30/30 GRATITUDE

Thou shalt not be crude

Or rude

Or lewd

In making advances

To the Muses

But rather be shrewd

And subdued

Lest thy advances

Be viewed

Or construed

Or misconstrued

As crude

Or rude

Or lewd;

Lest the Muses

Demure with excuses

And chooses

To revert to their ruses,

Their subtle subterfuges,

Or bluntly refuses.

Thou shalt not be crude

Or rude

Or lewd

In making advances

To the Muses

But rather be shrewd

And subdued.

And for every gift received,

Give thanks, give praises;

Show gratitude.

©2013 by G. Newton V. Chance

29/30 GERM

It only takes one trillionth of a nan-

o second of contact to catch a germ,

contract a condition, spread an infection.

According to ancient mythology,

cosmogony, cosmology, behind

the veil of cosmetology, the small

bang theory of the Hopi-

les people, the world began as

a worm in the warmth of a womb

in the sky when an egg was pene-

traited by a celestial sun sperm

in the one trillionth of a nan-o

second of contact it takes to catch

a germ, contract a condition, make

a connection or conceive a creation.

©2013 by G. Newton V. Chance

28/30 WOUNDS

I sing of 

gaping

wounds

gaping

like huge holes

in the pavement

of Old Piarco Road;
 

wounds raw and open;

new wounds bleeding,

old wounds festering.

Here,

we fight a war with-

out an enemy

like the war on
poverty, AIDS,

drugs and crime

or terrorism,

a new kind of war with-

out an enemy

except the one with-

in ourselves;

©2013 by G. Newton V. Chance

27/30 GONE

(To all the gangstas the ground has loved before)

To the lad, the drug lord extends open arms

with more thorns than a peewah palm tree.

The monkey, donkey-riding on his back,

has its hands clutching at his neck.

On the heads of the youthful dead,

institutions of high reputation

launder dollars and dirty drawers,

mud-money washed unclean in lamb's blood.

Mothers moan and mothers mourn,

mothers groan for sons gone down

to the house of the setting sun;

to the sound and the gong of the guns,

the sound and the fury of gangs,

gangsta anthem of one more gone...

sentenced by ignor-ance and gore

to an ignoble early grave,

lifetime or death row and the gallows.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

26/30 FACES

speak without words

or sign language

crinkles and wrinkles

write long stories

of champagne glasses

tinkling with merriment

drowning in dolphin moments

cares that soon resurface over

stoic facades of granite rock

do not waste words

dear one trying to convey

the nature or degree

of your pain and anguish

or even ecstasy

like music like feelings like faces

moans and groans and laughter

have no language

or else a language

understood by all

©2013 by G. Newton V. Chance

24/30 BANANA BOAT

In them days I was a little boy

when two coastal steamers,

the Scarlet Ibis and Bird of Paradise,

painted nation colours of red, white,

black, named for national birds,

pride and beauty of Trinidad

and Tobago,

would arrive and with horn-boom,

boooooom, dock and drop anchor

in the natural deep water harbours

of Parlatuvier

and Castara.

Then strong men, like the short and stocky

sailor called Selassie, looking all dashing

and resplendent, immaculate in white

sailor cap, shirt and short pants

like sailor mas on Carnival Monday,

would come ashore on a white life boat

and tie thick rope from steamer

on coconut tree trunk at high shoreline;

as steamer rode waves'

relentless ebb and swell and coconut

waved and swayed in heavy trade winds,

smelling of sea, sea life and dead sea things,

gulls and terns would screech,

make steep turns in tight formation,

and the rope would belly-sag and tauten

over and over again;

sometimes to show off strength

someone would walk the rope by hand,

Tarzan on jungle vine,

and little schoolboys watching

from schoolyard would whisper,

when I get big

I want to be a sailor

just like Selassie and them.

The boat would load cocoa,

dasheen, sweet potato, yam, cassava,

green plantain and green banana,

untie and with horn-boom, boooooom,

bid farewell and head out to sea again.

But that was a long, long time ago.

Now, we import rice from Guyana,

soursop, zabocca,

yam, dasheen, banana

from St. Vincent and Grenada...

I know we now a Republic

but how come now

we being dubbed by some, a banana

boat Republic?

©2013 by G. Newton V. Chance

23/30 BENE-DICTION

"All them Tobago gyal..." Mighty Sparrow

Yuh dare not come

back from Tobago

with your two hand

swinging jus so;

without a bag-

full of sticky

bene balls,

bene sticks

and cakes bought

at the airport

or at the wharf

from some Tobago

gyul, dark and sweet like

tulum, round and sweet like

a caysa ball, thick and tasty

like a butter ball, bouncing

like a sponge ball, soft

and sweet like a

sponge cake.

Is like a addiction

or some strange bene-

diction

or some blessing

from Mt. St. Bene-

dict,

like open sesame

or life on Sesame

Street;

man, woman and chile,

bring back some bene

balls for we

whey the bene

balls yuh bring for me

as if bene

balls for free.

Get your bene

balls here;

you could suck it,

lick it,

bite it,

chew it,

keep it

in the corner

of your mouth

like a lump

from a gum-

boil

but don't try to swallow

the whole thing whole.

Yuh dare not come

back from Tobago

with your two hand

swinging jus so;

(remember when yuh was small

and your parents come back from town)

man, woman and chile,

every man-jack,

looking out

for their bene-

diction.

©2013 by ©2013 by G Newton V Chance

22/30 TRAIN LINE

Long after that mauvaise langue fella, Spitfire,

spat fire on Dorothy on Sugar Hill

the night before her wedding

then wrote a calypso called

'Last Train to San Fernando'

to let everybody know,

the train ran on.

And when the last passenger train left

for San Fernando and for good,

the train ran on

like molasses
with stalks of sugar

from the cane-fields of Debe and Barrackpore

to the factories of Usine, St. Madeleine

till the tall gate across Naparima 

Road, St. Madeleine was lowered

and raised for the last time.

Meanwhile, all along the train line

the homeless and the lawless, 

like explorers and discoverers of yore

in the name of Kings and Queens
of crime before, plant flags 
and take possession,
in the name of the poor,

of vacant lands 

where the train once ran.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

21/30 BIG HOUSES

big houses

with many

empty

rooms

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

20/30 EUCLIDIAN

if 

as Archimedes said

the shortest distance

between two points

is a straight line

and two lines meet

at an angle

between three points

forgive me for going

off on a tangent

but how come

the Creator

in complicity

with you

threw me

all those curves

to get

from here

to the hypotenuse

of your heart

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

19/30 CARIBBEAN NIGHTS

Tonight, the night is drunk;

the air intoxicated

with the wonderment of you.

Marion, Marion,

I drink your name,

roll its bouquet on my tongue;

taste your eyes,

the wild burst of its tang;

dine on your mind,

savoured like a fine wine.

There is music in the piano-

perfect notation of the aria

of your smile.

This date, holding you in my arms, in truth

is sweeter than fruit of palm trees;

my love, your love a harem-

full of olives, grapes, doe-eyed doves

and I, sleek sheik who alone owns

this oasis of your body for this one

enchanted hour surrounded by

desert dunes of daily cares

and grim uncertainties.

Ah, sweet wisp of sylph-

silk, whiff of vanilla scented smoke,
puff of patchouli and rose incense,

my dream pipe unbottled genie 

born of bubble from the water cooled

chilum of a Caribbean night 

of Arabian fantasies.

Ah, my smooth dark Nubian nymph,

I am lost in lust.

Before this night is over,

lose me in the secret of your love.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

18/30 UNION

                 I

sun and moon make love

an hour glass trickles sand

celestial union

                II

days turn months to years

a long hand and a short hand

soul-mates forever

               III

lovers hand in hand

they age and ail together

true love transcends time

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

17/30 OLD MEN

"young men use strength, old men use art" - an old man

The world is run

by old men,

old men

and their peers,

old men

with experience

and gray hairs

growing from their ears.

The world is ruled

by old men,

old men

wearing spectacles

and a vacant smile,

old men

a little senile

with skull-

cap spare of hairs,

balding bold

and near

the end

of their ill-

lustrous years

and grand careers

of ingrained ill-

gotten gains.

The world is run
by old men,

old men
ruled by their wives;
so guess who rules
our lives.

©2013 by G. Newton V. Chance 

16/30 BAMBOO

("Big big bamboo bamboo..." old calypso)

In China

alone, over

three hundred

species of

bamboo

grace sky,

like skyscraper,

wave in wind.

Big bamboo,

small bamboo,

long bamboo,

strong bamboo,

tamboo bamboo

bamboo 'ood,

good 'ood.

Build scaffolding,

build roof,

build ceiling,

build wall,

build furniture,

build utensil.

First razor,

first flute,

first pan,

first paper,

fishing rod,

flying swordsman.

Flexing joint,

strong stem

tough root,

tender shoot,

panda food,

people food.

Bamboo flowers,
fertility food,
gregarious,
once per
hundred years.

Bamboo fence,

root keep river,

road and hillside

from eroding,

soil slipping,

and sliding down.

Bamboo cathedral,

baboon crossing,

Baptist pole,
Orisha pole,

jhandi pole,
flag wave
in wind.

Deya stand,

bhodi stand,

barbadeen and

caraile machand.

Fuel to fire

long-time dirt oven

and chula.

In Trinidad,

take lot of fire,

lot of tyre-

burning ire

to kill

a bamboo stool

or get anything done.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

15/30 THE YOUNG MAN AND THE SEA (Part 1)

He remembers,

Ancil remembers

how he burst the babash bottle on the brow,

proud prow, of the pirogue 'Soul Provider',

let the corked up spirits free, leaping out,

dancing to meet and greet, placating spirits

of ancestors on a festive Sunday morning;

how his best friends, Brain and Brawn, belly-deep

in breaking waves, held the bobbing pirogue steady,

ready for benediction of the finest first-drop bush rum,

clear and sparkling beads like holy water sprinkled

by the village priest on a christened infant's head.

Later on would come the feast of forbidden meats,

the soft-boned baby boobies, furred and not yet feathered,

bigger than a yard fowl, plucked among the cactus

on steep, sharp, rugged crags of flowering rocks

by fearless and stiff-muscled fishermen;

hawksbill, olive ridley, green and loggerhead,

and iguana with yolk in ovaries, turtle-nesting sand

upturned to poach a hundred fresh laid eggs;

wild hog, 'gouti and tattoo caught out of hunting season,

whelks and conchs, all stewed in coconut and curry

with stiffly kneaded flour dumplings and blue food,

dasheen blue with starchy glue, cani yam and cassava,

horse plantains and green banana, iron for people power…

but memories that make mouths water can do nothing

to eat away a cramping hunger. Out here there is nothing

but the scent of seaweed and salt water.

He remembers,

Ancil remembers.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

14/30 BLACK CAT

In this world of superstition,

a Friday

with the bad luck to be on

the thirteenth of the month

is feared and ill-reputed

as a Black Friday of bad luck.

And should a black cat

saunter across your path,

look out for bad luck.

Stories have been told of rulers

in far off lands in far off times,

baby haters, who decreed

kill to the last one, every infant

with the bad luck to be born

a first born boy child.

And stories have been told of rulers

in far off lands in not so far off times,

inhuman haters, who decreed

kill to the last one, every infant,

every adult,

with the bad luck to be born

a first born, second born,

any born boy or girl

of a certain ethnicity.

And there are still far off lands

with inhumane decrees to

kill to the last one, every infant

with the bad luck to be born

a first born, second born,

any born girl child.

So some brilliant bigot

with an ingenious plan

in a not so far off land

privileged a nation

to reveal his bright suggestion to

kill to the last one, every black cat,

black sheep,

black head chicken,

with the bad luck to be born

a first born, second born,

any born boy or girl

in a hot spot

of the port of sewer city;

to practice urban farming,

convert to man-icured gardens,

make rich man-ure from compost

of poor decomposed corpses

and plant heads

of cabbage

on their heads.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

13/30 OYSTER LOVE

Love can be the tendril 

of a whisper;

soft, fragile, tender

as the flower

of an egg's embrace.

Sometimes love can sing

with passion,

sizzle like a slice

of swordfish

or a random drop

of water,

pshhh!

in a pot

of red hot
homemade 

coconut oil.

Sometimes love is wild

and scorpion pepper
hot enough to meld, weld 

metal to glowing metal.

And then there is a love that swells,

wells up and then subsides,

swells, wells up and then

subsides, swells, wells

up and then

subsides

like the magnet

of the moon

woos and weds the tides.

But the love that endures

is worth waiting, waiting,

waiting;

wading

an entire

ocean

to find

one

single

pearl.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

12/30 MOUNTAIN WOMAN

Her hurt,
the silicate

accretion

of an onion;

her brow,

a furrowed mountain

above the canyon

of her eyes,

echoes

the gorges

of her cries.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance

11/30 TO LOVE YOU

(for Judy)

To love you is to glimpse a taste, a foretaste,

of what heaven must be like or else a memory

of the garden paradise that Eden must have been

before the serpent bearing succulent seduction in apple-

coated sin with syllables of sibilance slithered its way in,

crawled and climbed and wrapped itself around the tree

of knowledge and plucked the fruit of death.

There is a harmony bred of maturity that only those who

experience will ever know; how we no longer ever quarrel

and fight, how we understand each other, sometimes

without utterance of a word, understand that there is more 

to love, much more to love, than youthful passion.

Yes there is regret, regret we never met in those early lonely

years of volatile and futile searching for that soul-mate 

until we found each other, found a rib-love,

a love like Adam must have known and felt and shared

with Eve on the evening of the first day of their bliss.

Never in my wildest flights of optimistic fantasy, my love,

my heartbeat, did I dream this time would ever come

when I am almost unable to write another love song 

because there is no sadness left in our love
to write about except to say that one day...

For should I ever lose you it would be like losing sleep,

losing myself forever to the deeper sleep to come.

©2013 by G Newton V Chance