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
Friday, February 20, 2009
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
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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.
