| 14.1.05 |
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Let there be peace on earth
and let it begin with me.. I offer this prayer to light across a broken road Of weepings and wailings Of others/fathers/sisters/brothers Children, A fire that heals. From darkest dawn to nighfall I offer this prayer now For the children Of the Darkness.. They have no wings They grow weak Before they grow strong. O wall of prayers Scavengers and undertakers Our mourning faces echo Remembering that hope Is ourselves your children Travelling towards a fate That feeds life, The hope of life recovered Ghost whispers indigo lines And we repeat Silently or aloud 'Those who are dead are never gone eternal spirits live on".. (written and performed by Jimmy Rage for 555 Relief funds for Asia in the Melkweg.Amsterdam Holland |
| 7.4.04 |
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"Of patience,peace denied"... Truthseeker I am a stone with eyes Fragile arms outstretched Showing pain To last lifetime. Knowing the joy of life," A blow by blow Account of a "life" Not well lived, Cuz the "life aint a life" But The absence Of itself." Your prayers sigh your weary beating heart Into submission Omitting the painful bits That piece together the puzzle Each jaggard edge At a time. Exacting the astronomy Of your body Silenced to a world of gestures Prayers morning/noon And night. You bow your head Submitting headlong To the crashing Headlights Shining mad Mad As in a car chase Silently you place the crown On your head Your eyes glow in the light Of the sun. Sanctified By survival Revival Through light. |
| 19.3.04 |
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"Once upon a time shipwrecked,
I lay on earth tide flung." I arrive with the wind howling outside, wet, with steps and sounds of workmen bent over bricks piling work on work to make this hintered space beter. My head tucked between my shoulder thinking of my mother somewhere out there on the otherside of the Atlantic,hunched over a desk working to retire from this cold western light. My heart skips a beat when I see the ducks and her young ones swimming along in the dinged sparkling waters of the canals,the drops of rain falling like manna from an indifferent sky. The narcissisus bend and bow and the steps increase as I see him now in my mind with his suitcase arriving just so. With his ill fitting moth balled coat and small hands that grew and patiently waitied for her, his mother, raising other people's children far far away from home. Outside the flecks of snow fell and fell, airplanes milled about with lights bright like his future.He had arrived, what sacrifice, New York City.. what destination. When he finally saw her standing there under the ARRIVALS gate smiling nervously with her arms wide open,he froze unable to respond to whom he thought was his mother. The years of waiting had left him numb and alone.. now as he saw her whom he left so long ago, the pain of their seperation came flooding back like the rain of moonsoon and mud. She reached out and held him and repeated over and over"I'm here now, you are here now" and he said nothing, nothing came from his lips. That day of his abandonment rose in his head like a storm.. The way the narrow white lines that led to the sign that said DEPARTURE, had cut l through his tears..his little hands clutching hers and his weary wayward walk to the stewardess,who looked at him with sad pitiful eyes. Now as the tears in his mind subsided, he saw the lines of her face and smelled her sweet breath, and the way she held him made him a child again. But the feeling was gone and the sorrow of years had left him, that small boy with the cherub's face, jaded, untrusting of his own mother. As he walked to the room for Immigration and Naturalisation to retrieve his long awaited green card, he wanted to run back to the plane, back to being back there, back among the leaves of trees among the multitudes of ants and birds and bees and all the jungle. Back to the school on the hill in the middle of the woods. Back to the district boys and their marbles and their bird hunting and birdsongs. He did not want to be there, not here! he thought, not here! His mother looked on at him.. hurt, his pain planted on his face and heart. The light shone through and through his big warm tears as they streamed down his face.. The only ma 'ma he knew, was left in Kingston airport waving, crying, sending him off to his mother, her daughter inna America. He wanted his granma, he wanted to be back there where she left him, he wanted nothing more than to be a child..home again. Now these memories flood through his mind as the rain fell.The light's grey clouds casts a shadow over his body moving in clockwork motion. She is waiting at the door with her trainers in hand and sunflowers painted on her face. She screams with bright eyes "daddy" and he arrives with open arms and she hugs him. Inside he cracks up and is relieved to be able to see his daughter everyday and to hold her and kiss her and tell her he loves her. The day erupts with more rain, and as he walks home he walks back into that boy along the way, lost in bewilderment. She holds his hand and points to the ducks and their young ones. She says the raindrops are beautiful and asks about the promise of the rainbow. She wants to stay on and watch the patterns on the ripling water. He sees that boy now, asking his mother about the why's and the nots, of his own poverty, and she not saying but crying.. always crying. And that lost boy standing and staring helpless but nevertheless happy to be just so with her. Now she says, "Daddy,after the rain comes, the rainbow(a promise,he thought to himself).. and he sees and feels the mosquitos biting his legs and arms. He smells earth's cooling heat and sees the birds flying away,he hears his granma say, "look at the rain birds, it gwine rain more ". At the corner she reaches out to feel the raindrops, and says, "you are a lovely dad, and he picks her up on his back, and that boy disappears from his mind lost..dead awake. |
| 17.3.04 |
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"Sonar waves hold you in orbital unity to the two worlds of your body.I have seen that look in your eyes once before as you speak and reach with your hands and your backward glances that hold and move the metaphor of love's light and smiles. In the evening sun your body glowed with the multitudes of angels reaching through the light to touch and hold you, as you hold yourself, holding the world inside you.. growing. The diamonds shine moves the light to be as real as it can be.I see you there now carrying your chromosomed parts to full birth.The birth of earth reflecting along the soft ridges of your arms and feet and lips and belly.Round and plentiful, you are curve of hip and depth of promise and rise of nourishment." (Fade to the rhapsody of music) What I am is a one cent man doing the best I can. Moving through this wild wackey wonderful world with its ups and downs.My world's light is in the hands of my babies as they grow. What I am, is, who I am. And as the dust gathers on the window sill and the gathering winds howl outside my windows, I ask only for one more second for me to add my one cent to this life. Gathering words and thirsting after rightousness sake, for love and sorrow, determined to make it in the morrow, the future in past present tense, the star shine, the explosion of the meteorites crashing into the night time bosom and your dreams. What I am is all love with the moments between the little fingers and the dribbling mouth, the first "DADDY, the first " I love you, the first big hug and alas, "the being" moving in front of you like some surreal landscape that is your life/light, your anchor, a loving prevention from slipping off the edge of the world..the drowning in silence. Eye and heart now beholden to the stars shining bright, let them know, let them all know. I pray with all my heart and might.. and all the keys on this machine burn with exaltation for salvation from the slow drip drop of this time, the pace and power of light, the line leading to my destiny, crying out for, a sound that will never come.Amore/amas/amat "amore constant mas alia de la muerte." But no worry, right!, we no fret!, cause better is yet!.. to come.. And we love among the breakage and love and light. I wish to feel the arms of my mother now, wrapped round this frail body.They said I could not say or even speak for the first months in Jamaica. Could not bring myself to be without her, until finally, one day my eyes burst and I cried and cried, no one knows what happened, but the rain came crashing down. Green technicolour memories come flooding back now, and I feel for the hands and roots that bind me in this place/space time and the abundance of sunsets/sunrise and full moons. My golden halo sleeps quietly on the couch with her eyes dreaming into the future's lullaby in past present tense. I hold my hands against my chest and feel the beating of my heart and understand the lines tha run through my veins.. the warmth of my hands send a chill through my body, and I know... |
| 14.3.04 |
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"By little wisdoms" In this quiet passing the sun and the way light falls from the sky,makes me think of moments in my childhood files when I watched the sky and counted each cloud as they sailed on high,the smells and sounds. Daylight forces of nature. I have journeyed to this hintered space, reasons of my own making.As I carry this load up that hill to the sea.I see through this looking glass.I hear the crashing waves and i see the sea of possibilities. This infinite line of madness blissful blight of unmiraculous cities shored against my ruin.Protection and spitfired tongues lash their contorted intrusive syllables against the roof of our mouths . We swallow the wallowing lies of inadequacy, lying to fit in.(see fig.2.hard to swallow).Fitting pain between our rib cage pounding heart(s )adjusting to the menace inside. Liberame/liberame She sang as the Viking sun went down in Norse country.That morning found a note that said.Not one word will I speak, not one word. He that is incapable of deceit is incapable of love. The apostles blow bombs,firecracking the ghoulish demons lurking on the breaths of winding streets and pummeling footsteps. "Space is the place",I hear my elders saying.. In memory I search for this pitch black light. My heart is heavy with it. Deception/betrayal /remorse/loss /regret/ revenge/ religion /rage. I am this dreamer/retriever of his own deathly regret. I scribble this jibberish with this music in my head,the firecrackers in the distance sounding off,childrens voices rising and falling. Look for a double lit shadow in this mist, therein, I exist, manufacturing words for, consumption, redemption /seduction. I speak with slippery tongues bout butterfly's birth and death, bout foul play and loves regret. My tongue is long. I ladle my vowels and plenty of volume behind it. I am not thunder rather the murmur clap of spice June rain. My city is before you in moonscape. Inside I am rage , rock like my daddy I dont know. |
| 13.3.04 |
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"Such web as these we build our dreams upon." W.Soyinka
I had awaken with the lightrays streaming through and through my window.Outside kaleidoscopic eyes discerned seagulls gathering and swooping down into the cold watery canals.There are lights in the heart that open to morning's mist dreams memories lingering. Far away from home a language like a man,can loose face hang its tongue in shame and wither into silence.The back is the arch of triumph,the sole's soul. As I speak/write with this degree of urgency.I stare at my hands,these same hands that washed fish, lifted bananas. Sat attentively in school as the teacher under the portrait of the queen,extolled the virtues of empire and our moral dilema as fruits of a crowned colony. Years later in Europe, as the autumn leaves gather and scuttle across pavements bare,grey skies receeding.I hold my son in my arms,his chilled body shaking and say,"we are children of the sun, Adetunde, breath of light" he saying back "Daddy the sun did not come today." We will leave soon, I hear myself saying, his fever rising with tears in his eyes. In this quiet madness, i drink tea, read Soyinka and Rumi, by candle light. The silent junction of the grey abyss.The past dissolving in quiet notes, wings lamenting on every step.Drowning twilights of departing.Natures passing tales have gathered awakening minds to cosmic shades. Pink grey the clouds now drift overhead, and my son/father, sleeps on the couch, chilled through and through, not knowing what it is that has come over him.And, I?,I dream of cane fileds and ant hills and yam fields, of rivers and streams..of the jungle.Of star apples and mangos of breadfuits and coconut. trees.Of being the source of my own salvation. As a child,I use to watch as planes make their way across a deserted sky all the while mouthing" I'm leaving on a jetplane." the braying and naying of cattle rising in the sound. In the darkness now,the voices remain calm,cool and collected iin their saying,"I will comfort you when you cry,but remember, I too am made of tears." I repeat aloud,I too am made of tears,(repeat silently) "Rain came from the clouds,sun lights up the sky".. Somewhere in my childhood past, I imagine hummingbirds feeding on the arms of blossoming flowers.Calm in opal caverns.Broken awash in indigo voice, peace of light.Pieces of light..of wings." Skyscrapers of the mind begining its flight on memory tides. Lady sings the blues voice cracked,"airline tickets to romantic places..still have wings.Offerings that cling to teach, to share, to bear the ascent of multitudes..a cosmic dare. This I saw and more when I stepped out, and into my past in future tense. Dreaming myself awake.Where the secret passages of night hold weights of time, clutching possessing, eyes, visions.Embracing. "Listen, look sooner on the sun." I saw this in air.Nostalgic.Curtis Mayfield whispers now,"give me your love" and the light rays streaming through the window, slows to a last enduring thought. The miusic lingers,free, on the home voyage of planets. I write with nimble fingers,for I know no other way to push the words up and down this agonising hill of metaphors adjectives and sentence, lines of the loving poet as father/lover/friend and confidante. For a cup of rainbow dust,I write to free these memory tide, that hold these sacred threads in orbital unity."I drink coffe, not tea.Tea,he says reminds him of extorted kisses in cane fields,"as he scribbles across the empty spaces of the screen. Winter turns to spring to summer.Words fall,turn,make sentencesand his mind races to be profound,weak, strong and real, so he says" all love! luv.Mellowed by the sun's last whispers. (fade to black) |
| 12.3.04 |
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Searching the galactic universe cruising, space is the place! through lunar mornings and desperate tomorrows where eons of metaspace pierce the blue horizon. Space is the place our elders in their huts draw circles on the ground to show where we fell deep into darkened nights bosom.as i rise and fall through and through this cracked space of time continiums angry arms moving at speeds that cause nosebleed.
Ripened by this need to move and dance and fly and shake the stardust from my locked head. I am ripe now bright breath of sun now.In an insatnt i am standing above you and time,i do not know which god sent me I do not know where i have been.I drink now to your god my glory my glory your god.amen. |
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