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I
Birth cord sepulchered—entombed
along Brazos banks and Gulf Coast
shores—tombstone set on a hill.
Muddy Mississippi erupted
spewing out a dream deferred
flowing to an Ozark plateau
polluted with bigotry festering
with the seeded waters of the times.
Injustice seeds itself in fertile fields
fertilized with political cow chips
aping cargo sailed on ships of old
to ports of new time urban plantations.
Ironically, ships became cruises
to freedom; sailing the seas
or the skies thereof. Yet the legacy
lingers on—ballooning.
Civil Rights and Neo-Colonialism wed
at the altar of political deception:
From seas to shining sea, stagnation
celebrates; the journey goes off course.
II
The journey commenced itself; and
out of the darkness of night
crept the dawn. Steaming with thirst,
the dry mouth sun rose—inebriating its self
with the morning dew—leaving empty blades
of grass scattered across the landscape.
The lazy old sea, urged on by quite winds
laboriously spat out lethargic waves. Lethargic
waves whimpering tears of fickle frothed faces
repeatedly slapped at the shores.
In the distant cosmic sky, lonely sea gulls
sliced through the salt laden air
leaving a pasty white trail—umbilical
reminder of the perilous journey.
Armored with the breastplate of faith,
a cracked smile spread across the face of memory
and whispers to the Creator sang praises
for the sailing birth of day.
III
The smell of fresh boiling crabs saturated
the salt watered air; and the clinking bottle
caps signaled the gathering of pokeno players.
Seasoned domino players slap table tops
with rhythms that rival Babatunde Olatunji
on full moon Gold Coast nights.
Shrimp boats moored themselves
along the muddy banks of the river—
the pregnant river teeming
with a seafood feast in the making.
The eerie tormenting buzz of mosquitoes
broke the stillness of the night
as they hovered in sexy sways over puddles
pooled between tall blades of salt grass.
Echoes of howling dogs slowly faded
into canine whispers
as the river breeze blew bitter sweet
memories of tamarind years.
IV
Ah, what a strange entity is the sea;
inanimate, yet teeming with life.
What stories it has to tell. No less
a graveyard of history; replete
with the remains of those only time
records the memories of.
Save her echoing waves, her ripples
are as silent as fallen forest trees
in the absence of people around to hear.
Yet at her shore, in dreams of memory,
I hear the ghost voices of Ancestors.
Ghost voices of Ancestors
bubbling up out of her dark depths:
ballooning the warm moonlit night
with echoes of laughter issuing
from the buccal cavities of the jumpers.
At the next full moon, I shall paddle out;
paddle out and thread the wetness
of this vast watered graveyard; and
anchor a wreath of purple African Violets,
whispering aged prayers to the Ancestors.
V
Lowering my boat into the waiting water,
I paddled out to sea. Midway the horizon
I anchored—A fisherman of memories
that I am, once more baited my mind’s fishing
line with pages of ancestral truths: then
waited the reeling in of ghost voices.
At sunset, mental basket satisfied,
I paddled back to shore and built a fire
and gathered the children to savor
and share the day’s hefty catch.
Beneath the glowing moonlight
exited orbs reflected the fire of knowledge
as we sat and sang songs praising
ancestral fishermen of great Nubian empires…
Beneath the glowing moonlight
we sat and sang songs
praising those ancestral fishermen
of the transatlantic journey…
Beneath the glowing moonlight
we sat and sang songs
praising those ancestral fishermen
of waters still teeming with injustice…
Tomorrow I shall again lower oars—
Paddle out into the sea of freedom waters:
baiting my mind’s fishing line with reflections.
VI
Today the teasing sea sends waves to shore
like Sisyphus children—the froth dissipating
as it carriers are pulled back into the wet womb
of their watered beginning.
Likewise, I’ve been to shores
of justice to be pulled back
by the gravity of its nemesis—
Its pompous nemesis riding high tides
of deception magnetized by moonlight
of the mockery seen---Festering
under the bangle stars of lost liberty.
Forward I must; the day dawns.
The full sea of the watered beginning
of the wet womb and bannered waves
will splash upon the shores and anchor me
in the liberation of a moored permanency.
VII
Saturated with fish fry smells
Bar-B-Que smoke, rodeo dust
and sounds of deep water blues,
with teasing frothing lace spread on shores,
Gulf Coast birth breeze blew winds in sails
to Caribbean Sea, Blue Mountain berries,
banana walk trails, yam hills—
To kiwi seed raindrops tapping reggae beats
on zinc roof tops on cool verandah nights,
in herb scented air—curling roast breadfruit smoke.
The tarrying there tested the tired soul;
matured the spirit, fulfilled
long tried attainments of deferred dreams.
Then the sea recruited its journeyman again.
Pacific Coast pleaded an adopted native son
home. Home to new sea shore sands;
dusted in smog self negation of urban decay
and self nullification of community;
caught in the veiled nightmare—
lurking in the promise land.
Here were lessons learned
from a gospel tower—a tall gospel tower
that never knew a church; yet gave
life-lived sermons that put homiletics
to shame; crucifying piped dream
pie-in-the-sky nuances on crosses of realities.
Atlantic waves, undulating
like rhythmic buttocks, frothed a scent
of magnetism greater than
the tightening hold of gravity;
attracting an uneasy soul—searching
spiritual solaced sands; only to discovered
that the seas all share the same shored design.
Yes. Same shared sorrowful savage slave story!
Different sea: same sand.
Now awaits Guinea Coast sunsets
and Cape of Good Hope
cul-de-sac early morning sunrises.
Then on to the sands of heaven:
Regrets are for those who fail
to chase their dreams to realities.
