My Quotidian Chant

This poem still mine Heavy as lead they say For me alone too weighty You too have to share it So take and keep The piece of your choice. It is the birth of my baby: Labour pain in deserted oasis. I scamper and caper on the hot sand Chanting my memories of real poetry. I was betrothed to this harsh reality And besought to feel no pleasure. I they forbid to feel it either Lines of creative literature In this world so impure Where you stumble and fall In attempt to wobble. They scorn me poet who wrote this With treason they sew up my lips. Recording memories of slavery And the complete drama of trickery. I know I now need to marry, I know you wish to marry me And if thy Lord will it Mine Lord too will. I need a rebirth of self esteem I wish God would give me a child A wonderful baby to call mine One for me to rock gently to sleep A pretty baby for whom to sing a lullaby Chanting in a quotidian rhythm of pain To create literary territories of liberty Jammed with lines of poetry. This poem the lines Let chime and rhyme Like toll bells in your mind Only there will I write it In unguarded secrecy. Only there write it My books are filled With such lines of poetry My feather-pen is weather-dry The bottle has got not in it any ink As the flooded fountain continues to drink The irony of literary poetry. This poem ever All my poems ever Not simple poem never. My big brother will kill me And fund the cost of my lavish funeral If ever he reads this poem So just open your mind And there let me write it. Father whisper to son, Mother sing to daughter My quotidian chant.