GREEN WORDS

An educated child, I laughed,
in derision, at language
as expressed by Mother.

Years later, I learned
my folly to scoff
at ethnic elision —
her truncated ‘h’ of hurt

as in eart’ where tap roots
of resistance refuse
to wither with wilted stem.

Stumps of trees, torn
asunder from timber, sheds
old bark, bleeds
red sap and shoots

fresh leaves in a new
coppice of herbs, green words
or healing verbs.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

TONIGHT THE WORLD IS RAINING

tonight
the world is raining on my leaking roof
but my bed is dry
dark clouds weeping above me float aloof
high up in the sky
the sound of the rain on my roof soothes me
like the tears I cry
waters the garden of humanity
and none can deny
that the falling rain makes the plants happy
and the wretched sigh

tonight
the world is raining on a homeless child
exposed on the street
to the elements like trees in the wild
above and beneath
the night-world is cold your son your daughter
has nothing to eat
rain has passed hours after no laughter
nowhere to retreat
nowhere dry to rest his head drain water
swirls around his feet

tonight
the world is raining on a coke zombie
craving for a high
lips lungs fingertips blistered by empty
brandy bottle fry
only concern to support his habit
cons or steals to buy
he cannot eat cannot sleep cannot quit
seems futile to try
the cooling relief of the rain’s respite
helps the night go by

tonight
the world is raining on a destitute
living in the park
clouds above her weeping obscure the truth
she lives in the dark
what difference does it make dry or wet
nakedness so stark
at least abject deprivation has let
her free as a lark
live her unobtrusive life until death
frees her lot at last

tonight
the world is raining on my lonely heart
drizzling drip by drip
the pleasure of its pitter patter has
for me no kinship
no sweet nectar of love song or love kiss
from a lover’s lip
the wind brings a chill I cannot dismiss
hugs me in its grip
and melancholia is the wine of bliss
on which this night I sip

tonight
the rain has passed but rain clouds never stop
hovering above
the roofs and trees still shed rain and teardrop
crying out for love
my heart the child the addict and the waif
still hunger and starve
vulnerable still tossed like a dry leaf
far from God’s golden glove
in winds of the vicissitudes of life
far from her treasure trove

tonight
the world is raining on my leaking roof
but my bed is dry
dark clouds weeping above me float aloof
high up in the sky
the sound of the rain on my roof soothes me
like the tears I cry
waters the garden of humanity
and none can deny
that the falling rain makes the plants happy
and the wretched wonder why

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

GIZIE GUMBIE

So you don’t believe them monkey story how man does turn beast
and drag chain whole night; how man have prayers to turn gizie
gumbie and enter people house like spirit to interfere with their
wife and girl-children.

I never believe either until one night I come home late from a lime
with the boys.

So going home I was thinking it odd how Tommy wasn’t in the
lime that night and Tommy don’t ever miss a free rum — he is the
one does say “you wasting the rum” when man break the seal and
tip the bottle for the spirits, he is the one does steupse and say
“people still believe in them stupidness”.

As I enter my gap I hear Dorothy groaning as if somebody killing
she; so I bawl out “Dorothy, Dorothy” and rush the door. All I hear
is voosh and I feel like a breeze pass me — you know is then I find
out, is then I realize is a gizie gumbie was harassing my wife.

Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance

AND DEATH

And Death………

Death, that old procrastinator,
hovers cold above man’s shoulder
like an impotent, impatient vulture,
stalks and slinks from a safe distance,
stalks, and stinks, distinguished bird of disgust,
connoisseur of carrions and cadavers;

knowing full well a Guardian Angel
can protect for only so long,
though anxious, Death bides like a hyena
who knows in famine there is no hunger
(the last bite of offal will tide him over);
Death, cognisant that he can tarry a bit longer,

like a caring undertaker,
waits on man to meet his maker,
macabre waiter in funeral parlour
who cares more for your tipping corpse,
loathsome corbeau one can well live without
serves and smiles with toothless lop-sided mouth.

And Death………

Death, that great grinning scavenger
of iniquitous inequalities,
Death drives a waste disposal truck
on irregular beats around the block
and refusing refuse rifled by dogs
scoops up, alike, vagrants and lords.

Copyright ©2000 by G. Newton V. Chance

AIDS (THE RICH HARVEST)

Grim Reaper stood guard at the cold front-gate of hot Hades,
cloaked in condoms and prophylactic propaganda,
assisted by the callous inaction of world-power,
and the conscienceless patented piracy of the profiteer,
warmly greeted and welcomed, with little fanfare,
the throng, overflowing, he plucked the rich harvest of AIDS,

hapless victims of wanton Desire's sexual onslaught and slaughter,
the fallen in the carnal, coital war of promiscuity and infidelity.
Was the infected the infidel— the selfish, salacious, lewd, lascivious, fornicating, self-gratifying adulterer,
protagonist of same sex, sado-sex, homosex, bi-sex, free-sex, pay-sex, gay-sex, loose-sex, libertine liberty,
long-tongued, short-thonged libertines, gratuitous, grand and gay—
O Thespis! Is this the price we pay for their innocuous Russian roulette play?

Or the junk-needle, the bleeding, bloodletting, blood-giving,
blood-banking, blood-sharing, fluid-sharing, needle-sharing, innoculating;
was it an indictment on loving, giving, sharing, life-saving,
when the substance of life became the channel of dying;
(motherless babes are daily dying and crying,
innocent lives cut short, infected in childbearing)
did the fear of ignorance or the ignorance of fearing
overpower the care of love or the love of caring?

Or malicious, malignant, malevolent, genocidal, suicidal, sinister scientists,
or blame the African Rhesus, but was it them or us, this green macaque monkey business?
(at least this hypothesis seems to support the Darwinist apologist.)
Is the African Diaspora a victim of headless penis-power supremacist
belief or the lead character in a power-play plot on a genocide hit-list?
We witness the viciousness of patented pharmaceutical avarice,
the obscene millions made from drugs dispensed by pharmacists
while millions who cannot afford, the world can ill afford, suffer in silence and perish.

Can the ‘safe sex with a single partner’ solution be the answer?
But how can you be sure you are your single partner’s single partner?

Will we, shamefully, shamelessly, selfishly, take things in hand, like Onan
of old, and spill the future upon the barren ground?

Or is this the golden, monastic dawn of the Age of Celibacy
when man, perforce, by force, must he an ascetic be?

Will mankind find the cure, save our future from disaster sure?
Que sera, sera! There are more questions than answers, by far.

Grim Reaper's aide lurked in the shadows at the front-gate of Hades,
cloaked in condom campaigns of misinformation and hypocrisy,
assisted by fear, denial, ignorance, prejudice and uncertainty,
and the conscienceless profiteer's patented piracy,
worked assiduously, his illustrious attaché,
the throng, overflowing, they plucked the rich harvest of AIDS.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

AIDS (THE VICTIM)

I

I watched you
from a distance,
from a safe distance;
I watched you wither away
into your twilight of despair,
into a darkness darker than the darkest night—
Night descended and a blanket of woes
blacker than my funeral clothes,
like a blight, covered and smothered
your young life.

II

Your life became a desert island,
a deserted island of shame,
desolation and pain,
and confusion.
I watched you in your desperation,
shipwrecked, nerves wrecked,
stretched upon the rack
of self-torturing thoughts and doubts,
full of turmoil and trauma—
your boli cracked, your boli broken,
your life scrambled—
a cracked and scrambled egg,
sad omelette fried
in fears and tears.

Ah life, life is a fragile eggshell…

I watched you, reduced
to a mere shell of your former self,
fighting to keep afloat,
to keep the fragments of your disappointment
from falling apart;
so disconsolate, isolated, ostracised,
by your friends and relatives,
abandoned by all.

III

That day your world fell in,
fell apart and hope imploded
upon itself when you learnt
the dreaded HIV,
harbinger of certain death,
was alive and well and dwelling
in the crucible of your body
fluids, in your blood.

IV

You knew—
your numbed brain
comprehended
that your days were numbered;
and you surrendered.

V

Your life ended
and you became a living dead,
sick
with worry and anxiety,
submerged to subterranean realm,
abysmal well of fear and dark despair,
depression and self-pity,
long before your system of immunity,
your city of Troy,
its walls of Trojan condom breached,
white corpuscles, trembling and bleached,
succumbed
to Trojan horse
of villainous viral invasion.

VI

To prolong your pain was not an option
for you could not afford their cocktail of hope
so your ailment progressed
to full-blown AIDS—
here was your Hades
and your only dope
was the thought of heaven.
And as you degenerated and quickly grew old,
the doctors diagnosed and you were told
the grim, the grave, prognosis…
it was just a matter of time.

VII

And I in my fear
and ignorance and suspicion,
my fear of social sanction,
like all the others, distanced myself
and did nothing
to ease the severity of your suffering.
I wondered how did you get it.
Who did you get it from?
Who did you give it to?
What if you give it to me?
What if you gave it to me?
What if you had given it to me?
And all I could do was pray for a cure,
for the future of the children,
for the children of the future.
And I resolved never to be a victim.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

AH LIFE!

Ah life! Life is but a moment, nothing more,
to taste, to feel, to know all that there is;
to see the wind sail clouds and rustle trees
under the sky, above, across the moor.

And like the wind, unseen, diffuse, yet real,
it rains and dies as quickly as it came
but while it lasts, moments of fame and shame
will shine then, like a movie, fade to reel.

Yet it is in mundane minutes in between —
the ordinary hours that we live —
that we truly gain ourselves and truly give,
which makes life’s suckling breasts so hard to wean.

Ah life! Life is but a moment, nothing more,
when death enters the womb’s eternal door.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

ANOTHER GULF

Of blimps, limps,
wimps, pimps,chimps,
shrimps, crimps,
dimps, gimps, nimps,
and bloody, bloated, blasted,
blooming, blinking, flatulent,
inflated imps.

Copyright ©2007 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE LEOPARD AND THE SHEPHERD

Spotted creature, fierce and bold,
you are but a bully cat;
your cruel teeth shall never cut
my precious lamb’s woolly coat,
neither shall your slobbering mouth
harm one member of my fold.
Wicked work of art you are
peerless in your cunning grace,
slinky your gait as finest lace;
killing pounce at blinding pace,
your smile a bloodlust grimace,
what mercy, your hungry heart?
What irony, such beauty
be wasted on your carnage,
such poetry on your rage;
sonnet sublime on torn page,
your sating such sacrilege
to the Shepherd’s artistry.
The Giver of life to all,
the Shepherd who gave his life,
asked can this creature of strife
change one spot into a stripe?
For its nature is the knife,
to slay, to maim and to maul
yet no intrinsic evil
be apportioned to the blade;
for all things for good were made
and the Shepherd his life laid
down to save his flock from Hades,
and the leopard from its hell,
yea, the leopard from itself.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

OVERTURE TO LOVE

Love, if you would be good to me
a fool for love I’d gladly be,
would give to you my heart for free
if you could only guarantee,
in gathering your sweet honey,
protection from the angry bee.

Oh Love, how bitter is your sting,
your cup of poisoned nectarine
from fickle lovers’ lips dripping
to sad songs jilted lovers sing,
inspired by their jaded fling
while falling from your lofty swing.

Venus, the star, I have been told,
shines brightest when the moon is old
but your goddess transmutes to gold
young lovers’ hearts when nights are cold
and hearth fire–warm hands they hold
while moonlight and romance unfold.

Love seems to me a one-way street
where strangers, sometimes friends, they meet
and same mistakes make and repeat,
swear fealty, proceed to cheat,
one giving all while underneath
all one does is take and mistreat;

yet there are lovers who will swear
your perfume wafting in the air
is sweeter than wild orchids rare
when two sweethearts one sweet love share
and two hearts race as fast as deer
with joy enough to shed a tear.

It’s true your moments of sweet bliss,
your sweet caress and tender kiss
which nymphs consume with avarice,
once tasted one will always miss;
but Eve or Venus tell me this,
was apple worth the serpent’s hiss?

Love, look where your spell has led me,
sucked in by the swirl and eddy
of broken dreams and melody
into nostalgic reverie
of melancholy memory;
oh Love, where is your empathy?

Maternal love that hugs and heals,
agape love that sears and seals
and Eros love that whips and weals
which brigand sometimes breaks and steals
and Lady Fortune sometime deals
may be the same but different feels.

Love, I have worshipped at your shrine,
partook of profane and divine,
drank of the henbane and the wine,
been crowned a king, been called a swine,
lived more lives than a cat with nine,
lives entangled by your entwine.

You've been more bad than good to me
yet fool would I still gladly be,
would give my heart again for free
but this one boon I beg of thee,
in gathering your sweet honey,
protect me, Love, from angry bee.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

DAWN

Time chimes the cathedral bell
and reaches down my waking well.
A perky, precocious cockerel,

anxious for his breakfast-corn,
in celebration of his precarious sojourn,
hoarsely heralds the budding morn.

The feather chorale cacophonous
serenades a joyous cantus firmus
to the majestic, golden rising orb diurnus;

yet a mere reflection of the nous,
but a jot within the wondrous universe.
Which man is there can fathom the Logos?

Consumed by awe I ponder,
and in my heart a silent whisper
takes celestial wings upon a prayer.

I take a quantum jump out of my bed
into the worlds within my head,
along a cosmogonic thread,

in flight astral to strange horizons,
to where the sea of darkness ends
and lucid morning sky begins;

astraddle a blazing chariot, Hubble,
towards infinity by time travel,
in defiance of Einstein’s law I hurtle...

Time chimes again the cathedral bell
but time and time alone will tell
whether waking will to heaven be…or to hell.

Will this brave new millennium dawn
bring hope…a new beginning spawn,
with ignorance and suffering gone?

Or will this significant moment signal
the start of some sinister apocalyptical finale
to purge and purify Earth planet of evil all?

And chime after chime, to destiny’s destination,
Time marches indomitably on, on, on, on,
onward toward the unknown dawn.

Copyright ©2000 by G. Newton V. Chance

SPRING

These are the cheery days of spring
which no dark clouds of drear can bring—
the heady days when in their youth
the young seek only for the truth
and youth knows nothing of uncouth
and life is for the living;
when love and flowers bud and bloom
and with their exotic perfume
fill every heart and every room
and love is for the giving.

These are the cheery days of spring
which no dark clouds of drear can bring—
when winter gloom has come and gone
and warm beginnings are reborn
where fields once white are green with corn
and colourful birds are singing;
when crawling worms, before our eyes,
take wings and turn to butterflies
in flight that shimmers at sunrise
it is truly a lovely thing.

These are the cheery days of spring
which no dark clouds of drear can bring—
when April marches into May
with sprightly spring, a child at play,
and ushers a new summer day
to greet petite Proserpine;
when love and joy go hand in hand,
like drum and brass in marching band,
spreading glad tidings throughout the land
with parade fit for a king.

These are the cheery days of spring
which no dark clouds of drear can bring—
when life is lush, the birds and bees
they mate and procreate with ease,
flitting between the forest trees
on which twining vines are clinging;
when lovers they stroll side by side,
emotion swelling like the tide,
and life is but a play-park ride
on which children climb and swing.

These are the cheery days of spring
which no dark clouds of drear can bring—
the heady days when in their youth
the young seek only for the truth
and youth knows nothing of uncouth
and life is for the living;
but spring soon turns to summer,
then autumn woos the winter
and fledgling morphs to elder;
like life and youth the seasons are so fleeting…

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

IN THIS LIFE

In this life,
this life of grim uncertainties,
where morning is an archer
whose bow knows not where
its unsheathed arrows will fly
and afternoon is an afterthought
of noonday’s grandiose designs
and night, night sleeps, the day to rest
from labour, joy, success, distress—

In this life,
this life of grim uncertainties,
where after morning mirth,
evening mourns her plight
and her shades and shadows
are the secrets of the night
that daylight would rather forget—
the only certainties are uncertainty
and the certainty of death.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

WAR

I will believe in war
when my leaders—
the Presidents and Prime Ministers,
the Generals,
Captains and Commanders—

face each other
in hand to hand combat,
Paris and Menelaus,
duelling to the death
to resolve their differences…

Then the war budget
could be spent
on food and medicine,
education and research
to ease the global suffering;

on hammers, chisels, squares and saws
to arm the soldiers
of the Rehabilitation Revolution.
Sign me up to fight —
Sign me up to fight
to the life for peace.

Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance

WHAT IS A SONG?

What is a song,
if not poetry
dressed in melody
to sing along?

How say you now
have no love for verse
yet in song immerse
with all your brow?

“If music be
the food of love, play
on,” Shakespeare did say,
so play sweetly

but remember
no music can there
be to share or cheer
a sad lover

without the rhyme
of poetic line
with which to combine
and play in time —

Without rhythm,
without the metre
that makes love sweeter,
life would be grim.

Life would be grim, indeed,
if prose was all
there was to read
life would be grim, indeed;

Life would be glum, indeed,
if tune and hum
was all to song
life would be glum, indeed.

What is a song,
if not poetry
dressed in melody?
So sing along!

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

TIME AND TWINE

Time! The great healer.
Time! The great revealer.
Time! The great dealer.
Time longer and stronger than twine.
Don't get tie-up;
what sweet in front
sometimes bitter behind.
Do what you want;
you can run but you cannot hide
from time and the karmic riptide.
Time will catch-up and deal with you.
All the deal you make,
all the take you take,
all the law you break;
you can deal
with the deck or the Devil
but you cannot deal with time.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

TOUCHSTONE

If you could peer into
the abyss
of my soul,
its deepest, darkest recesses,
and behold
my mortal fears,
my burdens and my cares
and wipe away my unshed tears;

be my midwife;
help my lotus unfold…
Who knows in what deep,
dark mine, or troubled mind,
maybe even mine,
that you may find,
in your labour, my labour,
some hid treasure

with love-power
like a touchstone
or a lodestone,
or a gemstone,
and so doing, in some measure,
deliver and unfold your own;
transmuting troubles into gold
to leave this world a better world.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

EVENING RAGA

Come, my lover, come sing sweet srutis of love to me.
We were early joined, you and I, sagrama and taal,
when, in the morning, we arose with the saffron star
in the nirvana of tantric union, I, lingam, you, yoni,

rejoicing with the Universe, to love’s sacred mantra.
My long-maned goddess, dark skin burnished as the teak sofa
on which we lay, immersed in her Ganges, her body,
a soft, silken sari, swathed me in her smouldering ember

warmth; not a Kali nor a Kundalini fire, that came later,
in perfume-gardened nights of kamasutric pleasure.
But in this mystical, magical, material world of maya
all is but fleeting illusion, and nothing lasts forever;

and now love’s beauteous buds, in our twilight years,
have blossomed into a lotus flower, my sweet evening raga.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

NEFERTITI

Woman of ebony, you are everything to me;
I place you on my throne, through your regal dignity.
Oh creature of great beauty, beyond compare;
you, and you alone, are worthy, my seed to bear.

Black and comely, my love, you are
more precious to me than all the treasure
of King Solomon’s mine. Virtue flows from your smile
like life-giving water along the River Nile,

reflecting radiant beams of sunshine in your hair.
Skin so smooth almost divine, oh fruit of the vine,
the words of your lips are music, to soothe my ear
and intoxicate my mind;

as your body whispers softly, to me,
the love I need to hear— Nefertiti, Nefertiti, Nefertiti…

Copyright ©1995 by G. Newton V. Chance

DESDEMONA

Desdemona, my fair Desdemona,
at the whisper of that enchanted word,
my heart trembles like the frantic flutter
of the wings of a terrified bird,

trapped, stuck fast to a sticky laglie stick;

Desdemona, Desdemona, my dear,
my heart races at the sweet sound
of that name, like a trepid hart or timid hare
runs before the hungry hound,

hunted, haunted, pathetic prey to Aphrodite's edict.

Will love be true, will you be true, amour?
Or will passion or prejudice or jealousy,
tragic predilection predict, make of the blackamoor
strange fruit upon the hanging tree.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

DANCE OF THE DAMNED

“Who don’t hear does feel”
Old People

We danced the dance of the damned,
we flirted with our demise;
we danced all night, past midnight,
we danced until sunrise.

The dance we danced was frenzied,
we danced and orgied full flight,
whirling wild like dervishes,
we danced and danced all night.

The dance intoxicated,
we soared, flew high, as a kite
with a short tail, we dambled,
we danced and danced all night.

We limboed low, we jumped up
high, high as cloud nine, not quite,
toasting almost-great talent,
we danced and danced all night.

We danced the dance of jamettes
to songs too sordid to write;
‘cultural illiterates,’
we danced and danced all night.

We wriggled and we writhed,
yes, we win’ed with all our might,
the ‘elders’ taught the children,
we danced and danced all night.

In costumes and disguises,
grand designs that were so trite,
with camouflaged indulgence,
we danced and danced all night.

We decked the halls of banquet
where indulged the appetite,
well garbed in gaudy finery,
we danced and danced all night.

While many beamed with pleasure,
with few faces true contrite,
in masks of hypocrisy,
we danced and danced all night.

Mindless we moved like heathens,
performing some pagan rite,
libations of our life-blood,
we danced and danced all night.

Round shrines and altars we danced,
and thought idolatry right,
sacrificing our own souls,
we danced and danced all night.

We danced in trance of transience,
hardly room was there for fright,
in halls devoid of conscience,
we danced and danced all night.

We danced the dance of chances,
we revelled in our delight,
romped with demons and devils,
we danced and danced all night.

We danced the dance of jumbies,
deeds of wickedness and spite,
dealing with deviant deities,
we danced and danced all night.

Like lagahou and diablesse,
dark creatures of human plight,
and douens, the infant damned,
we danced and danced all night.

We fluttered like vampire
bats in caves of stalagmite,
dormant by day, till twilight,
we danced and danced all night.

Yes, we danced the danse macabre,
made the babies’ futures blight,
berating the young generation,
we danced and danced all night.

While we were high on dancing,
some walked with weapons to fight,
spilling blood in the dancehall,
we danced and danced all night.

We spared no thought for morning,
as we danced till morning light,
cared naught, cared not for the cost,
we danced and danced all night.

The full moon ruled the party,
till the morning sun shone bright,
some were caught with trousers down,
we danced and danced all night.

For dark deeds done in darkness
did the light of truth indict;
debauchery’s consequences
our bare derriere did bite.

And then ballroom came crashing
down, we fell, fell from a height;
the mess made not a small splash,
it was not a lovely sight.

The cleaners carried torches,
not a broom was there on site;
they searched the glare, searched with care,
the debris to ignite…

We danced the dance of the damned,
we flirted with our demise;
we danced all night, past midnight,
we danced until sunrise.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

SING TO ME OF HAPPIER TIMES

Sing to me of happier times,
of sand and sea and fairer climes,
when fruits were plucked for pleasantry
and rivers ran pollutant free;

when folks survived without money
and everyone was family;
when loyalty could not be bought
and love was settled out of court;

when honour rested on a word
and music was a morning bird;
when afternoon was clean and clear
with no emissions in the air;

when conscience was a man's true guide
of right and wrong from deep inside;
when murder was a heinous crime
and poetry replete with rhyme;

when mankind had a heart and soul
and kindness was worth more than gold;
when goodness was a gift divine
that caused the sun each day to shine;

when truth was pure and not contrived
and honesty was still alive;
when giving sprung straight from the heart
and poetry was seen as art;

when unlocked goods were all secure
and strangers welcome at each door;
when justice had no need to cry
and 'equal rights' was not a lie;

when man truly had faith in God
and right was not the sharper sword;
when man's character was his wealth
and nothing valued more than health;

when neighbour on neighbour could call
and water was still free to all;
when virtue was a man's desire
and justice was just and not for hire;

when innocence, a little child,
was pure in thought and undefiled,
believing in the victory
of goodness over enmity;

when maidens gave their heart for love
and chivalry would kiss their glove;
when men, all men, shared camaraderie,
declaring strength in unity;

when man and beast dwelt together
with love and respect for nature;
when caring was a cooling breeze
that banished every foul disease;

when love abounded everywhere
and every heart was full of cheer,
and freedom chirped from every tree
proclaiming that all men are free.

Those were the days, the good old days,
when life was lit by solar rays
and love was borne on angels’ wings
and Coltrane blew 'My Favourite Things';

those were the days, the good old days,
when beauty, the beholder’s gaze,
a humble lily in the field,
the joy of life would oft reveal;

those were the days, the good old days,
when life was but a pleasant haze
that floated by without a care,
no clock oppressing anywhere;

those were the days, the good old days,
when bards and poets wrote sweet lays
and love was not a fantasy
of fools' and dreamers' wild fancy.

Sing to me of happier times,
of sand and surf and fairer climes,
when lutes were plucked for pleasantry
and living was pure poetry;

sing to me of happier times,
of sand and sea and fairer climes,
and if utopia never was,
doubt not that it can come to pass.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE HEALING

This is a tale of healing
when all the rifts were through;
I’ll try to tell with feeling,
this tale I tell to you.

Long hours we spent fasting,
agonizing on our knees,
pleading the Everlasting
till at last He heard our pleas.

All round us lay the strife of war
that greed and power wields;
thousands wounded and thousands more
lay dead on battlefields.

Yet problems were unsolved,
nothing was won or gained—
many the sins to be absolved,
the bitterness still remained.

Memories of atrocities
haunted nightmares and dreams—
the razing of whole cities,
raped women’s tears and screams;

the arms and legs dismembered,
wanton acts of revenge —
we trembled and remembered
that rage should not avenge.

We needed love, enough of hate,
our hope was in forgiving —
the one way to recuperate
and start a new beginning…

We buried past and buried dead
and overcame the pain;
repenting, restored God as head,
to resurrect peace again.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

AMERICA

“While the storm clouds gather far across the sea,
Let us swear allegiance to a land that's free,
Let us all be grateful for a land so fair…”
Irving Berlin

America, land of the free
and equal opportunity,

where scalping knife of genocide
has never stripped the savage hide,
nor Gatling strafed the Sioux tepee
at burial ground of Wounded Knee;

and strange black fruit have never hung,
nor ever swung,
from Southern trees
in bigot breeze;

here civil rights was never wrong;
no leader ever lost his crown
by Three-Lettered Aberration.

America, the Yankee-
doodle land of the free
and equal opportunity,

where Baptist church
was never torched
by snow-white hand
of Ku Klux Klan;

and minority back
was never bludgeoned blue and black,
never clubbed and battered
by brutal baton-attack

of bigotry clad in blue…
may God forever bless you,
and all your loved ones too,
since all these things are true.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance