild Indian the Jab Jab the Midnight Robber the Fancy Sailor the Minstrel the Devil Mas the Historical Mas the Fantasy Mas the banner the headpiece the staff the flag
but leave the blessed bathing suit alone
leave the women to wine as they want
is their constitutional right
to wine if they want
how they want
when they want
where they want
on who they want
after all is only for a day or two
and after is prim and proper as usual thank you
and maybe a little ashes too
all I ask
is that the flabby hide their flab
and cover their flubber
better to be a Minshall true believer
and work the street theatre
than to beach and quiver
all that Moby Dick blubber
even Bacchus must balk at the thought
is a serious thing
in this time of fender bending
in this time of gender bending
in this time of mind bending
I asking
where the wire bending
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
HOW QUICKLY HAVE THE FLEETING DAYS
How quickly have the fleeting days
of youth and beauty fled our frame —
the preening and the doting gaze
upon the mirror with our name;
The days when, in our youthful strength,
mirth and revel was our story,
when time seemed long and time was spent
grandly carving out our glory.
The years fly by too fast to hold,
fond thoughts and sorrows we retain;
alas! our bones grow brittlely old
and shrunken sinews stiff with pain.
The blessings of life, long and hale,
an infant burden has become —
the vital organs slowly fail;
alas! our limbs grow weak and numb.
And men, in mirrors of their minds,
more on their Maker meditate —
who on their brows the wrinkled lines
draws nearer each to his own fate.
How quickly have the fleeting days
of youth and beauty fled our frame —
in paths pursued, in many ways,
all different and yet all the same.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
of youth and beauty fled our frame —
the preening and the doting gaze
upon the mirror with our name;
The days when, in our youthful strength,
mirth and revel was our story,
when time seemed long and time was spent
grandly carving out our glory.
The years fly by too fast to hold,
fond thoughts and sorrows we retain;
alas! our bones grow brittlely old
and shrunken sinews stiff with pain.
The blessings of life, long and hale,
an infant burden has become —
the vital organs slowly fail;
alas! our limbs grow weak and numb.
And men, in mirrors of their minds,
more on their Maker meditate —
who on their brows the wrinkled lines
draws nearer each to his own fate.
How quickly have the fleeting days
of youth and beauty fled our frame —
in paths pursued, in many ways,
all different and yet all the same.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
GREY
Grey, grey, is the colour of age;
one can grey with grace,
or grey with rage.
Grey is the colour of vintage —
the mellowing of age,
the mellowing of rage.
Grey is the colour
of accomplishment,
or lack thereof,
the fecund rain
or bleak and cloudy sky.
Grey, grey, is the colour of tears,
the remorseful tears old-age cries.
Grey is the colour of years
the aging of azure —
May grey have patience,
have patience, I pray,
to wait, and wait peaceful, on her.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
one can grey with grace,
or grey with rage.
Grey is the colour of vintage —
the mellowing of age,
the mellowing of rage.
Grey is the colour
of accomplishment,
or lack thereof,
the fecund rain
or bleak and cloudy sky.
Grey, grey, is the colour of tears,
the remorseful tears old-age cries.
Grey is the colour of years
the aging of azure —
May grey have patience,
have patience, I pray,
to wait, and wait peaceful, on her.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
SAM SON AND THE LIAR
it was Sam son
and not his daughter
whose hirsute head
wielded the power
until this Eve
her wily daughter
with kissing lips
the sweet deceiver
the Philistine
seductress little liar
with bee-stung lips
and honey tongue
the feline lion tamer
crept to the bed
of the snoring warrior
a pair of shears
and lethal secret with her
with hissing head
this daughter of Medusa
sapped Sam son strength
scissoring like a barber
Eve or Adam
Samson or Delilah
in head or bed
body or mind
which one is the weaker
man or woman
which one is the stronger
the one came first
or the one who followed after
one thing is sure
none can do without the other
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
and not his daughter
whose hirsute head
wielded the power
until this Eve
her wily daughter
with kissing lips
the sweet deceiver
the Philistine
seductress little liar
with bee-stung lips
and honey tongue
the feline lion tamer
crept to the bed
of the snoring warrior
a pair of shears
and lethal secret with her
with hissing head
this daughter of Medusa
sapped Sam son strength
scissoring like a barber
Eve or Adam
Samson or Delilah
in head or bed
body or mind
which one is the weaker
man or woman
which one is the stronger
the one came first
or the one who followed after
one thing is sure
none can do without the other
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
UNDER THE SKIN
under the skin the true voluptuousness
is disguised in the shadow of the flesh
and vanity the true voluptuousness
and beauty lies hidden and unseen by
lustful eye the soul personality
and character the beauty of virtue
that best blind vision may see for only
spiritual eyes can discern the true you
which wise men learn to perceive and pursue
to treasure its value more than precious
stones to delve beneath the surface and search
for self separated from suffering
pebbles washed clean in waters of living
rivers of love the one and only church
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
is disguised in the shadow of the flesh
and vanity the true voluptuousness
and beauty lies hidden and unseen by
lustful eye the soul personality
and character the beauty of virtue
that best blind vision may see for only
spiritual eyes can discern the true you
which wise men learn to perceive and pursue
to treasure its value more than precious
stones to delve beneath the surface and search
for self separated from suffering
pebbles washed clean in waters of living
rivers of love the one and only church
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
TROJAN
I wrote
red code
and rode
a white horse
along a black back-road
to hack her blue fortressed heart
Helen alone
knew
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
red code
and rode
a white horse
along a black back-road
to hack her blue fortressed heart
Helen alone
knew
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
THOSE WHO SNATCH
those who snatch
at the cash
or the cache
are but catching
at the shadow
of the substance
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
at the cash
or the cache
are but catching
at the shadow
of the substance
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
DEMOCRACY
(of the people, by the people, for the people)
if this grass manure
about the masses
being the government
in a democracy
is pure
how come governors
always have plenty
and the grassroots
are always poor
Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance
if this grass manure
about the masses
being the government
in a democracy
is pure
how come governors
always have plenty
and the grassroots
are always poor
Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance
THE POOR
the poor
the poor
they know not their power
for if
the poor
would withhold their labour
how long
how long
could the wealthy endure
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
the poor
they know not their power
for if
the poor
would withhold their labour
how long
how long
could the wealthy endure
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
Saturday, January 24, 2009
THE SPOT THAT FELT YOUR WARMTH
the spot that felt your warmth has now grown cold
long cold nights of longing and desire
seem longer as once more I long to hold
you in arms that burn to feel your fire
I toss and turn sleeping feelings unfold
a blanket of cloth that cannot cover
the spot that felt your warmth or my body
with love’s abundance gone there’s naught but want
which rich ransom would pay alas it’s free
though some would trade their kingdoms if need be
the night has needs but like my bed is gaunt
wet-eyed regret has found a heart to haunt
as wide awake I dream of you beside me
while the spot that felt your warmth remains to taunt
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
long cold nights of longing and desire
seem longer as once more I long to hold
you in arms that burn to feel your fire
I toss and turn sleeping feelings unfold
a blanket of cloth that cannot cover
the spot that felt your warmth or my body
with love’s abundance gone there’s naught but want
which rich ransom would pay alas it’s free
though some would trade their kingdoms if need be
the night has needs but like my bed is gaunt
wet-eyed regret has found a heart to haunt
as wide awake I dream of you beside me
while the spot that felt your warmth remains to taunt
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
ANOTHER LOVE SONG
who wants another love song sad or glad
to hear of yearnings full and unfulfilled
but life itself’s a ballad it’s been said
and lovers members of the gilded guild
yet love too much or little has made mad
and ruined both the mighty and weak-willed
I ask is love a curse or gift divine
how oft I love you be truly spoken
love you too a talisman or token
to shield the rash with an emblazoned sign
but who would heed if love be truly blind
thus pathetic pen once again has written
a song for souls whose hapless hearts were broken
and forsaken as many times as mine
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
to hear of yearnings full and unfulfilled
but life itself’s a ballad it’s been said
and lovers members of the gilded guild
yet love too much or little has made mad
and ruined both the mighty and weak-willed
I ask is love a curse or gift divine
how oft I love you be truly spoken
love you too a talisman or token
to shield the rash with an emblazoned sign
but who would heed if love be truly blind
thus pathetic pen once again has written
a song for souls whose hapless hearts were broken
and forsaken as many times as mine
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
GRUDGE NOT YOUTH
grudge not Youth
her brief bridal buds
and blooms of spring
nor the groom’s first flush
and bridal blush of bliss
nor youthful beds
of consecrated ring
as blissful as a kiss
for none can cling
to the joy they bring
though a thing of love
is everlasting
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
her brief bridal buds
and blooms of spring
nor the groom’s first flush
and bridal blush of bliss
nor youthful beds
of consecrated ring
as blissful as a kiss
for none can cling
to the joy they bring
though a thing of love
is everlasting
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
HERMIT
forgotten is the feel of female flesh
except for Hope pregnant with potential
of success she keeps a fire lighting
which drives dark dank and cold out of his cave
and feeds love’s flames of warmth within his breast
another anniversary is come
to celebrate celibate hermit years
he has subdued the lecherous ladies
of ill repute Mademoiselles Desires
and Dark-Fears those two seductive liars
that prey on men’s moments of loneliness
and weakness with worry and temptations
but can carnal man ever conquer self
reach Spirit-Land after corporeal storm
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
except for Hope pregnant with potential
of success she keeps a fire lighting
which drives dark dank and cold out of his cave
and feeds love’s flames of warmth within his breast
another anniversary is come
to celebrate celibate hermit years
he has subdued the lecherous ladies
of ill repute Mademoiselles Desires
and Dark-Fears those two seductive liars
that prey on men’s moments of loneliness
and weakness with worry and temptations
but can carnal man ever conquer self
reach Spirit-Land after corporeal storm
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
BLACK BOX
a back door
a bread-brown bakery van
windowless and converted
by stripes and a sign that says
justice delivered on time opens
and five loaves of human misery
tumble out with unwashed smell
almost as strong as barbecue-burn charcoal-charred flesh
stone face granite grip and stainless handcuffs
more cruel were the fisticuffs received
in the solitude of a cell
this is no escort-service girl escorting
through a narrow entrance
between blue uniforms with empty holsters
to a cramped cage
already contains five young citizens
also detained kept and unkempt at the State’s pleasure
the cuffs unclick and the door of the dock creaks
open before slamming shut the lock once more
so near but yet not able to communicate
sign language whispered to the few filial faces
in a sea of animosity
eager to drown in its eddy of guilt
even before the hearing the trial has begun
court all rise to be seated again
except the guards already standing
after Anubis solemn and foreboding
as a funeral on Sunday morning
enters with the scales of Maat
there are no potatoes or tomatoes
are these scales rigged like
the market vendor’s rusty metric pair
a confused crapaud hops out of
a black box
from a corner of the court
creating for one moment commotion
oohs and aahs
of surprise and superstition
followed by comic relief
at the spectacle of a six-months pregnant
Pumblechook of a policeman giving chase
as he arrests and carries captive the unfortunate
crapaud lock in mouth out
a bailiff barks silence no laughter in court
and the faithful scribe feverishly scribbles
indecipherable hieroglyphics
in a big black book
of records
a big bad-book
of the dead
Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance
a bread-brown bakery van
windowless and converted
by stripes and a sign that says
justice delivered on time opens
and five loaves of human misery
tumble out with unwashed smell
almost as strong as barbecue-burn charcoal-charred flesh
stone face granite grip and stainless handcuffs
more cruel were the fisticuffs received
in the solitude of a cell
this is no escort-service girl escorting
through a narrow entrance
between blue uniforms with empty holsters
to a cramped cage
already contains five young citizens
also detained kept and unkempt at the State’s pleasure
the cuffs unclick and the door of the dock creaks
open before slamming shut the lock once more
so near but yet not able to communicate
sign language whispered to the few filial faces
in a sea of animosity
eager to drown in its eddy of guilt
even before the hearing the trial has begun
court all rise to be seated again
except the guards already standing
after Anubis solemn and foreboding
as a funeral on Sunday morning
enters with the scales of Maat
there are no potatoes or tomatoes
are these scales rigged like
the market vendor’s rusty metric pair
a confused crapaud hops out of
a black box
from a corner of the court
creating for one moment commotion
oohs and aahs
of surprise and superstition
followed by comic relief
at the spectacle of a six-months pregnant
Pumblechook of a policeman giving chase
as he arrests and carries captive the unfortunate
crapaud lock in mouth out
a bailiff barks silence no laughter in court
and the faithful scribe feverishly scribbles
indecipherable hieroglyphics
in a big black book
of records
a big bad-book
of the dead
Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance
Friday, January 16, 2009
LABYRINTH
I
So many Minotaurs to confront and conquer.
Anger is a monster, the bane of self-control.
What good is education if the teacher is
a fool, or foul fooler to himself, and others?
What good is religion if the preacher is a
sinner, lecherous liar to himself, and I?
Who is there can fathom the geometry of
a soul, timid or bold? Left to the devices
of enslaving vices, light as a feather, it
floated, unfelt by the body barometer.
Heavy as mercury, or lead, it fell and sunk
and sunk to a lower measure, miserable,
too miserable to be measurable by
precise science, or the body thermometer.
Why vent your crimson spleen at Spinoza in a
world unknown as our own?
II
Surrounded by land mines, the leader told me to
commit suicide for the cause, a wordy cause.
I replied, “After you!”
III
The features change yet the faces remain the same,
the same vacuous eyes, avoiding stares, staring
away, into nowhere.
IV
Amazed, I stand amazed, transfixed in a maze of
perplexities, the labyrinth of recurring dreams.
The Minotaur always appears in my nightmares,
split in two, he is a man and then a bull, a
bull and then a man, never, a mouse, nor a mare,
never appears in daylight.
V
Of the Sabbath, when a hungry God, the God of
the Sabbath, plucked the ears of corn so that sinners
could hear, and quench their spiritual hunger and thirst.
VI
Of the Sabbath, when an angry God, the God of
the Sabbath, plucked the ears of men and ran them from
the temple, overturning their money lending
tables, their dead tenets and laws cast in cold stone,
to give man hope and life.
VII
Solitude! O solitude! Wherein men may hear
their madness or their God,
meet their madness, their Master or their metaphor.
First I loved the silence, then I loved the written
word, then I loved the spoken word for I knew the
power of the word, then I knew the power of
silence— for in silence sings the celestial.
VIII
Labour! O labour! That sweats and serenades sweet
rest. Them that eat of the fruit of their labour are
truly blest. Six days God laboured to create the
world and rested on the seventh. Seven thousand
years are past and man is still working, to destroy
it, ceaseless, without rest.
What shall it profit the world if a man gains it
all and loses his soul?
IX
I believe in the universality of
being
X
The fisherman casting his net is art. It splays
out in the sun’s rays and captures, for one moment,
beauty, a rainbow, in its moist meshes, then death,
death, with gleaming scales, thrashes in its webbed tent and,
gills agape, screams silent, and, gasping for breath, in
an abundance of oxygen, does the final
dance. For the fish the water is full of food and
fuel and life. For the fish and the fool the sand
is cruel. For the fool the sand is cruel and
so too is the water.
For the sand the water is full of food and blood.
For the water the sand is full of fools and life.
XI
Biological clock and needs awake me and
I travel the short distance between bed and bath.
It is exactly 5:a.m. The cock knows and
crows, acknowledging time.
XII
The C.I.D. still undecided whether the
missing young lady eloped or was abducted,
they advised the perturbed parent to hire a
seer who said she was alive and advised to
hire a private dick to find her. Lost in the
labyrinth, like Hickory, Dickory, Dock, among
the fractured factions of the twelve fractions on the
big analog wall-clock, the clock struck one and down
fell young Donkey Kong, Hickory, Dickory, Dock.
(When you understand the meaning of life, to you
I will explain this line.)
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
So many Minotaurs to confront and conquer.
Anger is a monster, the bane of self-control.
What good is education if the teacher is
a fool, or foul fooler to himself, and others?
What good is religion if the preacher is a
sinner, lecherous liar to himself, and I?
Who is there can fathom the geometry of
a soul, timid or bold? Left to the devices
of enslaving vices, light as a feather, it
floated, unfelt by the body barometer.
Heavy as mercury, or lead, it fell and sunk
and sunk to a lower measure, miserable,
too miserable to be measurable by
precise science, or the body thermometer.
Why vent your crimson spleen at Spinoza in a
world unknown as our own?
II
Surrounded by land mines, the leader told me to
commit suicide for the cause, a wordy cause.
I replied, “After you!”
III
The features change yet the faces remain the same,
the same vacuous eyes, avoiding stares, staring
away, into nowhere.
IV
Amazed, I stand amazed, transfixed in a maze of
perplexities, the labyrinth of recurring dreams.
The Minotaur always appears in my nightmares,
split in two, he is a man and then a bull, a
bull and then a man, never, a mouse, nor a mare,
never appears in daylight.
V
Of the Sabbath, when a hungry God, the God of
the Sabbath, plucked the ears of corn so that sinners
could hear, and quench their spiritual hunger and thirst.
VI
Of the Sabbath, when an angry God, the God of
the Sabbath, plucked the ears of men and ran them from
the temple, overturning their money lending
tables, their dead tenets and laws cast in cold stone,
to give man hope and life.
VII
Solitude! O solitude! Wherein men may hear
their madness or their God,
meet their madness, their Master or their metaphor.
First I loved the silence, then I loved the written
word, then I loved the spoken word for I knew the
power of the word, then I knew the power of
silence— for in silence sings the celestial.
VIII
Labour! O labour! That sweats and serenades sweet
rest. Them that eat of the fruit of their labour are
truly blest. Six days God laboured to create the
world and rested on the seventh. Seven thousand
years are past and man is still working, to destroy
it, ceaseless, without rest.
What shall it profit the world if a man gains it
all and loses his soul?
IX
I believe in the universality of
being
X
The fisherman casting his net is art. It splays
out in the sun’s rays and captures, for one moment,
beauty, a rainbow, in its moist meshes, then death,
death, with gleaming scales, thrashes in its webbed tent and,
gills agape, screams silent, and, gasping for breath, in
an abundance of oxygen, does the final
dance. For the fish the water is full of food and
fuel and life. For the fish and the fool the sand
is cruel. For the fool the sand is cruel and
so too is the water.
For the sand the water is full of food and blood.
For the water the sand is full of fools and life.
XI
Biological clock and needs awake me and
I travel the short distance between bed and bath.
It is exactly 5:a.m. The cock knows and
crows, acknowledging time.
XII
The C.I.D. still undecided whether the
missing young lady eloped or was abducted,
they advised the perturbed parent to hire a
seer who said she was alive and advised to
hire a private dick to find her. Lost in the
labyrinth, like Hickory, Dickory, Dock, among
the fractured factions of the twelve fractions on the
big analog wall-clock, the clock struck one and down
fell young Donkey Kong, Hickory, Dickory, Dock.
(When you understand the meaning of life, to you
I will explain this line.)
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
GREED
desire has no pleasure
but her need
and her need unbridled
can turn to want
and her want unbridled
can lead to greed
but greed is often bred
by the need to flaunt.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
but her need
and her need unbridled
can turn to want
and her want unbridled
can lead to greed
but greed is often bred
by the need to flaunt.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
Sunday, January 4, 2009
SEASONS CHANGE
(in memory of an angel named Giselle Salandy)
seasons change
and loved ones die
the hands of time
like wings they fly
another year
goes fleeting by
we greet the new
with tear-filled eye
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
seasons change
and loved ones die
the hands of time
like wings they fly
another year
goes fleeting by
we greet the new
with tear-filled eye
Copyright ©2009 by G. Newton V. Chance
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- G. NEWTON V. CHANCE
- George Newton Vivian Chance (Trinidad and Tobago) -- member of the Poet Society of Trinidad and Tobago, http://poetssocietytt.blogspot.com/ and the World Poets Society, http://world-poets.blogspot.com/ -- born in Tobago on 3rd March 1957. While residing at Rio Claro was inspired to write over a hundred poems at the turn of the Millennium. Hobbies include playing wind instruments, building computers, observing nature, reading and writing poetry. Believes that the power of a song is in its ability to evoke emotions by the marriage of lyric and music but that music without lyric can be just as powerful, that lyric without music can also be just as powerful, that there is music in the lyric and that lyric can be simple yet profound. Also, in this the age of computers, would like to model his lines after simple and efficient code and, analogous to Object Oriented Programming, achieve most of his imagery from nouns and verbs, avoiding the bloat and excess of unnecessary adjectives. This is what he aspires to attain in his poetry.
