At the center of London 2025 farmers and
Supporters came, this upon tractors the farmers did..Which is of their typology
I do not kid.' Intrinsic to their role in any land that i know, farmers drive tractors into
Town, unless you were real thick.? Its just
Sort of 'how they roll' persecution for so doing, is so plain to view
Like a rusty barn roof, don't know about you ?
nly un-just.' Which in
Itself is un-lawful..To do so is a must, and real true.' So much misscarrige of justice happened today.' Aided and abetted, plain
As the day.' As large as the konk of sadiq
khan.' If it were any longer he could park it s barn..' Say!! Maybe thats his plan, to divest some good men of goods and chattels.' So his nose could be covered instead of some country hens.' Anyway its
All a mockery.' Time to call time soon..Or the madness of woke ideaology will send good farmers to the moon.' An a penal servitude.' And no matter at all the cost.'
As they have stolen so much money.' Its only the responsible who will bear the loss.'
.
I
The prognosticator
strung together with
hamstring
not born with
yet acquired
Spill 'pon slip
'bout the damsels
their acuity
their devote
their
profession
From mine last breathe
i share their tenure
with the future
hamstrung'd
Their chattels
shall be
amplified
May you be victorious in battles,
May you be rewarded with divine joy,
May happiness be part of your chattels,
May you always have favours to enjoy.
May all your efforts be crowned with success,
May you live in peace of mind and good health,
May you be free from all forms of distress,
May you be brimful of favors and wealth.
May God's love forever live in your home,
May God protect you from untimely deaths,
May good fortune find you during their roam,
May you be well-secured till your last breaths.
And when breath finally ceases out life,
May you also have a great afterlife.
I have listened to,your stories
Heard your talk on Human Rights
It’s warmed the cockles of my heart
On many a Bastion night.
The next time I come across,
And I know I surely will
The indiscriminate victim
Of a Taliban kill
I won’t get upset
Or have any sleepless nights
I’ll know the Tali did it in defence
Of his version of Human Rights
And when we leave this country
After years of combat and bravery
And the Afghani woman are
Returned to their Burkha’d slavery
And ISIS cross the channel
Because our security is so bad
And unleashed chaos on the streets
In pursuit of their Jihad
And they demand Sharia law
In my native England
I’ll try to stay calm
And try to understand
And I won’t get upset
And try not to hate
Those religious fanatics with views
Five hundred years out of date
For I have listened to your story
Heard you speak of Human Rights
It’s warmed the cockles of my heart
On many a Bastion night,
Written sone years ago, but the repression goes on with women being denied education and treated like chattels/
Blown by Atlantic wind and sail in chains
once were ragged souls like chattels branded -
from the Guinea Coast to old Port of Spain
African herdsmen on slave ships landed.
From my father’s car I saw the canefields
where slaves cut from cyan-see to cyah-see.
Where broken men of burden stooped and kneeled
my father would stop to cut cane for me.
Now broke are those fetters of time and fate
in that dark and soulless age of tyranny,
and I in old plantation, horse ranch and estate
on his fold-out walking stick seat sat his knee.
In its powerdrive push-button auto as a lad
I rode the hills and streets of old Trinidad -
in that big pale grey Plymouth Fury I swear
I saw ghosts of the mills and the ploughshare.
Written: December 2009
From a mother to a child, Who is close to her heart.
He is just like her own child.
He is good, he is wise but some how,
He forgot his closest tie.
He moved on with success and pride.
Mom is happy for him but she's is longing to see him back in her life.
FEW WORDS SON : JUST FOR YOU
Moved out with chattels and paraphrenalia.
Moved out for ever.
With heavy heart, son leaving you there.
Son, with you emotions are entwined.
May those beautiful moments rewind.
Confusions and priorities may change your behaviour and mind.
I will always wait till you realise how closely we are affined.
Yes, I won't ever call you coz my dignity was maligned.
Son, still I can not deny that you are always in my heart and on my mind.
Son, my eyes will always wait for your sight.
All I want you to know is that son, you are my delight.
THE DAY MY LIFE BEGAN
The day my life began, my friends,
Was back in nineteen sixty-two.
It was a romantic story,
That I'll now relate to you
When Mum and Dad first married,
Things were hard for a time.
There wasn’t much money for luxuries;
They had to watch every dime.
They lived with Gran and Granddad,
Though they yearned to be alone.
While they scrimped and saved to raise the cash
To buy a house of their own.
They worked all the hours God gave them,
‘Til they put a deposit down
On a house with two small bedrooms,
On the poorer side of town.
Moving day came round at last
And they hired a van for the day.
They couldn’t afford a removal firm,
So that was the only way.
With the help of friends and family,
They did it all in one load
And soon their goods and chattels
Were stacked in their new abode.
The last box was safely unloaded
And Dad returned the van.
They celebrated later that night …
And that’s when my life began.
4h April 2020
The day my life went Whaco contest
Sponsor - Caren Kritsinger
time travel’n peace —
ought we find rather death,
war — tread on me.
funny the face, the companionship
of outer space, the innocence
of the sun and sky.
she still provides
the radiance of warmth;
him the blue or gray stormy eyes.
down ‘low discovery of weeds,
white and yellow petals, bitter tea.
commoners in chicory-chattering.
synchronous chattels, green and tarnished.
wile away withering hours, wemberlies
wheedle into every corner.
down to brass tacks, blowup buses
when school’s back in session
bananas in lunch pail...we’re all going
4/2/2020
wemberlies - worried
brass tacks - essentials
Be ashamed, O mountains and seas: these were men who drew valorous breath.
Assume, like pale chattels, an ashen silence at death.
—Parmenio, translation by Michael R. Burch
Flat pack Wobbler
Procured from mega shop, a straight-lined box amid a cardboard wall
Where jig saw chattels rise above the queues of flatbed wheelies
And underarm catalogues patterned with an iconic list of what they are
When the blocks are sequenced and affixed with laborious strife
A transformation takes place that gives the pack new form herewith
Long live the flat pack table and its tedious sway in frail chipboard
Seated upon upon a quartet of nailed on props that creak objection
It takes its varnished place in harmony with four bolted chairs that match
And for a while it serves to hold the plates and cutlery just grand
Until the careless etch of scratches weave marring patterns on its top
Forever to remain as though a work of scribbled art and wrinkled mess
No longer wavelets in the soup, a tidal wave is now the norm when the legs teeter
Today the food’s aslant and the drinks decide to slide and slither to the floor
The props have given way, they’re tired and now submit to glory
And the table returns again to flat pack with eternal gratitude
quartet of props
The Charlatan
In honesty young Sir, I have good reason to doubt,
When you tell me “My word is my bond.”
I fear your insistent asseveration is but a scam,
With hope to take my chattels and abscond.
You talk in a manner of self-confidence,
It would be easy to succumb to your plan.
A charlatan, a dishonest schemer, a cheat,
Not as you assert, “the epitome of an altruistic man”
I have testimony to your wicked villainy,
From a Woman of good character and trust.
It is self-evident, positively axiomatic,
You are but a common thief;
I feel only disgust.
for Roberts Triple A Challenge contest
Charlie was dead
Charlie was dead: to begin with,
There is no doubt whatever about that.
I leave my residue to Carol for Christmas
and Little Dorrit his faithful Tom Cat.
There’s been hard times here in Bleak House,
Villainy and miserly crime capers,
I spent my fortune in shops of curiosity,
Pickwick wrote of it, in his gossip papers.
You gather here with great expectations,
Of bequeaths, chattels and yield.
But listen well to my loyal Trustees,
Messrs Chuzzlewit and Copperfield.
To that twister and Street Urchin Oliver,
and to show I bear him no grudge,
I do leave a Crown and one Farthing,
and a sixpence to Barnaby Rudge.
To our mutual friends Dombey and Son,
Please accept my cane and fine silk scarf.
May you prosper all the year round,
As comfortable as a Cricket on a hearth.
So, here is my last Will and Testament,
Yes, I’m worthless, so whimper and brood.
Where did it all go, there is no mystery,
Lost at Cards to Nickleby and Drood.
KS 6/11/2017
Let them hate each other to the full
when an enemy is making mistakes
stand on the walls and look down
make no move to interrupt anyway
Let them hate each other to the full
the chattels let them destroy all
crops in gardens let them not give a hoe
and when they are dying we rescue
Let them hate each other to the full
the children laugh crying each day
pregnant mothers bruise knees praying
perhaps they will wake up and behave
Let Africans hate each other to the full
we shall come and pick the sweet spoils
Given in appreciation
but taken away on request
translated to foreign land
but asked to surrender everything
employed to serve unknown guests
but asked to behave brainlessly
taken for a tour as personal effect
but chained for whims of tourism
Today young girls of the world
are chattels of people’s wishes
They are dustbin of weird whims
hijacked, negotiated, looted, lied to
are groundnut paste of pleasure
nothing in this world they are
but chattels, empty scraps!
The cattle-rearer had shown his mettle by fighting in the battle, but weary as he was, drank from his kettle and with his comrades he tattled and tattled, while at once the chariot-wheels rattled, and as yet the strife was not settled, that cattle-rearer got confused a little, threw out his bottle, but could do nothing but tattled and tattled with his chattels.
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