Own- Kendel Hippolyte

A road razzled with restaurant signs and menu boards,

lights twinkling in the eaves, winking a come-on at the tourists;

glimpses—between the tall hedges—of hotel staff, busy

in black and white, a slash of colour, slice of a smile;

the strip, a tourism hotspot, cools down in the evening,

 then flares up, a febrile condition, in the night.

i try to understand a whole economy based on fantasies—

beach umbrella, sipping a culture on the rocks, Stella’s groove—

and ponder: for some, in fact, we did begin as fantasies—Cipango, El Dorado—

then were traded down to sweating-stink, slave-holding colony.

So centuries later, on a tropical Friday night, what now? What?

You can’t dissolve history in a fruit punch, make it delish.

Even the sugar in the coffee has a bitter aftertaste

when you know. The charcoal briquettes make the barbecue

then become ash. You see it everywhere, in everything.

See what, though? What exactly do i see?

This hedged-in hotel, with a glance of bustling workers,

and built on the remains of what had been the village cemetery,

is locally owned. A Black industrious couple from industrious families

and captains now of the twinkling industry of fantasy.

No absentee plantation owner’s property, this—a native enterprise.

Why my disquiet, then? Skeletons under the tiled floors?

Gravestones and bones crunched in with the numbers?

Wincing, the thought of that but—no, what stabs the mind

is that the buried could not hold even that final patch of ground as theirs.

And their descendants hustling in the palace of fantasies above them

don’t own it—not even in fantasy.

And I’m thinking that what may finally resolve this history,

shred the black and white raiments it is clothed in,

is when they own

not only the hotel, its ground, the other ancestral grounds,

but also

their own history.

-Kendel Hippolyte

https://www.bimmag.org/stories/own

The Child Ran Into the Sea - Martin Carter

 

The child ran into the sea

but ran back from the waves, because 

the child did not know the sea 

on the horizon, is not the same sea

ravishing the shore. 

What every child wants is always

in the distance; like the sea

on the horizon. While, on the shore

nearby, at the feet of every child 

shallow water, eating the edges 

of islands and continents does little more, 

little more than foam like spittle 

at the corners of the inarticulate mouth 

of some other child who wants to run 

into the sea, into the horizon.

- Martin Carter

The Yard Man: An Election Poem - Lorna Goodison

 

When bullet wood trees bear

the whole yard dreads fallout

from lethal yellow stone fruit, 

and the yard man will press 

the steel blade of a machete 

to the trunk in effort to control 

its furious firing. He will dash 

coarse salt at its roots to cut 

the boil of leaves, try slashing 

the bark so it will bleed itself 

to stillness, and yet it will shoot 

until the groundcover is acrid 

coffin color, the branches dry bones. 

Under the leaves it lives, 

poverty’s turned-down image 

blind, naked, one hand behind 

one before. The yard’s first busha

was overseer who could afford 

to cultivate poverty’s lean image, 

but good yard man says since we 

are already poor in spirit, fire for it. 

http://bombmagazine.org/article/2533/four-poems 

Montage - Mervyn Morris

 

England, autumn, dusk –  

so different from the quarter-hour 

at home when darkness drops: 

there’s no flamboyant fireball 

laughing a promise to return; 

only a muted, lingering farewell, 

and day has passed to evening.

I been there, sort of: New and Selected Poems – Mervyn Morris  

Cane Gang - Olive Senior

 

Torn from the vine from another world 

to tame the wildness of the juice, assigned 

with bill and hoe to field or factory, chained 

by the voracious hunger of the cane 

the world’s rapacious appetite for sweetness 

How place names of my servitude mock me: 

Eden, Golden Vale, Friendship, Green Valley, 

Hermitage, Lethe, Retreat, Retirement, Content, 

Paradise, Phoenix, Hope, Prospect, Providence 

Each with the Great House squatting 

on the highest eminence 

the Sugar Works overlooking 

my master’s eye unyielding 

the overseer unblinking 

not seeing the black specks 

floating across 

their finely-crafted 

landscape 

At shell blow assembled the broken-down

bodies, the job-lots scrambled into gangs

like beads on a string O not pearls no just  

unmatched pairings the random bindings 

like cane trash no not like the cane pieces

laid out geometric and given names

and burning. 

http://www.sentinelpoetry.org.uk/0106/olive_senior.htm 

Death of a Comrade - Martin Carter

Death must not find us thinking that we die

too soon, too soon

our banner draped for you

I would prefer

the banner in the wind

Not bound so tightly

in a scarlet fold

not sodden, sodden

with your people's tears

but flashing on the pole

we bear aloft

down and beyond this dark, dark lane of rags.

Now, from the mourning vanguard moving on

dear Comrade, I salute you and I say

Death will not find us thinking that we die.

-Martin Carter

http://silvertorch.com/c-poetry.html 

Memory - Esther Phillips

Memory

If sharing between two makes a memory complete,

what happens when one forgets,

and every Do you remember? is met with a blank look.

A shake of the head, No, I don’t remember.

I don’t remember at all.

Then it strikes you that you never really knew,

Could not have known, the exact map of his memories.

Their colours and contours, nuances, their proper indentations.

How long each stood in the queue waiting for his admittance.

So come, memories of mine, let me light candles and burn sweet incense for you.

Let me summon that day when, for the first time, we sat and talked until late in the evening.

It wasn’t so much what we said, but the way that trust, ever drawn by the open heart, Came in and settled itself in the room.

It was then I felt that whatever might come, I could find such moments again,

Or it would be worth the seeking.

Or the way he danced with three-year-old Zoë (not knowing I observed him),

But I saw how the tensions he had so carefully nurtured slipped for a while,

His face transformed by such delight, such gentleness!

I held that memory against the harsher times

When neither words nor silences could counter disillusionment, or

Calm the impatience with a world gone deaf to those ideals he had fought for all his life.

And how his voice could turn a lecture into a symphony!

His power of intellect, the elegant phrasing that rose or fell

on the under song of ocean tides, multi-tiered resonances, the soft swell of waves,

Water sifting through pebbles.

Where do I store a voice that caused the blood to leap inside the veins,

The mind to sound out depths I had hardly known,

The ear to hear how chords, captured within a phrase,

Could reinterpret meaning, spark illumination!

Now, I no longer ask, Do you remember...?

Esther Phillips

https://www.bimmag.org/stories/memory

The Cross

 In evil long I took delight,

Unawed by shame or fear,

Till a new object struck my sight,

And stopped my wild career.

I saw One hanging on a tree,

In agonies and blood;

He fixed His languid eyes on me,

As near His cross I stood.

Sure never till my latest breath,

Shall I forget that look!

It seemed to charge me with His death,

Though not a word He spoke.

A second look He gave, which said,

"I freely all forgive;

This blood is for thy ransom paid;

I die that thou mayest live."

Thus while His death my sin displays

In all its blackest hue,

Such is the mystery of grace,

It seals my pardon too!

—John Newton

Destined for a Fall

 There was a people long ago

     Who had great riches, wealth untold;

     They built a city with a wall,

     A kingdom they thought would never fall.

     How they labored unceasingly

     To lay up treasure increasingly;

     They gave no thought to what lay beyond,

     That their kingdom would someday be gone.

     But one by one the stones came down;

     The city was leveled to the ground,

     No more fortune to be found,

     No one left to wear a crown.

     The mighty kingdom fell at last;

     Its beauty's gone, its pleasure's past;

     All was lost they sought to gain,

     Their lives were wasted, their labor vain.

     You can build a kingdom with a mighty wall,

     But like the kingdom long ago, it is destined for a fall,

     Unless Christ the Lord becomes your King

     And ruler of everything.

—Perry Boardman

Forever with the Lord

 Forever with the Lord!

Amen; so let it be,

Life from the dead is in that word,

'Tis immortality.

Here in the body pent,

Absent from Him I roam,

Yet nightly pitch my moving tent

A day's march nearer home.

My Father's house on high,

Home of my soul, so near,

At times, to faith's far-seeing eye

Thy golden gates appear!

Yet clouds will intervene,

And all my prospect flies,

Like Noah's dove, I flit between

Rough seas and stormy skies.

And the clouds depart,

The winds and waters cease,

While sweetly o'er my gladdend heart

Expands the bow of peace.

In darkness as in light,

Hidden alike from view,

I sleep, I wake, as in His sight,

Who looks all nature through.

Forever with the Lord!

Father, if 'tis Thy will,

The promise of that faithful word

Even here to me fulfil.

Be Thou at my right hand,

Then can I never fail,

Uphold Thou me, and I shall stand,

Fight, and I must prevail.

Knowing as I am known,

How shall I love that word!

And oft repeat before the throne,

Forever with the Lord!

Forever with the Lord!

Amen; so let it be,

Life from the dead is in that word,

'Tis immortality.

—Octavius Winslow

Loneliness

John on the isle of Patmos

Paul in a prison cell

Hannah in her barrenness

Jeremiah in the well

All saints have stung of loneliness

The depths, to others, unknown

Save the Savior by Father forsaken

For the sake of redeeming His own

—Vicki Baird

From Nowhere to Glory

 On a road bound to nowhere

with pain carried in my heart,

A journey where I compare

and I finish where I start.

On a road bound for anguish

with pride always to the fore,

A journey where I languish

and hope hurries for the door…

On a road bound for glory

with my Jesus there to guide,

A journey of our story

and how shame and grace collide.

On a road filled with meaning

with His Spirit within me,

A journey of His leaning

and where He's, my guarantee

by Dave Mudford © 2024

A Stubborn Lot

Can a penny buy a morsel of some dried unleavened bread?

Can a nickel have some meaning to apologies unsaid?

Can a dime hide a confession that we want to keep inside?

Can a quarter take the place of the regrets when we have lied?

Can a dollar buy a drop of love from someone we have pained?

Can a ten buy us full freedom, though it's we ourselves we've chained?

Can a hundred cover up our sins so we can't be enslaved?

Can a Million pay for all our sins so that we can then be saved?

Can a Billion buy a sliver from the cross where Jesus died?

Can a Trillion buy a seat in Heav'n so we can't be denied?

ALL the money in the world can't buy one SPECK of space

in Heaven where the God of Love bestows sufficient grace.

It's loving dedication and full faithfulness we owe.

Our money is so worthless - yet we idolize it so.

We are a spoiled people in our air conditioned cars.

We're over-entertained by our most fav'rite superstars.

We are a prideful people and we're such a stubborn lot -

but owe to Jesus EVERYTHING and EVERYTHING we've got.

by louis gander © 2022

http://www.ganderpoems.org 

Blessed Homeland

Gliding o'er life's fitful waters,

Heavy surges sometimes roll;

And we sigh for yonder haven,

For the homeland of the soul.

Blessed homeland, ever fair!

Sin can never enter there;

But the soul, to life awaking,

Everlasting bloom shall wear.

Oft we catch a faint reflection,

Of its bright and vernal hills;

And, though distant, how we hail it!

How each heart with rapture thrills!

To our Father, and our Savior,

To the Spirit, Three in One,

We shall sing glad songs of triumph

When our harvest work is done.

'Tis the weary pilgrim's homeland,

Where each throbbing care shall cease,

And our longings and our yearnings,

Like a wave, be hushed to peace.

—Fanny Crosby

The Child Ran Into the Sea

 The child ran into the sea

but ran back from the waves, because

the child did not know the sea

on the horizon, is not the same sea

ravishing the shore.

What every child wants is always

in the distance; like the sea

on the horizon. While, on the shore

nearby, at the feet of every child

shallow water, eating the edges

of islands and continents does little more,

little more than foam like spittle

at the corners of the inarticulate mouth

of some other child who wants to run

into the sea, into the horizon.

- Martin Carter

Better Beauty Beyond

The world with its beauty and charms

Comes to me with wide open arms;

Its pleasures allure to embrace

But will end in pain and disgrace.

There is better beauty beyond

That I will enjoy before long;

The most beautiful and the best

Is the One who gives peace and rest.

—Perry Boardman 

Montage

 England, autumn, dusk –

so different from the quarter-hour

at home when darkness drops:

there’s no flamboyant fireball

laughing a promise to return;

only a muted, lingering farewell,

and day has passed to evening.

I been there, sort of: New and Selected Poems – Mervyn Morris

Behold, I Come

 "Behold, I come"—the darkness lightens

Above all sorrow and all fear;

Beyond the clouds the Daystar brightens,

And our deliverance is near;

The groaning earth awaits the hour

When all the wrongs of time are past,

And clothed with glory and with power,

The King of kings shall reign at last.

—Annie Johnson Flint

A Ballast for My Soul

 Life is like a stormy sea

That tosses to and fro,

But God's Word will ever be

A ballast for my soul;

By its truth I'll be held fast

Till I reach heaven's shore

Where I will be home at last

And sail life's sea no more!

—Perry Boardman