Best Forebears Poems
My father's abeng blew up my mother's womb
And I was chained there
Nine months in darkness drinking blood
Longing for my resurrection from the tomb
Longing to break the chains
Holding me before my birth to a carnal earth
Longing to stop him pounding
Pounding on the door of my bereft eternity
I carrying the weight of him already
The weight of them against the gravity
Of my life. My wings folded
Longing wield sword edge of flight against the sun
I burdened to undo what already is done
Have no finality here.
Look at me like an eagle flying in the sun
Blood dripping from my talons when the flight is done
O let me cleanse the world again
In the red flood that alters pain.
One day I was born screaming for a cause
I could not take kindly to tradition
Slapping black and blue a baby's **** ... laws
Must have been broken to beat the innocent
Unless it is a crime to come into this earth
To carry so much legacy
From maroon history to Jesus Christ, blacklisted
Like my my forebears: Shaka
Father of my grandfather's mother,
My other grandfather, Accompong warrior
Slain between the stones of Holland Estate and Mountain
Bridging the way for fleeing slaves
I come Cudjo less, Nanny less, merciless
Carrying on the war of generations
Calling no more for repatriation but reparation
Of human rights, human dignity, and racial sovereignty
Where Africa may find again its concord
Without false treaty and flimsy accord
Raping the Congo of natural resources and life
I come, the bushing through guinea grass
Tumbling kingdoms with wisdom and knife.
For this I was born, beaten at birth
Given resurrection from the night of earth.
My father sought to be civilize
Recite poems of Britannia's might and lies
And I, I was singing with the night
Reading a long history of pain to make write
Of my own proclamations, to declare
I shall not bend my knees, nor walk in fear
Where death measure us in dust
And vampires and conquistadores lust
For El Dorado buried in my disgust.
I am a man, and I will make my monument of truth
Upon the gravestone of the brute.
In these Days, We prayed series...
The 7enth innatemeditation
REASON
Brethren,
Do we believe that the same God,
Who has endowed us
With sense, intellect and Reason
Has intended us to forgo their use?
Thus,
A wise man who tells another he's wiser
Is indeed wise.
A man who wishes another good fortune
Is blessed with many fortunes,
Go ask a fortune teller.
A good woman once told my forebears
That a belle with a gladden heart
Was called maryglad in the OLD religion.
A preacher man in his thoughts
Is holy and righteous.
So he is therefore clean and spotless
Like the Lamb of God.
Well the few who knows this truth live peacefully
And Let his congregations argue with reason.
Is he not the son of God they know?
An angel (Reason) told me that the judgement
We face is writ
If only we chose to believe it.
He continued '
God loves man too much
To condemn him to eternal damnation'.
I then asked
"Why does the preacher man
keep this part a secret?"
He replied 'cause men have lost their ways,
And their little hearts are full of hatred'
A countryman who condoles mad rulership,
For greed and personal gains is himself mad.
Know that no man is born content
Religion and the constitution gives him
All he can ever ask for.
After all what else could a man ask for.
At the break of dawn
The night worker is again alive.
Last night, he died to self and lived
Sub consciously for his employer.
Don't argue with reason
Go ask a night guard.
Godwin henry osaigbovo pa shakespeare
To be a man, was once worthy of applying,
But lesser men have since sullied that name
And claimed hold of such title justifying
Acts that put their own forebears to shame.
To be a man, my son, is no endeavor
To which I hope will be your sole pursuit.
Instead seek something better still, however,
A name that no others can pollute.
Be yourself, my son, and remain steadfast.
Don't heed the jeers or flattery of men.
Aim for the heights, but help the downcast.
Remember, truly, none are greater than.
Be true to the hope that is within you.
Do what is right when none will ever know.
For character is not forged by fires passed through,
But after, by the anvil and the hammer's blow.
Throughout the storms, hold true to your convictions,
But not just for another told you so.
Don't limit yourself by past restrictions,
And there will be no end to where you'll go.
10.23.18
Contest: In Response to If
A true Nigerian is brave like the Lion,
He is courageous, hospitable and kind.
He never shies away from responsibilities;
In his hearts of heart he controls all within him.
Through faith, he moves without stopping;
Even when there are many road blocks, he conquers.
A true Nigerian is patriotic and loyal,
He is not a gambler nor a fraudester.
He walks to achieve a common goal; unity.
He sees black as black and white as white.
He is the eyes that the country boast of home and abroad when he brings home the glory of love.
A true Nigerian never discriminates among his people.
A true Nigeria is a good leader in his home and country, he sees beyond looting of money and
Embazzlement of public fund in his trust.
A true Nigeria is perfectly perfect in perfection,
He is not dubious as you may think and have in your
Wrongly wronedg mind of mind towards him.
A True Nigerian is never lazy and idle like they say,
He is hardworking, goal driven, dreamer and doer.
He knows his rights and obligations in his society.
A true Nigerian is a true African decorated with an
Unfading black blood in his strongly strong vein.
He is honest, gentle, courageous and easy-going man.
A true Nigerian is a poet because he sees beyond you.
A true Nigerian is holy not fanatic fool in the church.
A true Nigerian believes and hope in the land of his forebears that goodness shall spring out from it.
He is educated, intelligent, world class citizen and
A thunder that strikes to destroy evil among his people.
He looks right into your eyes and tell you tomorrow.
A true Nigerian is a reader not a watcher of event,
He is a researcher, world class entrepreneur.
A true Nigerian obeys the laws of the land,
He is a goal getter among all in the World.
Show me a million succeessful men around the world and; I will show you thousand of Nigerians among them.
We are blessed in many ways, nurished with a talent of gifts; Nigerians are blessed and uplifted.
We believe that If something that was going to chop off your head only knocked off your cap, you should be grateful and when a girl has beauty without Brains, the Private parts suffer the most.
We are Nigerians, we are proudly Nigerians.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Africana, a poem that details the pre - colonial, colonial and post -colonial Africa, her rich history, struggles and unique cultural heritage in a picturesque execution.
Africa will Rise Up Tall,Bold, and rule the Earth again
But first Africans must be Africans and more, not more and black.
Mathew R, 2014.
initiator, AFRICANA - the movement ©
AFRICANA (A Poem )
"Our forebears broke kola nuts
And offered prayers
To the benevolent maker,
Whose name varied from one tribe to another.
They lived in peace and harmony."
This was way before
The meek white missionaries
Made landing on our shores.
Africana
They condemned our customs and traditions.
They said our ways were too primitive.
So they burnt down our shrines
And in its stead,
They gave us their three C's.
(Christianity, civilization and commerce)
Africana
These white saviours, in their glowing white robes Baptised our forebears
In the name of the Father, his Son and his Holy Spirit.
Whilst our fore-elders learnt how to pray,
They formed a government,
And on our natural Resources they preyed.
Africana
Albeit their government lynched our forebears.
In the church,
Both the oppressed and their oppressors
Screamed amen.
From two conspicuously separated rows;
The salvation bringers occupied the front seats
The back seats, sanctified for the blacks.
And they said their God was impartial.
Africana
They captured, tortured and shipped
Our forebears to the americas;
To work their cane plantations,
Cotton fields, paddy fields, sugar plants.
The unfortunate ones, thrown overboard
To swim Frank's ocean.
Africana
And many centuries after their first landing.
We, the descendants of former slaves,
Rose from our slumber
And fought for Africa's uhuru.
This freedom many willingly laid down their lives...
And when at last,
We were declared independence,
Our struggle for survival begun.
Godwin Henry Osaigbovo Pa Shakespeare
I was in-processing my Army unit in Germany when the fortieth anniversary of D-Day happened; but, alas, I couldn't leave. I wanted so much to be there to meet the old surviving veterans, to shake their hands and hear their stories. I had read accounts of D-Day-- June 6th, 1944. I had already seen several times the film The Longest Day, based on the book by Cornelius Ryan.
Eventually my family followed me back to Germany, and we later took a vacation that included Normandy.
We visited Sainte-Mere-Eglise, and I pointed out the manekin of Private john Steele--the paratrooper that had gotten stuck on the church's steeple.
We visited the upper German fortifications of Point Du Hoc, where Army Rangers fought their way up impossible cliffs.
We paid our respects at the US war cemetery on Omaha Beach, and my sons and I walked where so many Americans had died to free Europe.
My wife was very somber and respectful at these sites; she is French, and grew up hearing stories of the German occupation.
I often still watch on June 6th either The Longest Day, or Saving Private Ryan, and try to imagine my forebears on those beaches.
"To hold as 'twere, the mirror up to nature. "
William Shakespeare," Hamlet 1601."
Long ago another planted you,
My cherished Ginkgo tree.
She tamped you in so carefully
And bequeathed you unto me.
Did she then live to see you grow
So stately and so tall?
And to see your charming bright green dress
Turn golden in the fall?
You’re clothed in pretty fan shaped leaves,
A tree beyond compare.
How many robin families,
Have nested in you, Maidenhair?
Although other trees have broken,
‘Neat the north wind’s violent gale;
You, Ginkgo pay no heed at all.
To winter’s abusive rail.
Your forebears came from China,
Where they were long revered,
And studying under their branches
An old sage with his beard.
Your kind was here as early
As the first ferns and their spores.
No tree has longer history,
Your fathers knew dinosaurs.
Strange that old Mother Nature,
Decided you should survive so long,
While we humans sometimes die before
The last verse of our song.
The answer to long life and health,
Is in the leaves of the Maidenhair tree.
If you let me pluck a few of yours,
I’ll brew up my cup of tea.
If only the one who planted you,
Had known of your power.
She could have drunk of Ginkgo tea,*
And been here for happy hour.
* Ginkgo leaves are touted as being healthful . Won a 5th place
Joyce Johnson Revised April 19, 2011
From my private files, not posted. undated.
For Constance's contest "The Tree"
I AM THE HERON
There is a stoicism to me
silent, self reliant, pensive posturing
suddenness of intent and action.
My aggression is calculated,
measured in response to need,
activated by impending threat.
Stillness is the garb of my determination,
patience in the solitude of calm
spring loaded – a sharpened, piercing, beak.
I still retain my forebears ways,
their ancient chiseled features,
dedication to the rookery’s domain
amid the din of springs cool birthright.
I will cross swords defending nests
asway in natures treetop rocking chairs.
There is a stoicism to me
//Heron – aggressive, self determination,, self reliance//
submitted to – Picture Yourself As a Bird – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Andrea Dietrich
5/16/2015
Well, what can I tell you about both my names?
I'm not quite sure where I should start,
'Vivian' means 'lively' which raises a smile
to friends of this tired old fart.
It's not very common as names for men go,
and famous Vivians very few
Viv Richards the cricketer and Vivian Fuchs
the explorer, they're the only two.
My surname's from Derbyshire, Wirksworth, in fact,
all sweat and pickaxes and fire,
and I now don't think my forename is that odd
with an ancestor named Obidiah.
My forebears were lead miners, hazardous work
with poisonous ore and rock falls
and looking back over my family tree
I'm surprised that I'm here at all !
23rd November 2015
for contest 'What's in your name', sponsored by C.T
Incertitude
Who am I...?
Am I the first born son, emanating from a fire of passion?
Am I the long lost hope, rekindled, ravenous in the eyes of my forebears?
Am I the caressed cocoon, spun out of love and compassion?
Whose silken threads, entice and embellish the vain vanity of its wanton wearers?
Am I a prodding prodigy,
Aimed at excelling in every sphere ?
Am I, a porous sponge, meant to absorb every single human emotion, a mortal can bear?
Am I a doted upon enduring exemplar or a doomed ephemeral effigy?
Am I the mellow and musky mist, exuding from a bare bosom?
Am I the naive, reticent lover, imperfect, yet dearest to my beloved?
Am I the longing in her eyes, a hypnotic hum?
Am I mere an object of desire- usurped, used, seduced, shoved?
Would I be another mere mortal among the countless thriving throng?
Lashed by grief, aged by time, thwarted by fear and smitten by love?
Would I be a forgotten fable or a perennial song?
Would I be remembered as -
A peacock- proud of its plumage,
An Owl- sombre yet subtle , of a lettered lineage,
A nightingale-serenading a song touching the core ,
A mystic bird from an ancient lore,
or , a dove – cygnet soft , gentle sitting on an alcove?
Oh Time! Tarry! A little,
Before I transcend from this world to the other,
Hark ! I plead, solve this riddle.
Oh Wind! Carry away my doubts to the omniscient;
Rush against all odds, be it a mighty mountain or a rampant ridge.
Time is running, I dread to lose myself in this mystic maze,
Oh Almighty! Accept my venerations to you my liege,
Enlighten me , before my mortal remains is set ablaze.
-Saptarshi Mukherjee
Adieu the king,
Long live the king:
The crown was in the grove
Where his forebears dwell
In their majestic transfiguration;
There he would inherit the fiat,
The power to say and to be;
In the grove of royal tutorial
Where prince became king
Where ancient secrets were learnt
The tryst of the dead and the living
Forest of rite of accession.
There fortune anointed me,
Made venus’s heart my portion:
The royal heiress smiled at me,
Her eyelids blinked and blinked,
Like fire fighters’ ambluance,
Her boby moving ups and downs
Like a piston of new brand auto
As she nailed her eyes on me
She made my spot her path
By my side she offered me wine
In a royal calabash of symbol
And laid her hand on me
Like a bed spread on yielding matress
Instantly I woke from my slumber
Like a chameleon rewinding back its tongue
And she piloted me to the chamber
In the interior of the royal
Where many games were offered;
Ludo and chess I did not play,
But played love with my princess;
Sure the gods are wise:
A night in the royal grove,
Remains love of my life.
A HABITAT OF MODEL AND A MEDAL: BAHAY KUBO
Our bahay kubo*
Is an achievement
And a dream come true
For us to dwell and live
On this simple hut
Whose inspiration I’ve drawn satisfaction
Indeed: I had gotten: A model and a medal.
Why would I say this, a self-reverenge
A MODEL “coz
This is a design
Typical of a Filipino
Worldwide known as Nipa Hut*
Is amply commemorated identity as a race
It’s simple and yet it generates
Patriotism, love strength, upheavals
Unity and success
A model in itself not anymore a caricature
Of value but a realism.
Be it poor, underdeveloped
It was conceived with faith, love and peace
A place for rest and recreation
A hub for hubbies
A hide-away from the crazy world
A stop-over for a voyage
And a playground as well as a battleground
Shared for all by forebears.
And, then also, a MEDAL
More than a bronze, silver or a gold
This hut, hub or a habitat for living things
Is an achievement, an accomplishment for greatness
Which I have a strong convictions of honor
And heroism deserving of a prize, reward and a medal
It is a tremendous height of wisdom
Hot, hut model and a medal!
*bahay kubo--- small hut
*Nipa Hut---native house in the Philippines, synonym of bahay kubo
TILL WE MEET AGAIN
Have you seen the sun smile recently?
I have seen him smiled in the season of my
Song in the year of the great harvest of yams.
Everyday is a gift, every moment is a blessing,
Every life holds a beauty of its own, but the
Day of our calling we cannot escape it for
Life and death has a common boundary to humans.
Tell every one that I love them very dearly,
To ijeoma; tell her that I won't forget those
Days when we danced naked under the rain.
The rain kissed her smiles with a holy kiss
Which beamed with a mountainous dreams of love.
Tell Ugonna of my pains, suffer not the enemy to live
Bring back the abducted girls from the forest
Keep singing those songs to mother for peace.
Forsake not the shrine of our forefathers,
There our lives began after the harmatten
Live every stone untouched and every woman in
The family compound should not become widow for long.
I am going not in joy but in tears since I can not
Reject the call of the ancestors.
Lower the hurricane lamp in the village square
And make peace with the gods for I must
Journey down beyond to tell our forebears the harm
They have done to us.
They abandoned and sold us to the enemy
I will tell them of the falling fence in the compound,
I will tell them the oil that have dried in the mouth of the gods.
No one is able to baptise their mouths with oil
Because we have none to give.
Take care of the mourning sheep in the compound
Treat the children well and give my sister the right
Man forget not the tradition of our people,
I will keep watch from beyond till we meet again.
President Elect Alexandria Ocasio Cortez - 2024
Circa...Approximately one month
following her thirty fifth birthday
October 13th, 2024
AOC became the first
female commander in chief,
and youngest person ever
to assume Oval Office
amidst landslide victory
among competing candidates
ousting current establishment incumbent,
elected to serve United States
despite being neophyte,
she received most
votes of any contender
since founding of Democracy
to assume modestly furnished
Capitol Hill - Washington
District of Columbia
most powerful post
within the United States
immediately electrifying North America
with her megawatt smile
crackling, snapping, and popping
with positivity, integrity, energy...
Deafening applause swept across nation
upon ascending dais prior to uttering one word,
she immediately wowed
darling of the hour received standing ovation
across greensward donned bajillion crowd
cheering, imploring, pumping...
green sleeved fists acclamation
action speaking decibels
louder than words bowed
young lady brought to genuine tears,
asper bona fide accreditation
understandable that newly
minted ma'am felt proud
to stride rite, (an air of modest
confidence) did enshroud,
sans an angelic halo augmenting
as optimistic words heard aloud
heralded sincere charming, intimating,
radiating... no frills accustomation
as if pledging troth to every citizen
(inclusive every flora and fauna) vowed
to steer ship of state toward ecologically,
environmentally, essentially...activation
away from fossil fuels shifting energy
consumption vis a vis alternate modalities
sow rejuvenation plowed
back into Earth prioritizing monied allocation
(dollar amount well worth investment) actualization,
where future generations will be grateful
to dead recent forebears for gift endowed
worth more than fine spun gold regarding
preservation of Gaia, how *****sapiens adaptation
made existence for all living creatures
(animals, plants, even this fungi) healthier allowed
populace to breathe easy and rest assured
quality of life for billions (ushering universal
family planning), despite tense adjudication,
especially when linkedin with
nuclear warheads disavowed,
but eventually kickstarted synergistic administration.
He noticed something rather curious in photos of past generations,
That seemed so rife among the male gender of his relations.
All his forebears were hirsute deprived, or bald if you will.
If this was an omen of things to come, him it didn't thrill!
At age twenty-three he sported shaggy, golden locks,
As thick and curly as that of an Asian wild ox.
He nourished his crop with pomades and tender, loving care,
Hoping he could forever keep that beautiful head of hair!
For some reason at age thirty-eight his forehead did expand,
And tufts of hair clogged his comb - this he didn't understand.
He spent hours before the mirror arranging his sparse tresses,
And in this having little success, just added to his stresses!
A shiny patch of skin mysteriously appeared upon his crown,
And around his ears little was left but wispy clumps of down.
At age fifty-two he had no further need for brush or comb.
There wasn't a trace of hair to be found upon his glossy dome!
For his plight he bought a "rug" (more delicately put, a toupee),
But his friends said he looked ridiculous so he tossed it away.
"Bald is beautiful and so provocative", he'd often heard it said.
Still, he hid his gleaming skull 'neath a snappy chapeau instead!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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