Best Maroons Poems
Haiti, the home of voodoo practices
Seventeenth Century Spain cedes to France
Catholic Spaniards trembled when they saw
“Dead” men revived to wander in trances
A vile poison can make men appear dead
Revival requires an antidote
But perhaps there is more to zombie lore
An explanation to why these souls woke
Brutally treated slaves worked sugar fields
Captives from Africa known as “Maroons”
As French aristocrats sat and grew fat
Blacks sweated for “sweets” in the tropic sun
Buried guilt deep at night still festers
For conscience is God’s gift to each man
Some may suppress it for just a short time
‘Til magical night envelopes the land
Spirits of those who were taken in chains
Are given by God a chance to rebel
Stalking the living in deathly pallor
Haunting their captors with visions of hell
“Zombifications,” Maroons erected
Spreading the horrors of slavery with anger
Showing the French what their evil produced
And putting their sanity in danger
So please put the voodoo dolls back on shelves
The needle-sharp pricks of remorse can sting
Enslaved Maroons prevail in heaven’s court
Our Creator’s eyes aren’t missing a thing
Magic, black or white, God sees no color
Love is bestowed on men of all races
And those who question the Lord’s intentions
Should look in the eyes of living-dead faces
Daybreak slipping through these champagne curtains
Red silk; twined aneath crimsons sheets; awakening....
This afterglows mornings dew; her wet moist kisses
Soft sunrise and whom can deny such love; about her
Kittens den; purrr; feed me this need of your heavenly
Breed; cranberry breast amid sweet sublime; suckling
Her thirsting poetics child; a virgins verse as capturing
Venus aside strokes swirling atop sanguines canvas....
Splashed in maroons colours of a daybreak; pink silk
Aneath sheets slipping through tomorrows champagne
Curtains parting their purrring; brushing this her beauty
Within a moist dews afterglow; intoxicatings sweet, wet
*********************************************
...."Red Rums Kiss * 'Strawberries And Cream'" ~
Jamaica is our island’s name,
A land blessed with so much fame.
And for the part that our heroes did play,
We pause to reflect and salute them today.
Nanny of the Maroons was a heroine ,true and brave ,
And fought with all her might not to be a slave.
Marcus Mosiah Garvey made us proud of our Black race,
And everywhere he went there was pride on his face.
Paul Bogle of Stony Gut fought for justice for all,
And the powers that be had no choice but to listen to his call.
Norman Washington Manley defended workers’ rights with passion,
And fought with all his might to change every unjust working condition.
Sir Alexander Bustamante was a stalwart for workers everywhere,
And was the voice of the voiceless and spoke without fear.
George William Gordon stood tall to help the poor with their plight,
And he never backed down or turned away until things were made right.
Sam Sharpe listened and he heard what the planters said,
But he stood tall and bravely said, “No more slavery,I’d rather be dead.”
We have been blessed with a great legacy and we are a proud nation,
And our unsung heroes and heroines continue to rise to the occasion.
We must unite against the common foe and guard against complacency,
We must be resilient like our heroes and safeguard our rich legacy.
A legacy of greatness , hard work and resilience in every community,
A legacy of talent, ambition, skills and self-worth in every nook and cranny.
No retreat! no surrender! we will continue to blaze a trail,
And as the blood of our ancestors runs through our veins, we will prevail!
Not by sight but by great might, we will continue the fight,
As we vow to conquer the common foe and make things right.
And just like our heroes did , we will stand tall with pride and decency,
As we salute our heroes and safeguard our rich, bountiful legacy.
Let my voice represent those seeking emotional, physical and or mental emancipation!
Let my voice be that of the woman whose cries go unheard in the humdrum activities of this life!
Let my voice be the microphone that bellows the wails of the suppress, underprivileged and less fortunate!
Let my voice be that of the Freedom fighters: Nanny of the maroons, Rosa Parks and Susie King Taylor!
Let my voice be that of the unheard who speeches fall on deaf ears...
Let my voice be that of the unsung song that is shelved because it does not fit the profile of success- greed, sexual immortality, jealousy,
scandal!
Let my voice be the voice that seeks peace.
Let my voice be the voice that tells the stories of millions who were denied an opportunity.
Let my voice be the voice that speaks or articulates godly qualities.
Let my voice be the voice of those who have been muted by the society- The Unheard Voice!
A frying dying yolk of sun winks at the dimming eve, the runaway ocean breeze… surf rushing, gushing over under feet; memories savor washing, cleansing conscious sweet
Falling motion slowing backward hands reaching, grasping for the cool bathing crystal blue rolling and strolling out from the shoreline sand in sand
Empty, now imaginary imprints beaches once filling now fading footprints the lost summer you were still a girl pure and passionate I was developing into becoming a man
The gulls knew the secret of our lost summer place, obscuring dunes topped with pastel seas of greens grass, for no apparent sudden reason I glimpse the clouds that align revealing splendors of tender draped familiar face of a distancing past
Forever eyes so very forever lost when gazing upon you and overwhelmed by your sweet and sickly taste, our souls intertwining within the four corners of our world the beach blanket redefining complexities of the here and now time and the you and I space
As we commandeer commanding the universe to cease for an another noon, seizing, kidnapping each hour from the keeper as we continue drowning into each other’s pools surrendering to the longing yearning witnessing crowning glory beneath the dancing beams of hazing maroons...
Trumpet the ethos of these wading warriors with the hollowed bones
of their panygeric prophets,resonating triumphant tones,
to forever honor,protect,& perpetuate the valor,virtue,& victory of this Holy Order,
the irridescent echo seeps from their Father's tombs,
for what extent shall I blaze myself and minions in the arrows path,
so to coddle an intangible hope made of a prayer's dope,
or in a mind where a prevailing vision roams,
nay, to avert that macbre nightmare of having my People's progeny becoming the pigmy
of a teething tyrant who condones the perversion of civilization's tomes,
a coalesced consciousness consummated by the last bastion
with a vigorous vigil on this Christmas Eve,
solemn and sacramental the emotion is which this of our hearts
the Almighty exhumes,
A dispatched soldier ploying as scout,remote, waiting ignorantly to be smote,
a far but not forgotten armored satellite being selfless,
his vanity enemy's threat consumes,
an unbridled but composed offensive of a triplicate terror delivered
by an indefatigable knight ,
an ultimatum presented simply but also strictly,
one at least his assault maroons,
J.A.B. - Part Four -
Loveless
Am not a painter
But the picture is broken
With a maze background
Its shape, loop
In the pent house
This picture stands
The man inside melancholic
Though the setup fervent
Scenarios fatalistic
To the novice fallacious
And spell binds many
Making the modest definition
The zenith of Hades
Color-flies the entire texture
That maroons the spear contrast
Benching a murky frame
Lights on, lights out
The close fastidious
And remains obnoxious
Songs and minutes, smoke and maroons
Swirl and shake in a majestic monsoon
Words and winds radiate from this relic
But it's heartily broken, hardening into a brick
She's surrounded by specks of sparkling sand
But notices nothing in this loathsome land
She feels frustrated-- thrown for a lonesome loop
In the desert and deserted, all she does is stoop
It's not a secret that she's surrounded
But how she remains alone leaves her astounded
She looks, and listens, and does legwork
But somehow all she sees is dust and dirt
There's not a place of paradise-- one oasis
Except for her lone entity that can grace all graces
Her feelings have descended, discouraged by not a find
How can a sapphire so beautiful be so blind?
March 2010
Each step is like
I’m walking on mist
for not a sound
mumbles from beneath my feet.
With everything in full bloom
I can’t locate your scent,
my palate is overwhelmed,
and as I fight
to sift through
all these smells
of fauna and flora
I close my eyes…
……there you are,
smiling
like your very thoughts tickle you,
and my heart
has tears streaming down it
missing you.
I can feel your chin
against my chest,
your body pressed to mine
as if we were from two molds
made to fit together.
Tangling my fingers in your hair
to keep you as close as possible
you nuzzle up
into my neck
and my body shivers
for the warmth
of your soul is missing in this facade.
My eyes come open
to the rising of the Moon
and my mind wunders
if you caught it tonight,
it slowly rolls higher
as anxiety claws at my back
and I work my way
to the upper levels in this mountainscape.
Anxiousness has worked
its hands to my throat
trying to cut off its ability
to take in air
but I’ve gotten above the tree line
and I begin my heart filled,
mournful dirge.
My howl starts out soft
filling the heavens with my sorrow
and expelling
these fingers from my neck,
reforming the constellations
into my poem of longing.
With my next breath
I send it on its way
as if it was an email.
My next serenade of the Moon
picks up volume,
it converts to emotions and colors,
and as the red of love
slashes upon
the satiny night sky
they swirl into maroons of lust
and purples of romance
spiraling away as my intensity increases
making this firework like kaleidoscope
crackle and spark.
I reach the end of my concerto
and the raw emotions
climb into the night,
throat burning
Love's teeth
tears off a piece
of my heart,
spitting it in the air
for my emotions to carry away
under the moon
to tuck in your pocket…
…feel it throb,
it pulses only for you.
I used to love Elvis's songs and watched all of his fine concerts;
then the long-haired Beatles came from England
and he was almost swept away in his own land!
Suddenly, new artists names appeared on the Billboard Charts,
I couldn't stick to a specific artist:
I guess they all sang to the heart!
Because of my age, people think I am a square,
I listen to Maroons 5, Lady Gaga and Katy Perry;
I can name more vocalists whom I enjoy on my Galaxy phone,
but what really matters is Pop Rock influence on me lately.
Does it mean that Pavarotti is out of the picture?
No, a great performance is still a delight to hear...
even Bocelli sings pop with a conservative style:
I embrace them all, did I forget fashionable Cher?
Fields of freedom fruiting our fantasy
Liberty from the Ironshore sugar crumbling days
Airport displaced and struggling for land
Nature strewn where Taino and Maroons ratified claim
Kin and flesh held one displaced place, ancestral lands
Enticing too the greedy barons claim, but they had none
Rights must be the thrust of the masses, so dream
Struggle, fight, Flankers must unite against the chains of night
Seasons of Sanity
Affect my a$$.
It is ever thus.
Each season percolates
Distinct chemical essences from the
Cauldron of consciousness
Sloshing edge to edge in my brain pan.
Normalcy.
No one knows what that elusive
Formula could be.
Perceptions are refracted
A thousand times over
Within the smoke filled
Fun house of our existence.
Synthesis.
Earth’s seasons typify
But do not define
The kaleidoscope colors;
Moods and perceptions
Transform, intensify-
Lavenders to lightning blue,
Browns to lightening limes,
Maroons to neon ruby reds.
Thrashed strings of a guitar,
Spectrums of ambivalent
Harmonies theme my days.
Seasons of Sanity.
Anyone claiming to know
The weather of sanity’s seasons
Is to be avoided.
Gardenias and roses, lilac and fragrant jasmine shruB,
Are my backyard passion, both colorful and so artfuL!
Rare shades of beauty abound, like black, and indigO.
Dahlias from peach to velvet wine, give delight alsO.
Every bold color is represented, at the gardener's whiM,
Never dull, with maroons, pinks and golds, so like sunsetS!
Written May 29,2020
Double Double Words to Bubble Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
life was the grains of hope
that slipped through my fingers,
the chilling breath that scurried
around my afflicted mind.
I heard your whispers
through the telephone wires,
felt your coldness
through a pretentious world.
No sister, nor brother
to confide in,
not that anyone cared,
lonely days, lonely nights
where to drift through the burden
of one’s mind to that visionary
place, there, where one casts aside
reality and takes on an entity,
a power with the ability to right
all that is wrong, a sanctuary
that maroons the real world in
rampant arrogance, and it’s
populous totally ignorant
of what goes on,
in the heart of a lonely soul!
© Harry J Horsman 2000
Picture decibels of granite landslide wailing
Rocks of flocking tears tumbling savagely down
Upon the dry valley, and the heart's raining
Wide torrents of griefs in shoutings unknown
And then strangely the recognition
Each one knowing the time and condition.
I know you do not understand what I tell
About the old village in communication
Wireless, and no technology as that bell
Of sighs clanging in valleys of trees, attrition
For the belated love one gone, the cry
Of sorrow uprooting rocks and roofing sky.
I want you to see the old Maroon ways dead
And the legacy left in a crocus bag there
One machete, an abeng, and Bible at his head
The lone Rastaman taking it up with his tear
And left the callous crowd that cry and lie for rum
To study the script that brought him freedom.
He looked at it, but could not fit the words, so
He wrote with his tongue a new approach
At words, with more proximity to life and ego
And fence that allowed none to encroach
Who were strangers to his tribulation and need
To survive this existence on a puff of weed.
He spoke "I and I" for we, a sense that said
The collective was on flesh in different skins
And we were only branches of the Mighty Dread
Separated by customs, flawed beliefs and sins.
He said "I overstand" for the understanding we
Claim through muddled mire of mangy history.
Thus the Maroons bled a physical revolution, fend
And left his legacy to the Rastaman to complete
The cultural revolution, bringing us to honeyed end
Changing language, music, and lifestyle, a feat
That Mao dreamed but could not do, overturning
The oppressors' world by a smoky drumming.
The Maroon never dies while his children live:
Pocomania, Rastaman, Reggae music burning
The Kiya hut of Taliban, Mandela prison pensive
Tremble at the stones tumbling and piling
On the blackheart man's grave. No more bush
Brigades hiding the British guns. Love comes with a hush.