Best District Poems
Fingers of light pierced the clouds caressing the moors
with life giving warmth, purples, browns and greens of
heathers mingled, blended, in a union of beauty. Yellow
of gorse splashed in the sultry, hazy spectre of natures
superb canvas. The dry stone walling lay sporadic, lost,
decaying in time and memory, the hardy moorland sheep
stumbled from blade to blade, in the breeze they used the
walls as shade. Golden plovers dipped and dived the call
of pee weet pee weet echoed in the stillness, the Peregrine
hovered with silent wings and sunlit eye. Those fingers of
light walked the hillside highlighting the chalk outcrops
on craggy reaches as if new laden snow. Black pools of
peaty water dot themselves borne of winters starkness,
it is a beauty that holds both eye and heart, a picture
painted for the soul. A place where all blends and the
crofter wears no watch only the sun and moon to follow
and the footsteps of the rambler sleeps in the fragrance
of the heather.
No saints amongst us write a father’s song,
He writes his own which claims no innocence,
As tones of sadness urge he move along,
His pen now takes the stand in his defense;
Atop the desk where sit respondent’s words,
Are pictures taken of his darling girls;
For them he’d fight an army full of swords,
And let none question love's resplendent pearls.
Though flawed imperfect flesh is worn as own,
And lonely eyes are often blind by mist,
He states emphatic that he’s never thrown,
Not once in life an angry violent fist.
May all now know forevermore this claim –
I’ll fight ‘til death for they that share my name.
Respectfully Submitted,
Phillip M. Garcia, Respondent
Father of Ava Elise Garcia
Father of Lily Belle Garcia
10/29/2016
...Dedicated to the memory of my great Uncle Fred,
Spanish American Veteran & worked a "night job" during
the depression, while supporting wonderfully my Mom's
family on the south side of Chicago, when she was young,
Grandpa had lost everything, but Uncle Fred saved our family
I have never been to another planet,
Tho when I walk the early morning streets
Of the meat packing district, my feet have
Left this earth. Floating unease courses
Through my body... lights, sights, sounds
And smells never before registered in my
Physical and emotional inventory confront
Me. My ancestors travelled these same paths
Many years ago, usually with shoulder holsters
And homemade body armor. My senses
Understand this heritage, I traverse
Cautiously as if walking downhill on a
Pilgrimage. Tonight I shall visit Mars, in the
Shadow of Venus, cradled in the arms of the
Crescent Moon.
The Country District Nurse
If you listened to the gossip down the street or at the mall,
That someone had been hurt, or had a fall,
You could bet your boots that she was there
With her navy blue bag, and her hat on her hair
Right up the front with those who did care,
Giving attention, and helpful to all.
She had to get her facts right so she could tell it true
How it happened, what was where, and who was who.
Opening her pad she’d begin to write
Of all she had heard and saw at the site
She had to make sure that she recorded it right
For it could mean a lot to you.
She retired; the government said the service now not needed,
But it did not stop her giving to her district, for she heeded
Their calls, when the doctor was far away
In the city, at the clinic every day’,
He personally paid his Nurse to stay
To continue the service, unimpeded.
When she got older and with fading sight
She did not stop caring to turn wrong into right
Whether around the corner or across the park
She knew which dog was worse than its bark,
And if you weren’t home until well after dark,
She would keep her light burning all night.
Her happy cheerful nature is no longer seen in town
When they seek her for advice, she can’t be found.
Her memory remains with the children, now grown,
As if they snuffle along with a cough and a groan,
With no nursing service like the one they had known,
They drive to the clinic; city bound.
©
Languid days of Summer set me afire
Amber sun beams delight my heart.
King Fishers as they dart past
Each one swoops as it flies to its post.
Down by the river's edge
I watch, and listen-
See each one as it dives -
Then, back to its perch.
Resting there awhile as life flows by.
In the still silence I hear each sound of
Calm waves which gently lap creating
Tranquil sounds that abound.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
They took no hostages, and told no lies
Politics and power like attitudes
Gets sour by the hour.
The Sadist will wear many hats
Briber of those who cower
Who bows to pseudo facts?
It takes clear minds to fend off evil
Some folks seem astute
Yet they're far from civil
Collective power...
That reigns supreme
Resurface fresh and clean, for
The forgotten District of Dangriga
That never faints nor sleep
It's mighty spirit sweeps
Across seas, and surfaces in voices
Steep as pure diamond
Voices free of fraudulent colors.
*
Curbside romance
Picture in a magazine
Leering at a beauty queen
Short shirts and dirty mack’s
Waiting for red light perhaps
A furtive glance
Curbside romance
Fake smiles through
Red violent lips
Faded faces worn
By times constant grip
High heeled whores
Strut like flamingos
On their way
To another nights work
Woman in a window
Peering down the street and
Meat in a butchers shop
Waiting to be eaten
Internal musing
The blue sky, vast deep blue sky
the crisp cold green grass beneath
and between the two - just me!
no moment of loneliness
but of bliss, of existence,
and thought of self and just be!
no trees to block the clear view,
sheep graze quiet, faraway,
fragrant blossoms down the lea!
how false are the chains of life?
keep us captive, trapped, glued in?
one breath- I cut myself free!
7 syllables
rhyme with the last lines in each stanza
Ah! to be in England
now, that it is April there!
redlight district
an ambush of tigers
at every corner
I don’t know why crowd cover this,
Atmosphere full of air pollution
River full of chemist contamination
I don’t know why seedy cover this.
There are buildings stand sturdy
As the inner of economic
As the base of legality
As the nodal of metropolitan cosmic
But slumber still mushrooming
They have and they haven’t contrast
Too hard they are still humming
Scavenged in every time on trust
I was the lucky one
The apple of his eye
He chose me to walk with him
The memories will never die
Two brothers older, two sisters younger
And I the middle one
Although he is with me no more
I'm still my father's son
Woodstock,Athlone,Mitchell's Plain...
We toured mostly by foot and sometimes by train
Where ever we went he was known by his name
Wish I could re-live those days again
District six was always close to his heart
This was the place the walk would always start
As we walked he would stop and point and say
"That's where 'so and so' used to stay"
But dad why is it only an empty field today?
"My son,its because 'so and so' was forced to move away"
So I guess that's why we went around so many places
To see his friends and family...scattered familiar faces.
Short shorts skirts and spike heeled shoes
In the Red light District of your town
On the darkened street corners
There's pleasures of the flesh to be found.
Blondes, brunettes and redheads
Working girls they are.
They earn their living selling flesh
To hungry men with expensive cars.
In the Red light District of your town
Law Enforcement lies in wait.
To persecute and to arrest
Using decoys as bait.
You'd think that the Police
Would have better things to do.
The streets are filled with criminals
That prey on me and you.
Cheap Motels and alcohol
In the Red light District of your town.
No matter what your looking for
Cheap Thrills do abound.
Cloth, clothing, garb, la ropa
Sure beats Prozac, or even L-Dopa
Hemming, cutting, measuring, looping
Snappy dress keeps those smiles from drooping
A blouse, a suit, a shirt, a shawl
Strange young tailor masters them all
‘Can’t wait! Must have! Quick! Hurry!’
‘No excuses, tailor, to you I’m judge and jury!’
Shame, fear, anger, doubt
Sorry, ma’am, those stains won’t come out!
SOUL BIRTH : 71 HORSTLEY STREET, DISTRICT SIX
Swathed in golden fleece
White light dancing
Cigarette smoke twirls
Waters break and gush
Bright as the nearby ocean
To say hello to the midwife
Preparing the birthing table
A violet spirit comes
A birthing through channels and layers
The room becomes vast
Souls linger about
Radiant and receiving
Onto the Earth Dimension
Task complete
Melancholy sits here too
Cradling the unknown
Too delicate to hold
Waves dance in rain and white wind
Ice cold separated by time
Here I sit in a District in the South
Watching myself being born
And red blood
Flows…
©GhairoDanielsPoetry&Song +-1980s
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[ This is one of the poems I wrote on my experience of Forced Removals from District Six, South Africa under the Apartheid Government. Nine of the poems are published in the Testament : District Six Memories, Thoughts and Images /edited by Martin Greshoff/ Attic Press 2021. This is the first of the set. Watch this space for more poems on Forced Removals ]
I went to Uganda
a number of years ago,
to the Gulu District,
way up north.
Near where Joseph Kony
and the LRA had been.
We set up a clinic
in a school
that had been built
on one of the killing fields.
We brought in all our food,
slept in tents,
and cooked over propane.
The sunrises and sunsets were amazing.
We took pictures every morning and every night.
The Ugandans laughed,
“Don’t you have the sun where you come from?”
The field where our tents were pitched caught on fire.
A line burned steadily towards our stuff.
We rushed to move things out of the way.
The Ugandans laughed,
“It will rain this afternoon and put things out.
If not, we will put it out.”
That night the rain came.
The Nile diverted beneath my sleeping bag.
Some of us were a little discouraged.
The Ugandans laughed,
“The sun over here dries our clothes.
Doesn’t it do that where you live?”
They asked us to bring stocking caps.
We thought that was strange, but the women
in our church knitted dozens and dozens of them.
I sent back a picture, "Look! They like them!"
Later I found out they wore them because
malaria gives you hard chills even when it is
90 degrees outside.
We brought Bibles and taught their pastors.
They brought drums and taught us how
dance with abandon during worship.
I think what I learned from the Ugandans
was better than what they learned about me.