Long Ancestor Poems
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Nine lives removed from royal dignity
Five days after
getting acquainted with darling cats
pampered like queens courtesy
thee eldest daughter
and her partner acquired as kittens
reminiscence occurred regarding
one particular four footed feline
my late mother doted over.
Lion eyes hide predatory wage
sharp retractable sharp claw
never did the late Sage
exhibit talon nor ferocious jaw
even when getting his nails clipped,
said gentle cat infrequently
sunk daggers into soft human skin,
but upon completion
of aforementioned onerous task,
he voicelessly, soundlessly, passively,
manly, joyfully did withdraw.
Aye attest tubby reincarnated
(as well mine eldest daughter's beau)
from one male Russian Blue
species Felis silvestris catus
named Morris if that gives
a handy dandy clue,
and during my fuzzy past
hence, asthma “Cats Cradle”
segued and Atlas
shrugged off kitten hood
fur hum lee established
type cats as (tin pan) alley cat,
a rather litter boxed gritty debut
t'wood become (later in life) tabby
quick as greased lightning
snatching in the air,
when tender vittles flew,
technically got fired (acquiring
appropriate nicknames)
as fame (like a bushy cat tail) grew
viz perfect back up crooner
for “Cat Stevens”,
or lead singer for
the "Stray Cats" oddly
coupled, featured, and
incorporated with the guru
Horton Hears A Hoo,
yes him Elephant resembling
a humongous mandrake
from the, "Animals"
whose body heat could
easily melt an igloo,
whereby Inuits accepted charity from
Korean philanthropists named Joo
(founders of Palaces for Pachyderms)
these lumbering creatures possessed
an exemplary photographic memory
(rivaling that of the amazing
deceased idiot savant
Kim Peek), he knew
practically every detail
incorporating page number, punctuation
plus citing word for word
never truncating, omitting,
nor jumbling... any lines,
and could track missing link,
when felines shared common ancestor
but,...such petty files
would most likely boar
and go way off course, and hence
will shy away being extempore
favoring a deliberate fore
ray padding around basically ignore
ring any rhyme or reason
suddenly ending this persiflage,
and thence to thee bon jour,
cuz yours truly off
in a huff to bang a lore.
I
Namibia is my most beloved country,
Like it is a marvellous Beulah land
With a mighty will, great glory
So, be glorified, my free Motherland.
From red sand deserts to the shining shores
And the sun gives me its setting,
Echoes of the seagulls melodied its choruses,
Masterpiece of Paradise is mesmerizing.
II
Wisdom of the people is ancestor-given
As whose blood waters our freedom is glorified,
Their heroism is unforgotten
And the blessing of diverse culture is bespoken.
What makes me so proud today?
Being a Namibian and free is what I cherish
My love for the Motherland is displayed everyday
May the dreams of my country flourish.
We hear, then reason; "-ane" becomes a chain,
Mundane, inane, profane — in one shared refrain.
The ear makes kin; the mind supplies the blame.
Their sound alone condemns an innocent name.
But '-ane' has no common ancestor that's known.
No single root from which these shades have grown.
They're joined by sound, not blood; a chance refrain,
They're strange bedfellows, lodged inside the brain.
'Mundane' simply means the earth beneath our feet.
The dust, the stars, the bitter, and the so sweet.
No dullness is dealt within its core domain;
We dulled the world, then christened it 'Mundane'.
'Profane' stood simply outside sacred ground,
Beyond the shrine, where ordinary life was found.
But thresholds hardened; differences gathered blame.
What stood beyond the sacred, gathered within its shame.
'Inane' was empty, hollow, a void within.
While 'vain' knew emptiness through a different kin.
Their meanings conjoined, though separate they remain—
Two roads to nothing, rhyming within the brain.
Then 'bane' arrived from quite another tree,
In Old English it's 'bana': death and enmity.
No Latin cousins riding on the train—
A killer merely dressed to rhyme with “-ane.”
So 'mundane', 'vain', 'profane', 'inane' and 'bane'.
Parade like blood relations throughout the brain.
The rhyme persuades; resemblance stakes its claim.
The ear invents a bloodline with which to inflame.
We hear resemblance, then presume a chain.
One word's dark shadow stains another's name.
A rhyme becomes a verdict; sound becomes blame.
Those unrelated roots all inherit borrowed shame.
We forge from echoes pedigrees of blame.
Make strangers kin, then stain them in our game.
Each word stood innocent; our ears supplied the stain—
We dulled the world, then christened it “Mundane”.
Ye depend ‘pon earth,
At no time does Earth to thee,
Why O man this mirth?
It’s thy sole haven,
A lesson if ye listen,
This earth’s not for fun.
Forget thy border,
Stand not like mere beholder,
Do what’s in order.
Me, mine, thee nor thine,
To all Mother Earth’s divine,
Think what for all’s fine.
O plant seeds on earth
Ere ye do a moment’s mirth,
Think what’s for her worth.
Poor Earth’s on fire, which,
Thou art preparing to ditch,
Art thou an ostrich?
No inheritor
Thou art, nor an ancestor,
But thy child’s debtor.
So walk ‘pon earth soft,
Ye have not else to adopt,
Act, act and more oft.
If trees should bequeath
Wi-Fi, ye would plant many,
Too bad, ye must breathe.
Not a passenger
On Spaceship Earth, part of crew,
Act not a stranger.
Join Nature to paint,
O sit not aloof a saint,
Set a precedent.
_____________________________
Haiku |08.04.2023| Earth
Poet’s Note: April 22nd. Today is the Earth Day that reminds us: Earth’s still well its worth. Don’t ditch it for any other planet. None is half as worth as Earth. And time is running out, these Haikus desperately seem to say.
...A flush of green-yellow liquid poured out
and disappeared into a large floor drain,
a fetal figure was slumped in the chamber,
and to Tom he couldn’t seem much more plain,
a human being like him, just the same…
He thought he had done it, but had no such luck,
because then, to his horror, the man stood up!
Tom stumbled back as the person stepped out,
and blathered, “But…n-no…how can this be?”
The man just chuckled when he heard Tom’s words,
said, “Yes, many people have asked that of me.”
Tom stammered, “How are you able to speak?
You should be like a child, brainless and lost.”
Said Pete, “Or maybe, your theories are off.”
But Tom still wasn’t willing to say this,
his programming still argued with his own eyes,
he said, “Who are you?” The man replied, “Jesus.
You used my blood, who did you think was inside?
I thank you for helping me to arrive.
You’re not the first Thomas was has had doubts,
I said I’d come back, but I never said how.”
Jesus then walked forwards, right to Thomas,
still as naked as the day he was cloned,
he put his hand on Tom’s shaking shoulders,
said, “Don’t’ be afraid, I’ve long called you my own,
You and your colleagues…no real faith have you known.
You think they’ll reject you, and yes, they will,
but don’t fear, I’ll show you something greater still…”
He squeezed his hand, showed the Truth to Thomas,
let him see beyond the bonds of mere time,
the past, the future, beyond reality…
the perfect gift for analytical minds,
Tom fell to his knees and whispered, “Sublime.”
Of course, Jesus helped Tom back to his feet,
then turned and smiled warmly towards Pete.
He said, “The wisest man amidst the egg-heads,
and it happens to be the janitor,
not only that, one who looks so much like
His much beloved ancient ancestor.
How could I return to Earth with no Peter?”
Said Pete, “I’ll follow, but don’t tell my dad,
he’s the kind who thinks all religion is bad.”
Jesus laughed, “Well, let’s hold out hope for him,”
then nodded towards Thomas where he stood,
“There’s plenty out there waiting for the Truth,
together we will accomplish much good.
Let us all go now, yes, we really should.
First we must seek out the others like you,
They’ve a part to play, and we’ve much work to do…”
ON THE BREAK OF A NEW DAWN
In the still of night we contemplate the dawn of a day
when we shall be free of the mind games shadowing
liberation sustained by generations whose lives were
put on hold: lives often ending in holes.
The chiming moments of the shades of night strike nerves
playing blues/jazz/gospels awakening dormant minds
to the un-televised revolution whose seeds were sown
in the youth of fertile convoluted brain matter.
Each stilled night, in its season, generates new revelations
revealing the I am because they are the steady black bridges
spanning over the paths that with blood had been watered…
Steady black bridges over which we have crossed over on.
Yet, despite the toils and tribulations of these ancestor
travelers, we’ve forgotten the blood debt to be paid.
Now is the time to let Jordan Roll like the rolling thunder
that follows the flashing lightening! Now is the time
to grasp the baton the torch bearers have passed on to us;
and pursue the dream’s vision to the reality that must be.
The fathers and mothers who have gone before us, must
not wallow in sunken graves of disappointment.
Indeed the ball is now in our court and now is the time.
Let us lay up new legacies for those in the darkness of wombs;
let us lay up new legacies that they may follow the light
of a new day…dawning with the power of the Lion of Judah!
Now is the time; yesterday is gone and tomorrow is too late.
Now is the time: People get ready…there’s a train a’coming…
UNTIE WITH TITHE IF TIGHT
Descend from your boulder of woe
into the vineyard where great men sow;
here is my escape wonder park,
inscribed: Givers Never Lack;
betwixt the valley of indecision & greed
whether to eat or sow the seed.
Seek reference from scripture & read
Malachi three verse ten, which is the in-thing.
You only require "a tenth of everything":
"Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse,
that there may be meat in My house.
Test Me in this, and see if I will not, from heaven,
throw open the floodgates of heaven
and pour out so much blessing feast
that you'll not have room 'nough for it",
says the Lord Almighty,
then your gloom will shine brightly.
Why debate on this when money is vanity.
Loosen your bands with your liberality,
credulously accept Divine reality,
forever forgo fallacious fastidious fellows
and professional pay-hunting "prophets".
If your ancestor and Pathfinder, Abraham, tithed
to King of Salem, Melchizedek (symbolizing God) - being entreated,
(King of Salem means King of Peace),
why shouldn't his offspring also pay tithes?
Don't haggle, only seek what Christ requires:
a dime dole-out from your dearly dollar$
or a penny of your plenty precious pounds.
Will a man rob God & get away...for life?
"Yet ye robbed Me...in tithes & offerings" while baskin' in your strife.
The only remedy is to untie the resultant curse & pain
with timely tithe of your income or gain
in other to enjoy bountiful harvest of rain.
VickWizzy.
Reference: Malachi 3 verse 8 & 10, KJV Bible.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}.
Copyright © May 18th, 2020.
I speak to you, my people
you who move like turtles through oceans never built to hold us.
Slow has never meant weak;
it means we carry whole histories on our backs
and still glide forward.
We cross waters where tides lift certain fish toward open light,
while currents drag our kin into colder, hidden streams.
I won’t name the forces
if you’ve ever fought a current meant to break you,
you already understand.
We see pirates on the horizon,
hungry for anything shining, our shells, our stories,
our quiet, steady brilliance.
They circle and reach,
yet we slip past their nets,
wise from surviving the first storms.
Still, we move
pulse steady, shells heavy with memory.
We carry drums from Africa,
songs from Borikén,
and the whispers of every barrio, favela, and village
where our people rise from dust again and again.
Every rhythm becomes a compass.
Every ancestor becomes a star.
Though waves test our breath
and storms try to claim our direction,
we do not drown.
We do not disappear.
Somewhere ahead is the shore we shape ourselves
warm as brown skin in sunlight,
alive with children who never learned to fear the tide.
A place where our shells can rest,
where our stories breathe free.
So I say to you again, my people:
You are the turtle
rising, landing, thriving.
We have always reached the shore.
We always will.
Oh, you powerful president of great Russia:
The largest country in the world
With its 17.1 square kilometers area
Covers 1/8 of the inhabited land of the globe.
Why have you attacked neighboring Ukraine?
Why started killing its people and devastating their land,
At the moment they hadn't caused any harm to you
Neither had they intended their country to expand?
You say you are a Christian and that to God you believe
Yet, the whole planet you threaten to destroy
With the 6,257 nuclear warheads, you possess
From which the 1,456 you are ready to deploy.
Ivan the fourth "The terrible " one may think your ancestor is
For he also to church went each and every day
And when the mass, finally, after many hours over was
He was going to torture men and some of them to slay.
Now, in the 21st century that we live
You seem Ivan's ferocious and heartless image to revive
Perhaps to torture and threaten the world with obliteration
BUT Mr. President know this: No matter what you do, we shall survive!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
01 April 2022
Black man, do you remember who you are?
Before temples were carved from stone,
before books whispered borrowed truths,
you were already divine.
You walked with spirit, not religion.
You read the stars and the rivers,
you spoke to the wind and it answered,
you heard God in the thunder and
saw His face in the lion’s gaze.
But now—
You kneel before foreign names.
You pray to faces that do not reflect your own.
They gave you their gods and took your land,
gave you a white savior and stole your soul.
How can your liberation come from
those who bound you?
Abraham is not your ancestor.
Jacob never tilled your soil.
David never danced to your drums.
Why then do you chant their names
and forget the names of your grandfathers?
Why do you reject your lineage
and embrace the chains that erased it?
They told you to forget your ancestors—
called your roots evil, your spirits demons.
Yet they revere theirs in books and statues.
What hypocrisy blinds you?
Spiritual suicide—
that is what you commit, daily,
when you abandon the sacred drum,
the sacred tree, the sacred fire.
When you see your oppressor’s god as your own,
you will always kneel beneath him.
How can you rise
while worshiping your captivity?
Wake up, Black man.
You are not lost.
The ancestors are waiting in the wind,
in the waters, in your bones.
They whisper still.
Remember your gods.
Remember the rhythm of your bloodline.
The power is not in Rome or Jerusalem—
it is in the dust of your homeland,
in the echo of your grandmother’s voice,
in the prayers said with bare feet
and a pure heart beneath the baobab tree.
Reclaim your spirit.
Reclaim your throne.
The world rejects you
because you have forgotten
how to speak your original name.
Speak it again.
And rise.