MY COMPUTER

My computer was a cocoyea broom
that swept and cleared the cobweb
from the corners of my cranial room.
Anansi on the World Wide Web,
with new-found hunger, did consume
food for thought, gray-matter bread,
with new-found thirst, cactus in bloom,
drank deeply from the watershed
of knowledge, its light illumed the gloom
inside an instant, infinite library, read and read
and dormant faculties did exhume,
with apathy and lethargy now dead and buried,
spun fine silk of wisdom at the loom –
the creative factory in my head.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

O MORTALITY

(In memory of my sister, Elva Phillips-Thomas)

O Mortality,
tyrannical in your finality,
that feeds and thrives on fleshly frailty,
you nursery of fearful man’s misgivings,
afflicter alike of paupers and kings,

from time immemorial you have oppressed,
lo, your curse has cowered even the blessed
since crawling sin first reared its ugly head
in Eden Garden and innocence died
when Adam, trembling, heard God’s awesome tread
and with fig leaf covered and tried to hide.

Then Eve gave birth in pain and mankind bled
when Cain, with sinful stone, struck Abel dead,
God of his whereabouts did enquire;
abashed and unrepentant, Cain’s reply,
non-confessed, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
deceptive stratagem, guilt did belie.

O Mortality,
some say the sin of disobedience,
when Eve, then Adam, gave acquiescence…
the Serpent with the apple and the lie
unleashed you with, “Thou shall not surely die!”

to wreak your tribulation and your woe
on man and lesser beings here below
till Adam’s Seed should bruise your hoary head
and smote your grand design on Calv’ry cross;
before the Christ your victory has fled
“O Death where is your sting?” Here is your loss,

for in your greed, your lust to destroy all,
therein lay, ultimately, your downfall,
to underestimate redemption plan,
the greatest love, the greatest sacrifice
of God’s covenant, ere the fall of man,
that with lifeblood His Son would pay the price.

O Mortality,
your devastation be but for a time,
on mortal flesh you wreak your deadly crime;
so carry on your carnage till that Day
of Judgement when the Lord of All shall say,

“O Death where is thy sting? Release my saints!”
and henceforth banish your dreadful constraints,
together with the Serpentine Liar,
the author of deceit and temptation,
forever in the flames of hellfire,
you tyrant, to final conflagration.

For dread as you are in your affliction,
bow you shall before the resurrection
and, hugging sin, shall fall upon your knees;
then prostrate you will lie upon the ground,
cremated corpse with every foul disease,
for paradise shall once again be found.

O Mortality,
tyrannical in your finality,
that feeds and thrives on fleshly frailty,
your ashes shall be flung to the four winds
and henceforth vanish from immortal minds.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

TO LABOUR

To labour,
that grim taskmaster,
man, a slave must always be;
forever,
working to be free
from want and poverty.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

O MIGHTY ONE

Om

Omnipotent,
Omnipresent,
Omniscient,

O Mighty One
Who dwells on High
Was never born,
Can never die;

O Nameless One,
O Faceless One,
You are the Sun,
The Bush That Burned;

You are the Dawn,
You are the Sky,
You are the One
Created I;

I thank You Lord,
By thought and word,
I thank You for Your Glory;

I thank you God,
By deed and word,
Let every living entity,

In one accord,
By thought and deed and word
Give praise and thanks to Thee.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

FOUR HUNDRED YEARS AFTER

Four hundred years after
and the black man still in chains.
Iron chains have been replaced

by thick gold chains around the neck –
gold chains and gangsta attitudes;
manacles have been replaced

by gold bangles and slave bands;
cattle brands have been replaced
by tattoos, with willy-

nilly Lynch philosophy,
and hip, big, bad brand-name tags
that make brand makers wealthy

and black brand wearers poor;
iron chains and manacles
are replaced by self-hatred,

by economic shackles
and mental chains around the brain.
Four hundred years later

he calls himself 'Nigger';
four hundred years after
and the African still no free.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

PITY THE URBAN MAN

pity the urban man
no fresh-mown grass he can
inhale on morning farm
nor feel the morning calm
far from the madding rush
nor touch the midday hush
the squirrel under brush
the swampland full of slush
birds more than two in bush
no poniar' in the palm
that shrub alone does harm
he knows not the clear spring
with water gurgling
he knows not of the brook
prolific as a book
brimful of fatted trout
begging to ”fish me out”
nor hears the crowing cock
woodpecker’s cryptic knock
its rhythmic soldier’s drill
to bore bole-hole not kill
nor watch the cockpit hawk
which hapless prey will stalk
and swooping like a jet
scoops up in talon net
unfortunate rabbit
grown careless through habit
nor earthworm’s tiny plough
and fertilizing cow
chewing contented cud
happy as hog in mud
a fat and filthy sow
a dog barking bow-wow
the smell of milking pail
and fresh brewed ginger ale
common fowl eggs for sale
no mule with swishing tail
and flies that make you flail
the plover and the rook
the donkey’s surly look
no traffic-less night-sleep
and silly-looking sheep
nor mongrel midday snore
and fireplace folklore
nor waterfall’s allure
and capuchin’s loud roar
the village general store
for credit on all goods
the shade under the woods
the evening’s many moods
the fresh and natural foods
and neighbours’ petty feuds
pity the urban man
for only rural can

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

O MUSE

O Muse,
you who into dead words of prose
breathes the fire and love of verse
and like the Christ, by lowly birth,
descends from heaven to the earth...

O Muse,
infuse my poor prose with pathos
as empty soul, with Holy Ghost,
is filled by God’s redeeming grace
that sole uplifts the human race...

O Muse,
from your dam of wisdom impart
so that my pen may touch one heart
and like your siblings, three-square blest,
beauty and art from mundane wrest...

O Muse,
my humble brooding make profound,
transform to joy, let love abound;
as hounds after the hart they pant,
capture and with romance enchant...

O Muse,
of pleasant personality,
grant sweetness to my poetry
and let your inspiration flow
from heaven down to earth below,

over my brow, my breast, my toe
and round my hand like saint’s halo.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

TREASURE LOST

Take me to that monolithic
place of hidden musings reposit,
in some dusky cellar or musty attic
where song and poetry never writ,
or to memory’s haloed, hallowed halls commit,
lie languishing in dusty secret,
forgotten bottles of choicest wines, they sit,
aging to maturity,
awaiting rediscovery
like priceless sunken treasure,
long lost beneath the ancient sea.

Copyright ©2000 by G. Newton V. Chance

GIVERS AND TAKERS

There are givers,
there are takers,
the givers are but few;
a giver
or a taker,
dear lover,
tell me, which one are you?

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE GODS

The gods
are they
who have found
a way
to extricate themselves
from limitations
of time
and space
and matter
and mortality.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE CUSP OF EQUINOX

On the cusp of equinox,
the mystic morning sun
creeps across strafed landscape
of Tagore’s Gitanjali;
stockholders and tycoons
of Wall Street
are counting ill-gotten gains,
coolly conducting commerce
with the glabrous souls of men;
bellicose men exchanging
breath of life
with trees of life
then callously cutting them down;.
The green is groaning
at instant men grown distant,
distancing self from distant past;
and a tiny ant,
back broad as Atlas,
carries the news
to my long forgotten father.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE CITY NIGHT NEVER SLEEPS

The city night never sleeps,
its concrete face bright as day,
oblivious of the company it keeps,
neon lights shine in grand array;
a nameless streetwalker pauses and peeps,
through barred glass, at window display.

A pity city eyes never see,
by the ethereal glow of the moon,
the night sky in all starry glory
or hear its celestial tune;
eyes and ears which to squalid and gory
have gradually grown immune.

The jungle too knows no sleep;
though countenance fearsome and dark,
bright eyes pierce the nocturnal deep,
fireflies freely twinkle and spark
while the moon and stars frolic and leap
over Noah’s scotopic open ark.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

MOUSE

Filthy creature once so scorned,
stealthier than the sun at dawn,
lowly entity now reborn,

my hand pets you like a lover
nibbling at a lover’s ear;
is it a lion’s roar I hear?

Filthy creature once considered vermin,
by click or curse may now determine
the future of mankind.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

TO A DONKEY

You can lead a horse to a tributary
but you cannot make it drink;
you can lead an ass to a university
but you cannot make it think.

So the next time,
before you commit a crime
of felling that tree unnecessarily,
STOP! Think seriously, ponder deeply,

really, am I less intellectual
than a lowly donkey?
Is that dumb animal
more intelligent than me?

For that dumb jackass
will eat all the grass
but never fell a tree;
haw-hee, haw-hee, haw-hee…

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE WEST INDIANS

The irony of three wooden ships
that set sail from Palos in Spain
to discover...

is that Cristobal planned to go east,
to reach India, by sailing west
around the world.

The confused Old World Europeans called
New World natives Amerindians
and Red Indians.

After demise of Amerindians
they brought sturdy West Africans,
then East Indians,

douglarised them to the West Indians,
and left them all in confusion
in the Third World,

in a tall, New, Old World Order.

Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance

O, DEATH, I FEAR YOU NOT

O, Death, I fear you not,
your wintry stranglehold,
your bowels have never begot
nor ever can claim my soul.

You have stalked me prior to my birth,
before my mother called my name,
yet my body will return to earth,
my soul immortal whence it came.

So blow, you chill winds, blow,
blow me over the cliff’s cold edge,
for when my time is come to go,
go fearless… be my pledge.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE MORPHINE MAN

When the missiles whined and shrieked,
sling-shot nerves snapped and ricocheted,
and my body jerked, and convulsed,
involuntarily, in the stinking trenches
of injustice, at the shattered sound;
and the shrapnel lodged in my mind,
and soul, and the broken bone
protruded from the gaping wound…

The mental scabs are real;
real as the scar, on my left leg,
I cannot remember receiving in this life;
real as the pain and shame,
the degradation,
the hurt and humiliation,
I try to forget
with the opiate of denial.

I forgave, but how can I forget the hate,
the lies and twisted excuses,
when they hung my uncle, Tom,
by his tortured thumb;
and his charcoal hide did flagellate
till his blessed soul, from his wretched body,
departed, liberated, to a better place.

I feel the hurt;
his hurt, my hurt, every time
you call me Negro, or Colored,
or Creole or Nigger;
had you asked me,
I would have told you,
I am…African.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

A KISS

A kiss can say so much,
much more than just a touch;
much harder is a kiss to fake
than a keep-your-distance handshake…
maybe it was a kiss sublime
made Mona Lisa smile
that timeless smile
of reminisce;
a kiss that lingers
long upon the lips;
not the kiss of death that fingers,

with which misguided Judas,
in the Garden of Gethsemane,
his Master did betray,
the Loving Shepherd, Jesus,
handed over, a lamb
of sacrifice to slaughter,
sold out to Roman soldier
for thirty dirty pieces
of sackcloth-sullied silver
imprinted with the face
of the Roman Emperor;

nor the nuisance kiss of annoyance
by older folks who care
which, like the tousling of the hair,
a schoolboy’s scorn
contemptuously wipes away;
nor the kiss of romance worn and old,
the kiss that lovers spurn;
a kiss can be hot, a kiss can burn,
a kiss can be warm,
a kiss can be so cold,
a kiss can be dry, a kiss can be wet,
a kiss can be tainted
with malodorous breath
or spiced with anisette;

not the kiss of maternal,
paternal, fraternal,
motherly, brotherly,
sisterly love
planted with a pout
on cheek and not on mouth
that may come with platonic hug
but the kiss you miss,
the long kiss, the tongue kiss, the deep kiss,
the French kiss, the sweet kiss,
more of Hayez canvas than Klimt,
the kiss of life, the kiss of love
that can transform
this creature from the bog.

This humble request
may evince a wince
or even slap face or wrist
but would you kiss this frog
and turn him to a prince,
and turn him to your prince?
I promise I would floss first
and fresh my breath with mint.
Dear Princess,
this frog's intent is not, was never meant,
to appal, to annoy or to bug
but tell me this;
if I were Apollo, Eros or Adonis,
would you refuse my kiss?

Dear Princess,
after writing all of this,
don't you believe
that I deserve
a kiss?

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE LOVE I FELT FOR YOU

The love I felt for you
it grew and grew and grew,
it grew until it towered
and my defences lowered,
till the high of love was allowed
to block my point of view.

For love is blind, it clouds the mind,
a lover has not a clue
if love be cross or love be kind,
whether it be false or true.

You watered not the garden
nor tended it with care;
the soil began to harden,
the weeds grew everywhere.

My love you did not cherish –
tall weeds did grow and choke;
you, love, you were too selfish
to care about the heart you broke.

The love I felt for you it sunk,
it shrunk and shrunk and shrunk,
it shrunk till it was covered
by weeds that overpowered
and, sober, I recovered
from the potion I had drunk.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

LOVE TO YOURSELF BE TRUE

Love to yourself be true, oh love be true –
let not languor quench your fire
but rather let passion your heart imbue
with flames of burning desire;
let not ardour infidelity rue
or sully your soul with ire.

For out of your bosom does emanate
all beauty, all lovely, all good,
from your womb all things wonderful and great
were conceived that ever was wooed
and what union your breath does consecrate
let none consider crude or lewd.

Nor baser vibration of jealousy
have you room for it in your breast,
but beware the pitfalls of vanity,
see you act not at her behest,
nor ambitious bane of humanity,
the ego, fail not to arrest.

Give me the sweet of unfermented vine,
taste as fresh as the morning dew,
‘fore the rot sets in of corrupting wine
that depresses the sky to blue;
or the innocence of a virgin mind
that sad misfortune never knew
ere the tears and cares of the ties that bind
colour carefree a different hue.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

ONE MILLIONAIRE

If there was one million here
for one million men to share,
then one man would want
to be one millionaire.

For one man to own one million,
one million men must each own one;
nay, one million men must each own none.

For one man to own one million, give or take a few,
and one million men to each own one too,
there would have to be not one million but two;

but if there were two million here
for one million men to share,
then one man would want
to be one multi-millionaire.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE FIRE SEASON OF '87

It was early as warm-hearted, cold-nighted December,
Robin, the weather-soothsayer, his ominous oracle did
foretell,
observing the sky...warned, "Expect evil weather...
nineteen eighty-seven will be bone-dry and hot
as in hell."
Softly and gently the moist morning dew-drops,
upon the oppressed buds, condensed, they lay;
evaporated like arid desert tear-drops
on the cheeks of a parched dry-season day,
while it anxiously awaits the blessed rain-drops
of a hopeful, messianic month of May.

The immortelle and poui their blooms they did shed
to cover the ground, coloured pink, yellow, red,
the frogs, the toads and crapauds croaked and cried
and watched as their resident water-holes dried,
the capuchin monks, they prayed, howled and begged,
the iguana's egg-laden belly, in the sand, dragged,
low-legged;
but the tyrannical sun he refused to relent,
and the errant rain-clouds they refused to repent,
the cicada called 'til his wing-beat burst his
belly-drum
and still the rains, they refused to come.

Then one fateful March morning it finally happed.
An illiterate, ignorant, idiotic infidel insect,
perhaps
a firefly or bug or loathsome, two-legged crawler,
struck ferocious flint to spark tender tinder,
shouting, "Burn baby, burn baby, burn baby, burn."
The flames of devastation heavenward leaped,
in their eagerness to ignite the funeral pyre,
until many ruinous conflagrations later,
how costly the lesson, we came to rue and to learn
that the ash was (much) too much for the urn.

As Vulcan's red rage swept thru farm and thru field,
his fiery sword of destruction did wield,
like mighty, valiant Achilles, enraged,
on Troy's battlefield, ruthlessly avenged
the slaying of Patroclus, his dearest friend;
waded through the unfortunate foe
like a caiman thrashing the marsh water,
till no blood was there left, to flow...only woe,
till his awesome fury finally was expended,
till the anger that fuelled his fire was no more,
and only broken, burnt-out, lifeless, limbless corpses
lay strewn on the forest floor.

To sanctuary some fauna, from the fiery war,
by fortune, or Mother Nature, were led,
or perhaps Papa Bois, as to safety they wildly fled;
but the weak, the infirm, the slow and the flora
they perished, they burned and they bled—
trees wilted and withered...and counted the dead.
A forest wept years for the many that did not escape
the fierce wrath of the engulfing fire-storm,
shaken, survivors stood still, thru tears of sap did
they gaze,
in awe, at the fury the ravaging, ravishing sun had
become;
but its merciless rapier rays, they continued to raze
and still the rains, they refused to come...

And when the deluge, at last, it came down,
alas! The damage it was already done.

I pray never to see such dread days return
as the fire season of eighty-seven.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

SALVATION

grown tired of going hungry
on Gospel Sundays
while the word was freely given
as the grass the cattle grazed
in their barbwire-penned pastures

grown weary of doing nothing
on welcome Sabbaths
and the rest of the week
while nothing seemed to work

too proud to harvest bottles
score gullible alms
solicit offerings from garbage cans or rummage
through hopeful landfills

hats ties and churches
choke and confine the spirit he said
they are straightjackets that control the manic
until subdued and sacrificed
to barbiturates of doctrines

public confessionals of ignorance
and professional walls
proudly diplay diplomas and degrees
from colleges of illusions
with promises of salvation

the shaman’s incantations and charms
like his childhood dentist
may have been unnerving even disarming
but certainly not charismatic or charming
relief he wonders while he wanders the world
is it worth the trauma of exorcism

a child’s suffering is a mortal sin
to suffer in silence
to be heard and ignored
to be trapped strapped and shouted at
stop crying
or I will give you
something to cry about

Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance

TO WHOM MOST SECRET...

To whom most secret thought can one confide
if unrevealed the grave would deign to hide?
’Lysian cohabitant or spousal state
may wheedle every secret from a mate
(friend too, or kin, most trusted, true and tried)
but loftier the love, deeper the hate

when blissful bed becomes a battleground,
and loyalty no longer honour-bound.
Compunctious compulsion untold will tell
(rat’s tongue, it’s said, its head and life will sell)
and then lament treachery on burial mound.
Prudence be proud, your secrets to guard well

for charging other men your own to keep,
which you cannot, shall surely make you weep.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

RIO CLARO AT 5.45 A.M.

a crowing cock
like a chiming cuckoo clock
crows and crows
Mu'azzin Bilal proclaims
the Fajr Azan
from the minaret of a mosque
God’s creation
man’s invention
a motor in motion
disturbs the daybreak’s
waking meditation
hungry birds arise
in squawking jubilation
5.45
morning comes alive
a slight soothing drizzle
relieves the night’s distended
bladder you open
your windows to welcome
fresh air of a new day
as a stealthy sun parting
cloudy curtain-frills
of darkness smiles
and slowly peeps
over April hills
of your eastern horizons
to suddenly reveal
an incandescent sky
a beautiful day
and a buenos días
Rio Claro
ciudad de Trinidad

Copyright ©2002 by G. Newton V. Chance

GRA’MA

Gra’ma, whose x-ray eyes
could peer over a pair
of spectacles perched
on tip of Negroid nose-bridge,
like limers on a precarious rail,
and invade skeletal secrets,
piercing soul, prising pale lies,
surprising you with her profound
old-people-say insight
to coax apart pretence’s mascaraed mask—
Gra’ma’s rusting coal-pot iron,
that pressed one thousand stiffly starched
hotel linens and immaculate bakra uniforms—
and caused chronic arthritis—
could not erase
the years’ chronicles wrinkled
on the kindness of her pleated face.
These years that erode rust-clay canyons,
tarnish and corrode shining metals, these years,
adorned with gray hairs,
these years have been unkind.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

NOW FOR NOW

(in memory of my cousin George Daniel, tailor/ musician)

In this ready-made age,
the village tailor’s
thimble-armoured thumb
lies stitch-less, naked,
numb and dumb,
subdued
by designer-needle’s evil-eye,
no longer nimble,
no longer needed.

The neighbourhood cobbler
has long succumbed—
his last lathe can be found
among the cobblestones;
his late art lies rotting
and forgotten,
under an anonymous
headstone
at the foot

of a huge, sedentary,
cemetery samaan tree
in a neglected plot—
a neglected plot is his final lot.
Meanwhile, the careless, carefree
consumer is consumed, covered,
buried by now-for-now,
buy now for now,
gluttonous eye-gratification.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

WILD PLACES

There are places in my mind
where forests have been lost—
wildernesses without sign-
post, where thought forms have been tossed

like broken branches in the storm
of wild imaginings,
discarded for the norm-
al, banal everyday things;

places dark and mysterious
as the virgin forest— deep
springs lined with lichens and moss,
whence inspiration seep;

wild places where a child
would laugh and play with fair-
ies and, with neither guilt nor guile,
knew magic without fear.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

AN OLD HOUSE

(for Sandra Dopson, painter
of old houses)

An old house is a haunted thing,
with echoes of the past living
quietly in the woodwork still,
existing in the number nil;

emotions, be they love or hate,
its walls will always permeate,
which, though senses fail to reveal,
the sensitive may touch and feel;

and if the new neglect to bless,
sometimes themselves make manifest
and then refuse to leave unless
unpleasant past is laid to rest.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

FLAG-WOMAN

(for the late, great Aldwyn Roberts
who was never awarded the Trinity Cross)

Planted in blood,
perspiration and eye-flood
on totem poles

of fertile bamboo and futile steel.

Unfurling, gyrating, waving, undulating,
unifying, dividing, signifying,
with cultural symbolism
of colours and emblems,
nations, religions, traditions,

the sacred and profane.
Antenna to orgies
of sacrifice and pain;
I sing of Gods and gorges
and dance to history’s sad refrain –

(something slain for something gained,
make no mistake, I stake my claim).
Forged in passion, forged in flame,

from tamboo-bamboo to fertile steel,

receiving and transmitting,
transmitting and receiving;
win’ing, win’ing, win’ing,
waving, waving, waving,
win’ing and waving,

waving and win’ing,
win’ing, win’ing, win’ing,
waving, waving, waving,
win’ing, win’ing, win’ing
in the wind.

Copyright ©2000 by G. Newton V. Chance

THE LONELY YEARS

This desert that we call our own,
these barren lives of sand and stone,

where bubbling springs of love and mirth
have dried up leaving hate and hurt…

Barriers of boulders separate
castled hearts behind padlocked gate.

Here conscience hid her face and fled
and progress rides the back of the wretched;

tyrants of suspicion and fear
oppress like faithless unanswered prayer

which pleads only material things,
ignoring treasure that eludes kings –

tranquillity and peace of mind,
implicit trust of child and blind…

And we relive the lonely years –
the happiness held in arrears.

Let every care be laid to rest
when evening retires to her nest.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance