Long Auctioned Poems
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Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Goree Island
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: February/2014
I see the blood
of my ancestors
that swell
in the Atlantic ocean
on
Goree Island -
The unmerciful ill winds
that fell
over my people,
in Senegal,
on that
horrific night,
brought the European's,
across the Atlantic,
to our Village -
Everything
in the world
changed forever,
and
will never be forgotten,
when the "unthinkable"
cruel acts
of slavery,
cloaked my people
like
darkness in the night -
White men
dressed in British
formal attire,
brought with them,
bullwhip's, chains, machetes,
and rifles,
to capture us.....
to ENSLAVE us!
We were brutally beaten,
and
taken to
the House of Slaves,
on Goree Island -
The malice intent
of
the British,
intensified our
suffering
at the slave house,
as they
cuffed us to
the walls,
in neck, waist,
and
ankle chains -
Days would pass,
some of us died
from
diseases,
and
starvation,
while waiting
for
the slave ship
to come
from the Americas -
The hideous inhumane
acts
by the British,
sold us
as property,
as we were
auctioned off as
commodity,
to the Americas,
during
the Atlantic Slave Trade
The mournful ness
in our helpless eyes,
spoke of horrendous fear,
as a feeling of distraught,
distress,
and despair,
clothed us
like
death -
We are innocent people
that will never
see our families again
Our homeland again -
It's unfathomable,
to see black souls in chains,
taking those final usurious
steps towards the "Door Of No
Return,"
in the House Of Slaves,
which left its ugly mark,
on the whole global earth -
Once through
the Door Of No Return,
we were sold to the Americas,
and
faced a future of
severe beatings, burnings,
hangings, lynchings,
and
rape -
To this day,
ancient spirits
of
black people,
still scream in rage
on
Goree Island,
where an untold number
of us were
slaughtered,
and
branded
before walking
through the slave door,
of
an uncertain future -
The ominous clouds
of slavery,
will
forever cast
a dark shadow,
over the
House Of Slaves,
the Door Of No Return,
and the world -
Goree Island,
in the Atlantic Ocean,
will forever
cry tears of blood,
from the souls of
black people -
How can we not have this conversation
where footprints of the poor vanish
beneath the boots of investors,
and the river sings only
to those who can afford its luxury?
In Chobe, the elephants roam free,
but people walk caged in poverty.
We call it coexistence
when tusks are protected,
but mothers bury their sons
gored near neglected kraals.
And no one comes
unless it's a game drive
and the victim is not black.
How can we not speak
when the lion's roar is louder
than a widow's cry for compensation?
When leopards eat goats
and ministries write reports not cheques?
Let's talk about the five-star smiles
that greet foreign tongues
while the Batswana mop floors, serve beer, and sleep on concrete after ten-hour shifts.
Let's talk about uniforms and pay slips
that smell like servitude,
contracts folded into silence
in offices lined with antelope heads.
And let's speak of the racism
how a Black woman was shot by a white woman
who said, "I thought it was a monkey."
As if her body was a silhouette of threat.
As if Blackness is always a blur
on the edge of someone else's comfort.
The river bore witness, but the law shrugged,
and headlines softened the bullet.
Let's talk of fishermen
banished from their birthright,
told their canoes spoil the view,
that their laughter scares the tourists,
that their presence is pollution.
Let's speak of lodge owners
who toss insults like breadcrumbs
to those who clean their sheets
lazy, slow, replaceable.
No chains, but contracts.
No slurs, just smiles
with knives beneath them.
We cannot be quiet
when the sun sets
behind lodges built on lies,
and the river is fenced
not for safety, but exclusion.
How can we not speak
of the politics of permits,
where land is leased
like livestock,
and council seats are auctioned
to the highest foreign bidder?
Corruption blooms like water hyacinth,
choking life from the roots
of communal trust.
The sand knows.
The baobabs know.
Even the crocodiles know
how long we've swallowed
our own tongues
to protect the myth of peace.
So let us talk.
Let us gather in the heat
of midday truth,
where no luxury air-con hums.
Let us speak until the sky listens,
until justice stalks this land
as fiercely as the wild.
Because silence, here,
is complicity.
And we have been quiet
for far too long.
Form:
In this psychological warfare,
where the fate of Romeo and Juliet
has not discouraged lovers
I was warned,
"tread carefully, only move forward if you are prepared
to battle against satanic adversaries not seen before."
But I'm a veteran with an amputated heart,
as my lion nature roars at 'tug-of-war' conflicts
and she keeps pulling at my heart strings.
Welcome to the circus of darkness,
where spirits rest in a silent surrender.
In my phantom kingdom
the queen of hearts is an outcast
upon an isolated island of misery.
Her life is a concoction of paparazzi and propaganda,
where serpents manipulate her innocent dreams.
In the illusion of separation,
an internal choir sings a siren's symphony of sorrow,
echoing through oceans and mountains between us.
In this haze of hopelessness I hope to be found,
but we are cursed with different shades of love,
where tears are melodramatic melancholy,
bleeding in black rivers of perpetual pain -
but her savage beauty is my favourite kind of madness.
In the unfairness of circumstance's wicked ways,
the Grim Reaper has auctioned my soul for sale.
I search for anonymous angels among us,
but in the graveyard of blasphemous bliss,
tattoo tears create crimson cracks on broken statues.
My immortal emotions drift like butterfly breaths,
imitating a bare brokenness of rags buried in paper coffins.
Before the euthanasia of time will you return that stolen kiss?
Gift me a kinder reflection from self entitled mirrored salutes?
It all started with a poem rebuilding a sanctuary.
in my poetic secret garden of confessions.
When my metaphors stole the moon for you,
fate had my heart held hostage to your infatuation.
Not everyone can see with open eyes,
but in the empathy of distant entanglement,
love untangled the tips of your tangled heartstrings,
then burnt them in ashes of enkindled embers.
Now that I've overcome your obscured boundaries of sanity,
placing lanterns upon midnight trails you follow,
I've defeated every malignant spirit.
Before words become tired and meaningless,
will you comprehend the innocence of my insanity -
forever love me where it hurts?
Mona-Lisa Frowns
No darkness, drabness or sadness; could ever
depress or compress Mona Lisa's rainbow smile.
Because, Mona Lisa has the most expensive smile
on planet earth and planet smile.
But now,
when Mona Lisa is been tickled from teeth to toe,
her smile; gladly frowns, because of the bitter
catastrophe the world is frowning and groaning
through.
All though, she is protected in the most secured
museum, to hide her away from being kidnapped
by Sandy hurricane, or get consumed by the
worlds tribulations.
And she is also been auctioned for over a hundred
million dollars; just to make sure; that the rainbow
smile remains on her Florence face, but her smile;
still frowns.
Because she is constantly waiting for the day, the
earth shall sue the heaven's to court; for striking
down the unwanted fallen angel to earth, and
causing unfriendly hurricanes and numerous
deserters, to sip away her loved ones, that sweat;
just to appreciate her mistic smile.
They polish so hard; to hide Mona Lisa; behind a
fat smile, so as to put her fat frown to sleep.
But her frown still tip-toes on relay; whispering
through the colours of her original breathing
beauty.
Which sails in an emotion of muse; and dances
around inspiration, love, hurt, power, temper,
creativity, wealth, betrayal, lessons, and wisdom.
And even at midnight, when sight and light starts
to shrink; this inks up her memories and mocks the
regalia of her smile, with transcending frowning
echoes.
_________________________________________
I wrote this poem, because; right from when I was
a child, I kept looking at the painting, Mona Lisa
smile, and all people talk about is her smile, and
they forget to talk about the other side of her life.
eg like: was she a happy person? How was her
love life? Was she a friendly lady? Did she like kids,
like a true mother should? Was she a good
student? Did she like sex? Lol. Did she drink,
smoke,weed, or do drugs, etc. So all this made me
to come up with this poem; 'Mona Lisa Frowns'.
Just to paint my own poetic picture of her. Enjoy.
A teacher,
A strange identity,
Nameless, without a surname,
Wordless, without recognition.
A shared identity,
A heartfelt tale in silence,
A rebellion hidden within words.
He, the veiled revolutionary,
An unnoticed worker,
Helplessly ill, a passive observer,
A bearer of others’ dreams,
Yet one who has lost his own.
The teacher, a silent rebel.
His faltering steps
Leave invisible marks
On society’s rugged surface.
Yet, those very feet
Build bridges carrying dreams,
Helping others cross over,
While he remains stuck on the edge.
The teacher,
An insignificant creature within the school,
His name etched
On society’s crumbled pillars,
A bearer of nameless glory.
He is the sun’s ray,
Rising each morning,
But forgotten by evening.
His students turn into stars,
Shimmering in distant skies,
While his identity
Remains clouded in darkness.
The teacher who shares knowledge,
Ends his life
In a darkened room.
Politicians call him a “nation-builder,”
And he feels pride,
Yet in their speeches,
He is a subject of mockery.
For they claim,
“Knowledge isn’t for sale,”
But his self-respect
Is sold for mere pennies.
His dreams
Are auctioned in the open market.
Though his words move the world,
The teacher, the giver of words,
Becomes worthless merchandise,
Unbought, unnoticed.
The teacher,
A hidden figure of society,
An invisible jester,
A shadow behind the performers’ stage.
Here, the players may change,
But he remains constant,
Worn out, patched, and torn.
He teaches others to conquer the world,
Yet he himself,
Always defeated, always despondent.
The teacher,
A silent character, a supposed pride,
A helpless existence, a subject of ridicule.
His silence deepens the darkness.
Now, he must speak.
His words must cry out the truth,
His seeds of knowledge
Must root a revolution.
Fear is his enemy,
He must cast it aside.
He is the sun,
That dies at dusk,
But returns each dawn,
Carrying a new light.
He has forgotten his identity,
He is the silent rebel of society,
Whose light
Will birth a new morning.
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Reparation
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: July/2014
Why can't we
get paid?
We want
our
reparation,
for
lost wages
of
our labor,
since
the
Atlantic Slave
Trade- began
Reparations
for pain
and
suffering,
from being
auctioned
as
commodity,
to
racist
White men -
We were sold
off,
to
different
slave owners,
displacing us
from our
mother, father,
sister,
and
brother, forever -
We demand
to be
compensated,
for our
separation
from
family -
We want reparation
for
false imprisonment
as slave's.
Why can't we
get paid?
What we want
is
Retroactive Reparations -
It's the only
way
that
we can
catch up
financially,
to
the descendants
of
white slave owners,
who profited
from
our hard labor.
We want
to be
compensated,
from
1619 to 1865 -
246 years of slavery.
Why can't we
get paid?
Native Americans
got reparations -
Japanese
got reparations -
Jews
got reparations -
African Americans
No reparations -
Africans
No reparations
Jamaicans
No reparations
Black Skin
No reparations
And
the only thing
that
you can
say is,
We're sorry!?
America,
We
do not
accept
your apology,
for
your Dark
and
Ugly past -
No apology,
will ever
be
enough.
America,
You must be
held
accountable,
for what
you've done -
Why can't we
get paid?
Every
African American
living
is
a descendant
of
slavery -
Owed over
trillions
of
dollars
in reparations -
Why can't we
get paid?
We died
in
uncountable
numbers
at sea,
en route
to
the New World -
Once here,
our death rate
soared,
we
encountered
horrific deaths:
Beatings,
Diseases,
Lynchings,
and
Starvation -
So Listen Up
America!
Why can't we
get paid?
This is the last piece to go. All the others are sold.
I hate to part with it, but now that I've grown old
I need to find the right home for it before I die.
I'll explain its importance if you're wondering why.
You see, it's been a treasure since before I was born.
My father found it buried in a city that was war torn.
He marveled that among all the rubble and concrete,
no scratch marred its beauty nor was it burned by heat.
It graced our living room with the status of a Queen,
Most beautiful Brazilian Rosewood vanity ever seen.
Father had to have it to match the great beauty of his wife,
Adrianna, was fragile and giving birth to me took her life.
Father gave me the vanity, a priceless piece, an heirloom.
One rainy day I was bored and was dancing around my room.
I bumped into the vanity and from behind a drawer fell a note...
"Who ever finds this, look for the secret," my Mother wrote.
That was seventy years ago, and no secret did I ever find.
Age has taken my strength away and now that I am blind,
I can no longer search for the secret within this vanity.
I want it to belong to someone kind while I still have my sanity.
It's being auctioned by verbal bid so I can hear the voice
of the one I deem worthy of my treasure. I'll make the final choice.
Money is no longer important so the auctioneer will look to me
when that special voice I hear, I'll nod and that bid will be the fee.
I've set no starting bid and no reserve for it's time to let it go.
Come, take a look. Rub your hand across the wood grain's glow.
I hope you will find the secret my Mother hid so well inside,
perhaps a young man will take it home, as a gift for his bride.
The value to me is priceless, and I would sell it for only a cent.
If I hear something in your voice, I will know for you it's meant.
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
February 24, 2016 " The Auctioneer Contest by Mystic Rose
You are a thief
You have stolen the shine from her hair and the light from her smile
You auctioned off every unmarked joy you took
You put smiles into storage units, and laughs under lock and key
You took her away from us, you locked her in her room
She is curled up in bed protesting your presence
Yet you have weaselled you way into her life again
Where you loom over her like the clouds that block the sun
Where you infect her mind , seeping in like the rags we’ve used to sop up the blood
The blood you drew and made us believe she did it
I know it was you
You are a thief
You have taken my friend
You have taken a mother
You have taken a sister
You have taken a daughter
You left behind a shell
You are a thief
You try to take her life away from her
You try to convince her it is worth nothing
But I believe in her like I believe the ocean meets the sand
And I know she is stronger than you
I know you will continue to turn off the lights and try to leave her in the dark,
But she is stronger than the struggle.
She struggles not to shine.
She is the light that bleeds into darkness.
She is the sunrise, sending off the stars.
And you are a thief.
I saw you take her smile. I saw you take her will.
I saw you take her hope. Now I don't see her anymore.
I just see you.
You are a thief.
You are depression.
You steal away smiles and lives, friends and family.
You feed on misery.
You stole my friend.
I will remind her of what she has lost until we bury you.
I will tell her to stand for joy,
And to stand against you.
We will not let you in anymore.
You are not robin hood.
You are not invincible.
You are not her,
And you are not welcome.
I can see through you.
I know what you are.
You are a thief.
Mandela, forgive us—
When Robben Island set you free after twenty-seven winters,
You stepped into sunlight and showed us the way.
You taught us peace when the world expected vengeance,
You offered us hope when our hearts were torn.
Your vision was a land reborn,
A South Africa dignified,
A rainbow nation rising beyond its past.
You told us to do better—
But oh, how far we've fallen.
If you were to walk again from the graveyard of heroes,
To look upon the nation you gave your life for,
You would weep like the sky in mourning.
This South Africa is dying.
The dreams you planted have withered.
The leaders you trusted have become wolves in silk suits,
Turning the country into a mafia state,
Where justice sleeps and corruption walks in daylight.
Ramaphosa dances with criminals beneath city lights,
While Zuma auctioned the soul of the republic
To foreign mafias with golden tongues.
The Guptas carved their empire in our wounds.
What’s left now are broken promises,
Scattered like ashes over Soweto’s streets.
HIV and AIDS rage like a wildfire unchecked,
And poverty no longer knocks—it lives here,
In every broken home, every hungry child.
Your children, once promised a dawn of dignity,
Now live beneath a sky of despair,
Their dreams dying in the gutters.
Infrastructure crumbles.
Institutions rot.
And the beauty that was once Africa’s pride
Is mocked by the world’s silent scorn.
Mandela, please—
Speak again from the silence of eternity.
Shake the bones of this sleeping nation.
Remind your children of the price you paid—
Of the chains you wore,
The blood you bled,
The love you gave.
Forgive us, Tata.
We have betrayed your sacrifice.
Commodities.
Traded as rapidly as futures,
sold to bidders,
merchants of misery,
bought and herded,
into cattle-cars, vans,
containers sailing,
on the seven open seas.
Women, men,
girls, boys,
auctioned into servitude,
stolen lives,
extinguished families,
for,
the cheap labour market needs to be fed,
an insatiable being desiring young flesh,
virgins above all,
the high-end product for high-street tastes.
Stock-markets fluctuate,
beaming their hieroglyphics to the world,
derivatives and bonds and those bonded,
into sweaty, damp,
vermin-infested factories,
stitching,
always stitching,
that prized designer shoe.
Have we looked into those eyes,
deadened by pain,
the light long gone,
with mouths sewed shut,
all innocence plundered?
Girls, women, raped,
again
&
again
&
again,
till cold numb sockets stare back at you,
bodies scarred by cigarette burns,
whippings,
slaps and bites,
cocks and fingers.
The market never sleeps,
neither do the traders,
willing buyers procuring merchandise,
haggling over flesh and bone and being.
Wounds deep, raw,
oozing pus and blood.
Wounds deeper still,
the slaughtering of souls,
daughters and sons bartered,
flung from stolen childhoods,
into the bowels of a living hell.
Look into those eyes,
look straight into them.
Do not flinch,
do not avert your gaze.
Look into those eyes,
staring back at you,
asking,
pleading,
imploring,
hoping for death,
wishing numbness,
as the ****ing continues.
I'm not culpable, I say to you,
and neither are you,
or him or her,
but,
we are silent savages,
mute rapists,
quiet molesters.
We are culpable,
our inaction condemns us.
We are culpable,
and so are you,
and,
I,
and him,
and her too.
Form: