BLACK OUT

midnight

allnight

nationwide black

out

it is the hour of the booboo

man the threat

Mama warned

about

bones buried

in the closet

dirt swept

underneath the carpet

come crawling out

mini-monster mosquitoes

creatures of the dark
bereft
of precept
or principle

in a mass of blood and body

come out to ramajay

on a good black
Easter Friday

end of lent

portent

jouvert

mourning

it is the hour of the booboo

and a bobo-

lee to beat

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

STIGMATA

"Simon, that man of Cyrene... 

Natty dreadlocks carry the cross..." Big Youth

What's up brother?

What's up with the 'nigga'?

Is that who or what we are?

What's with the 'dog' and the 'hoss'?

What's with the 'bitches' and the 'hoes'?

Are we lions and tigers no longer?

Are we just jackals and hyenas,
feeding on leftovers
and each other?

Or have we become

dumb, domesticated,

domiciled to self-embracing stigma?

What's wrong with us, black brother?

What's wrong with us, my bleeding sister?

What's up my brother?

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

LA TRINITY

Distant hills, brown 

with death, yet green

with hope

and life;

though carnivores

of blood and truth,

like locusts,

would denude you

of your name

and reputation;

your luxuriant valleys, tumbling

waterfalls and frolicking

streams will endure

crisis

after crisis

of hurricanes and leaping flames.

Tell me how a tremor

and a quake has shaped,

with celestial hands,

the audacity of your peaks;

how, though earth, moon, sun, sky,

the stars, the sand, the days of man,

all numbered; my love

for you, my land

of twos and trinities,

is never ending...

The cat with opaque

eyes mews

softly,

softly

stares... in disbelief

and nine is the number

of my grief

and my relief.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

DRY SEASON

It is the season of the harvest

when a parched land

is forsaken

by heaven and her rain,

the sun a constant squint

above the ancient parchment

of a blue and cloudless sky.

A green leaf briefly

turns gold-

en and then forever

brown but the forest and the tree

lives on, a tiny seed

in the alchemy of the seasons.

What is this fascination with fire?

Immortelle, roble, bloodwood, poui

tree roofs are ablaze,

the forest a burnt offering

to Vulcan or to Mars.

(Better by far, a forest

aflame with flower

than with fire.)

These tall trees burning were once men

or men were once tall trees burning

with faith and fervour

living centuries in Bible days;

hard to believe

in a land of green

and plenty, blessed

with perpetual warmth, a heart

can be so hungry, so empty, so naked,

so gaunt

but heart is a witness

that never lies.

Here, amidst harsh

beauty of tinder-brittle forest floor

and river beds of dwindling water,

there is a thirst,

a bitter dryness

of the mouth and throat,

a thirst for truth

and right that will not

be slaked or sated

or placated

by cosmetic

rhetoric

or tainted platitudes.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

BULLPISTLE

In these islands, the stretched and dessicated

phallus of a steer,

pressed into service as a whip,

assumes mythical dimensions, a potent weapon

of priapic proportions and propensities.

On first application across the back-

ground, the unfortunate victim

freezes up,

mid motion,

like the GUI of a PC running Windows 95.

On second application,

the unfortunate victim

registers a malfunction,

an 'illegal operation' error message;

asks "Who get that?"

On third application,

the unfortunate victim,

like a C compiler's 'Hello World',

will be observed to remark

"Aye people, look bullpistle sharing here,

Better I get out before I get my share"

and take off bird-speed,

no looking back,

like a daemon bat

from Hades cave.

This efficacious medication

could work wonders administered

in daily doses by prescription

to foolers, lamers and less than 

honest servants of the people.

©2013  by G Newton V Chance

THE BLOCK

The street's no fun no more.

Gone the days of brotherhood

and neighbourhood;

brothers

on the block

chilling,

bird watching,

catcalling,

doing high fives

while getting high

sharing

a joint or roach;

grounding

with Walter, Che and Mao;

reasoning

with Marcus, Marx and Malcolm,

Cesaire, Sartre and Fanon;

peacing out with one eye

open for the pigs.

But then with time the lime

became a game

of mayhem.

The pistol has been fired;

consciousness false started,

disqualified and departed,

leaving a mental block –

crime powered off the blocks

and breaking tape and records,

long crossed the finish line.

Now all remains

of brotherhood

and neighbourhood

is the hood

and the greed.

The green, the grass, the flowers

and the love

have left

concrete pavements, cold,

painted red in blood,

yellow with our fears

of gangs,

gangsters smoking

guns, drugs

and ourselves.

©2013  by G Newton V Chance 

VIVA CHAVEZ

(Viva Chávez y la revolución pacífica y democrática contra el imperialismo y el elitismo)

Always there is a danger in making heroes

of mortal men. Enemy eyes diminish, see nothing

but imperfection. Achilles and Ulysses no heroes

to the Trojan nor Aeneas and Hector to the Greek... and in Caracas,

in our time, arose an Argonaut named Hugo, Apostle of Bolivar, beloved

friend of Fidel and the people, a visionary on a mission for the poor

and dispossessed, Fanon's wretched of the ghettoes and the barrios.

Impervious to raining arrows, the ever looming threats

of occupation, invasion, subversion, insurgence,

isolation, sanctions and propaganda,

Little Latin David, head anointed with a tri-l-lion barrels

of holy oil, no weapons but his courage and a slingshot

of rhetoric, stood up to nuclear might, facing down Goliath,

Philistine monolith... of elitist, imperialist interest.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

DOWN THE ISLANDS

The serpent yawns

and turns upon its tail,

morphs into dragon-

boat regattas, calypso cruises,

mariner piers and yatchies.

Up and down the islands,

pirogues peddling poison-pleasures.

Here leviathans cavort

on sea and land.

Lepers and ocelots replaced

by leopards, spotted cats

large enough to own their own

private island playgrounds.

Old untouchables replaced

by new untouchables.

West for some now Eden

and East the new Wild West.

And like inmates on Carrera,

surrounded by sea and sharks,

we all have now become

prisoners on this island,

prisoners without parole.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

DEATH MARCH

On concrete slab

round table,

outside rumshop,

served cold

to country

on platter

like John's

to Herodias,

a la carte

Columbian cartel style,

a head,

severed,

separated from shell,

left lying lifeless, abandoned,

in abandoned canefield,

bitter harvest

of deluded quest for sugar

of quick material gains.

Karma comes round

on the wheel of misfortune

in a hostile game of hustle

in a hostel named California.

I stand at the window,

on the outside peering in,

on the inside peering out.

Belafonte's yellow bird has flown

its paradisal tropic island nest.

Gone the sweet and tender bird calls 

of our innocence.

There is nothing left but silence

of secret ops

(and cover ups by crooked cops),

and the melody

of a symphony, a sympathy,

for the Devil and a bedevilled nation.

The marching band of death is playing loudly

but death marchers have forgotten
how to march.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

RUBBER

(for Austin ‘Superblue’ Lyons)

Aye, Austin, remember when we little black boys

and blue boys would cut and cut and cut the bark

of the rubber tree down in the gully; bleed the sap,

milky brown ‘laglee’, in a tin cup like a livestock

farmer milking his cattle's teat. Dry it in the tropic heat,

stretch thin and wrap and wrap and wrap into rubber

balls. Odd balls that would bounce and bounce and bounce

as with some super pogo power or a six million dollar bionic

man. In 'country' cricket, erratic, hit for six, would get lost

in the bushes and fielders would search and search and search

for the prodigal ball, like Oddfellows searching for a Holy Grail,

to no avail. Lost-ball win match for the side at the wicket

and the loser would run home with his bat, or his other ball

in his pocket, like a spoil-child. Then one day, while clearing

the bushes, you bounce up on the ball and it still good as ever,

still erratic, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing every which way

like a super pogo or six million dollar man, googlie, swinging

from side to side, wicked, knocking down young boy wicket

with venom like a Midnight Robber.

Aye , Austin, we can't afford to lose this match

or lose this ball again.

©2013 by G. Newton V. Chance