Day fades into darkness, I cannot sleep.
Like a labourer working the nightshift,
I am stuck in bed, everything still,
wondering what the next day will bring for me.
My last few hours are meant for peace,
yet my mind is loud with thoughts of,
What will they think of me?:
Will they say I am strong
because I won a fight in grade three?
Will they say I am smart
because I built a house at twenty-three?
Maybe they will say I'm weak
because I cried when she left me.
Maybe they will say I'm useless
because in the world,I never changed a thing.
They will say many things when death and I meet,
But on my deathbed,
All I want is to dream
As the life I had was enough for me
Abroad got jobs I hear,
Abroad got cash too I hear,
But getting there is a hustle.
And staying there is a hustle.
I need to get there
Before the bridge is cut.
I will study hard to win a scholarship,
I promised myself earlier,
Then final exams arrived
And I fail to excel
So that bridge collapses
Maybe I look for jobs overseas,
Then I am flown as a labourer,
Then I find agents for male workers,
They charge a nightmare.
I don’t have the cash they demand,
And that bridge breaks down.
Do I have any other option,
Maybe I go as a refugee.
But my country is peaceful,
It’s unfair to pretend
And deny real beneficiaries their chance.
Again, I close this bridge.
Now I will marry a white woman,
And secure a place as husband.
But the law abroad is harsh
For a cultural African man.
Will I bow to my woman as said?
Again, this bridge is shaky.
Or, I win a green card,
Again, this is always on luck,
What if I am not the lucky one?
Will I raise the fees after the green card?
This seems a more unstable bridge.
It is not cheap or easy to get there.
Either way I need to get there.
I just need a piece of advice
A little piece of your mind.
Didn't make old bones, me dad,
Taken from us far too young
Barely reached his sixties when
He was killed by Farmers’ Lung.
Too many dusty threshing days,
Noxious fumes dipping sheep,
He seemed to live a life
Just to eat, work and sleep.
A farm labourer which made
Him a man of many skills,
No time for a doctor’s visit,
No time for potions and pills.
Loved greenhouse and garden
But he loved even more
Lonely walks across the fields
Carrying a loaded twelve bore.
Not a sportsman shooter,
No, everything he shot
Very gratefully accepted
Into the family cooking pot.
A man of quiet wisdom who
Set me standards to live by
And most importantly showed.
A man at times is allowed to cry.
We never really did talk much
Never did have much to say
Sitting watching the old TV
In our quiet companionable way.
He looks back at me in the mirror,
As I look back at him with pride
So glad I could be with him
At his side the day he died.
I sat there with quiet pride
For I really hadn't suspected
That my dad had been
So very well respected.
The church was packed
On his funeral day
Most of the village came to
Quietly send him on his way.
The sun slowly peeps its head in the east, A bird barbet flies towards its nest, Labourer follows the landlord with the beast, Blue heron sits on the teak tree for rest, The big temple bell is rung by the priest, Children run towards the river with vest, Village maiden prepares the harvest feast, Babies feed milk from the blouse less breast, All the events have taken place at least, When the dawn sunshine appears very best, God has done all natural phenomena like Trieste, By which the children of the earth are blessed, We thank the creator for the peace,we assessed.
Sweating in the rustic dusts of Nazareth, you laboured.
As a farm labourer, ironsmith, weaver, and shepherd,
You ploughed with the peasants, who were curious yet loving.
They were teachers from whom wisdom, like clear streams, flowed, gushing.
You walked, pondering over the Sea of Galilee.
Where fishermen struggled like lilies amidst barberry,
The breeze, amalgamated with the Abba message, blew.
With you, the fraternity of the folks, day by day, grew.
You read about all philosophies and theologies.
Small or great, each one therein had unique ideologies.
The rich, though they seemed strong, bent in the winds of faith like reeds.
You held all of them in the same balance, mending their creeds.
Each herb, shrub, plant, tree, blossom, fruit, and weed imparted wisdom.
In the soul of each seed, the lord of lords founded the kingdom.
Black Christmas
Spread your gifts beyond boarders
This season if you care
Let the brightest of you be
The gift to humanity
End the year with gratitude
And remember
The empty tables of the
Poor
While you merry
Out there
Some were
alot are in need
Of the third quarter of your waste
At Xmas day
Some were at the third world countries
Were the Xmas are black
Black Christmas
Share your gifts beyond families
And relatives
Reach for distance relatives
People that need something to have nothing
People that are starving
People that don't look like you
They also deserve to merry this Xmas
Refugees stranded need a merry Xmas too
The orphanage need one too
Your poor neighbour deserve one too
Yes your poor labourer deserve it too
Your dying sick foreigner deserve one too
So spread your gift beyond boarders
And stop some families out their from
An empty plates on an
empty tables for Xmas
Help Change their
Black Christmas
Phases
rainstorm, thunderbolt
in the desert
umbrella promise to protect us betrayed
a flash flood washed away our treasury empty –
into capital banks of self, less of -ish democrats.
lost, disillusioned
in the forest
broom’s vow to clean up and lead us to paradise
turned messy and blood gullies trail
the paths of the delusive retro-, I mean pro- gressives.
anxious, desperate
we must awake, wait for the second or first coming
of either the rhetorician or the labourer!
Once out of a mother’s womb,
Labourers we all are,
Till we reach our tomb.
We labour for ourselves and others, day and night,
For breakfast, lunch and dinner we all fight.
Yes, we struggle day and night for our basic rights,
And motivate ourselves out of predicament during the flight of life.
Respect all fellow labourers,
Irrespective of whether they are engineers or farmers.
Don’t make it tougher for them to walk further,
By burdening them with the sharp words of predicament .
All of us are brothers and sisters,
United we stand and divided we fall,
Together, we must stand tall,
And help when we hear each other’s crying call.
Let us contribute towards untangling the world
From the clutches of predicament,
So every labourer works with joy and without resentment,
And work becomes a place of excitement and enjoyment.
Dancing fingers sing me a song of happiness,
And do I not relish the thought and the feeling?
If the element of surprise delights ,
And the rhythms sway my mind,
Am I not complete, the fullness of my body,
One with the passion of my mind?
If the labourer hears the insidious song,
The dancing fingers on the keyboard,
The driving rhythm that yet harmonises
With the particles of the mind, will he
Not sing out and praise his lowly life?
Does not the breast of this man and that woman
Rise up in emotion at the tinkling dance of notes?
My mind seeks rhythms and rhythms engulf my
Mind; mutual harmony with the soul. Sing me
The song.
Stone quarry
Stone quarryman
Stone worker
Quarry worker
Quarry labourer
Stone mason
Stone chisel
Cold chisel
Metal worker
Whitesmith
Silversmith
Tinsmith
Goldsmith
Blacksmith
Wordsmith;
Black art
Word art
Winter brought
Rain and snow
Frost and fog
Slippy pavements
And icy water
A cold hand
For the labourer
And windy squalls
To shake trees
Lightning and torrents
Falling from the sky
And also a time of peaceful rest
In nature's closed eye.
W.A CHOLT. Copyright Fergal O Reilly. 1989.
Today you Struggle,
Tomorrow no Trouble.
Today you Do,
Tomorrow you Get! !
Today you Pay,
Tomorrow get it anyway.
Today be a Labourer,
Tomorrow be a Gainer..
Today if you Sit,
Tomorrow get a Hit..
Today, if you Try,
Then never Cry! ! !
For them:
TGIF! It’s weekend;
The ATM vomits its cods,
Unwinding at the bars,
The cinema’s got a blockbuster!
Yes,…pizza… barbeque… red wine…chicken…
…come on, keep the change girl, it’s weekend!
Campuses empty for “World-Trade-Centers”;
Hey, Two nights, Sunday’s off…your bill
…turn on the gen. set boy! It’s weekend!
For us:
We wake to trader’s knock,
Farmers got to make thousand heaps,
Laundry man washes his palms off,
Bar attendants serve till time is still,
Prostitutes, pounded for few pounds,
‘Big brothers’ rob us to pay our bills,
The maid knocked out without recharge;
Labourer needs refill:
“Malt?”
“No…three coooold pure water”
“And wetin?”
“And, ehn…one groundnut.”
“Finish?”
“Add one bons biscuit,
Put am for nylon”
It’s glaring why;
Their WEEKends earn us WEAKends!
At our homes,
“We’re fasting today[no prayer point]”
“Idiot children! Drink water and be fine”
“Go meet your mother!”
“Are you blind?”
“Turn off the lantern, tomorrow’s Church…”
… and so is our weakend!
Child labour is a slaughter
Which seizes their laughter
They miss their tutors
Child labour is a process
In which they lose their progress
Child labour is a crime
But it became their prime
Child labour spoils the child
And they become wild
Child labour must be stopped
Tools must be dropped
And they must be topped.
A child should be a learner
But never be a labourer
And they should become learned
A child should be a literate
To change his fate
But never so late
To do now
Is to sow
The seed of awareness
I
When I breathe my last and my soul finds its path back to whence it came
and my lifeless body is lowered
beneath the earth to my resting place
and a stone is set over me
encrusted with endearing evocations,
I shall not tarry one more Night;
even though the mourners mourn beyond consolation
and in spite of all those forlorn tears,
I shall depart still…
Weep not for me, I go in peace.
II
When you pass by my tomb, do not cast a scornful gaze at me
I was fair to all:
the rich and the poor I served from the same cup
I withheld not a penny of the weak, nor
did I seek to inveigle into my neighbour’s wife
or chattel; nor chased the needy away from my doorstep…
Do not inveigh against me,
the labourer deserves his wages; and so did I…
I await my judgement day.
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