Harmony 69 1st movement

Written by: Neil Mcdonald

             HARMONY 69
The night of twelfth December `69  
knotted together an icy storm wind 
that whipped False bay`s waves 
to white -frilled blankets.
Thunderclaps against primal rocks
resonated through a ghettoe of glowing tents
on a dark, rough ,bushy patch .

Rising plaintively above the din 
of drums and flapping canvas,
creole strains solicited the capricious gods
for a clement Cape .
Love songs , sweet like wine 
would even tittilated mermaid`s melons,
stranding them breathless, with tails scaled.  

In my sixteenth tempestuous year, 
I was sickened and sullied, spoiling for a fight 
with that ever- prying, ever-lying police-state
denying us  
dividing us
deriding us
ripping  us  
whipping us 
in an all-pervasive racist propaganda storm

Harmony,was forced ethnic relocation right there
in a stamp-size sea-resort next to a stinking dump.
Our yearly anticipated salty baptism,
fouled for a full ten years,
dunked in fascist soil 
of a false bay with a real bite….
rubbing coarse salt in our opened wounds
Rubbing it in the flayed 
William, my sire, of the black turf belly
Rubbing it in the lashed
Maxie , my ma , of white-on-black graft
Rubbing it in the spurred 
Dot Adams, my oracle , of the pearled-truth tongue
imprisoned to a silent ninety-day solitary confinement. .

Yes, a full two hundred scar-studded waxes 
avidly saluting the wretched who rose in revolution
drowning exploiters in the oppressed`s precious blood
Algeria whilst raped,unveiling herself,
firing fear into bared French fascism 
exploding the myth of a benevolent colonialism.
“Lumumba will guide the Kongo to freedom”
grandpa agitated hopefully as revolutionary Patrice, 
our dark prince of peace 
died on the bloodied butts
of neo-colonial carbines.
My seven-year heart burst
in anger and pain. 
A companiable heart`s balance 
tilted with unease at justice , unhinged. 

the periodic uprisings of people in far-flung regions
against the arrogance of anglo-saxon imperialism 
salted my youth with the tears of broken children,
their blood ever spattering my angry brow.