Long Bullets Poems
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The old mans eyes lights up
As he retells the story of the hero
Who grew in his own village our village
Who was one of them grew with them
He tells of how the hero disagreed
With the colonial church and went on
To found the African independent church
Later on he joined the freedom fighters
On the fateful day they surrounded
His hideout as he awaited provision
Sold out by a traitor who was said
To poses two voices..meaning
The traitor served two masters
Surrounded by the king African rifles
John stone asked for a cigarette
After which he scampered into the bush
Accompanied by a hail of bullets
The following days schools were burning
Independent African schools were burning
And a state of emergency was declared
And the slopes erupted in war and terror
The battle was to redeem the land
And many paid a heavy price.. blood
The old man sighs.. those were sad times
Those were sad times he ends the narrative
code 254
(A heroes remmembrant)
Crocodiles long tailed,Sail,miles in the long Nile,
All lives in danger when crocs dive,
The long mouth opens and shuts like the London bridge,
Shedding false tears from the true eyes,
Men are safe from crocs but unsafe in the hands of crooks,
Crooks are like crocs,
Minus tails,
Taking prey lives,
Mostly thieving belongings like longing crocs,
Crocs going flat,
Crooks walking straight,
Crocs taking marred flesh,
Crooks taking fresh,
Crocs in big bellies,
Crooks not varies,
Crocs hearts cool and wet,
Crooks dried and hot,
Crocs sail,
Crooks smile,that's!
Bullets to crocs,
Ballots to crooks!
He watched his mother, his mentor and three of his best friends
die right before his eyes.
His mother died of TB very slowly,
and when she slipped away he was there at her bedside.
John Tunstall, his mentor, employer and very close friend,
was riddled with bullets by a gang of corrupt lawmen,
right in front of him.
His pals Dick Brewer, Tom O'Folliard and Charlie Bowdre,
were all murdered in the presence of his company,
and yet despite all of the violence and all of his tragedy,
his outlook on life was always cheery.
Never dwelling in his dark past or present miserably,
always looking towards his future joyously living life fully.
How the hell did you do that William H Bonney?
I have suffered far less than he,
and yet I'm a miserable SOB who avoids everybody.
I wish I knew your secret William H Bonney.
As much as I admire you, I also sometimes feel envy.
Babies of Beslan............
The darkest day in history,
Brought tears to my eyes.
Many Russians murdered,
In a mass of horrid cries.
Hundreds of innocent people,
Seen fleeing through the streets.
Bodies thrown onto the verge,
In a sea of blood-stained sheets.
So many kept within a school,
Being held against their will.
Suicide bombers with booby traps,
That care not who they kill.
An act by Chechen rebels,
Seeking freedom for their kin.
With scenes of utter carnage,
From those terrorists within.
Semi-naked children,
Seen running through the street.
The Chechen rebels in the school,
Shooting at their feet.
Bombs and bullets filled the air,
As the smoke engulfed the skies.
People running from the school,
With terror stricken eyes.
Such barbaric bloody actions,
Brought death and undue pain.
The heart of the Beslan community,
Won't see their like again.
May the Lord our God watch over you,
May he guide you by his light.
May he hold you in his arms again,
And keep you safe tonight...........
In memory of the children and teachers of the Beslan school massacre.
Woe Upon the Ancestors’ Land
Woe to those
who wear the uniform to make the people tremble,
who send bullets where words should pass,
who use the law like a stick
to break the bones of those already bent.
Woe to offices filled with signatures and seals
that never sign for justice,
to ministries that speak of “security”
while the streets swallow the blood of mothers’ children.
They sit in executive power
as if seated on a mountain,
forgetting their roots in the mud.
They forget Haiti is not air-conditioned offices—
it is the market woman under the burning sun,
the student running from tear gas,
the mother crying when sirens pass.
In the middle of it all,
darkness walks at noon,
and they call it “order,”
they call it “mission.”
But Haiti never truly dies.
For in every street that has tasted bullets,
there is a child learning to read.
On every wall marked by graffiti,
a dream is secretly being written.
The blue and red flag
is more than color—
it is the breath of ancestors still beating.
They may make the people weep,
they may turn daylight into night,
but they cannot kill hope
planted in this soil long ago.
For even when the law sleeps,
conscience awakens.
And even when power makes noise,
truth walks quietly…
…until one day,
light will enter the Palace
not as flames,
but as the sun of justice.
Haiti will rise.
I listened
heard in disbelief
the glorification of a liar and a thief.
I paused in this interlude
feeling the praise was misused
and then I scanned the crowd
blank eyes, minds within a shroud
none shouting truth aloud.
All was quiet
here along the western front
marginalized by corrupted stunts,
the rants and raves
the cowards unafraid;
voices rose
the hail of war unclothed
in hate and anger, no longer loathed
bullets, missiles, bombs laid down in droves,
followed by admiration, praise disclosed.
A haughtiness of destructive force
forged across a liar's greedy course
hidden in deceit by the elite
war in forever repeat
purposes indiscrete.
I listened and I prayed
for the coming of a brand new day
when warriors lay down their blades
rest at peace
beneath the smoke and shade.
I scanned the world that God had made
fearful and ashamed
at the haughtiness of a foolishness of men
who began another war again
always now never then.
i
i
Slinging Stuff
The Book of Judges talks of slingers.
Seven hundred strong, all left- wingers.
The Bible tells us they were terribly feared.
They could split a hair on an enemy’s beard.
And besides the ability to split a hair,
The force of the stones, flying through the air,
Whatever it hit, didn’t have a prayer,
The equivalent of a.44 to bear.
How far, you ask, could these stones kill?
Almost 400 feet with moderate skill.
In the Roman army, the slingers drilled holes,
In their bullets with specific goals.
The sound, was found, when the stones would fly,
Shrill and buzzing, made the enemy’s throat dry.
More accurate than troops with bow and arrow,
The slingers were feared, to the enemy’s marrow.
We’re reminded of David, the young boy shepherd,
Also a slinger, killing wolf and leopard.
Goliath was slow and feeble of sight.
He never had a chance of winning this fight.
So the real story is not just David, the boy.
It’s about a slinger the Israelites managed to deploy.
Oh! If I could but free you
From drowning at desolation's door
That has impaled your lonely heart
From reaching a joyful peaceful shore
It would be a divine journey
For my humanity to tell
Of heroes who vanquished tyrants
To release your soul from hell
You are haunted by the ghosts
Of this veterans field in Vietnam
Where brave truths became the host
Of the death and dying of the young
With brothers you shared this journey
In the way that brothers do
Brothers fell with the thuds of casualty
While their blood ran red around you
In a single moment
Of bayonets and bullets
Your soul was pierced with the torment
Of terror and regret
You were a part of a limited few that led
To face "glories" price to pay
Behold the twelve and hundred
That were slain upon the field that day
You were never to escape the horror
of that paralyzing plan
You were to fight and die for
The fields of peace to stand
A peace which lost its meaning
To those who with you served
And were left by forces streaming
On this blood-red cursed turf
Now as your life embraced its rage
Entombed by fear it stripped
Your love which lay frozen in its cage
Your heart locked in its crypt
The dark side of you will haunt me
I saw your universal truth
That evil put his foot upon your doorstep
And will never let you loose!
At first it appeared nothing was wrong,
But then one cartridge could be seen on the floor
Then more bullets were found scattered nearby
A horde of bullets in a wooden box shacked to the floor.
Through the door you could see a wizened foot,
A body beneath a dirty bloody bullet riddled blanket in the other room.
It was easy to elicit that this was a murder scene, brutal and stark!
Undeniably mordacious was the sign on the wall:
Welcome to 'Home Sweet Home'.
To loiter any longer at the scene was dangerous for me.
Perhaps the killer was hiding nearby?
Perhaps someone would see me there at the scene of the crime?
Perhaps I would be accused of the crime, if I reported it?
So I quickly looked to see if I had left any trace of me at the scene.
I looked around to see if any one was watching.
The 'coast was clear' and so I quietly and hastily got the hell out of there.
A trifle risky to flee the crime scene,
But it's done and dusted, my fate is sealed, I hope that my flight begets no regrets.
It’s a perfect day to ride a plane.
Looking outside from the lounge, the air
feels pristine scrubbed by rain the night before.
Now the plane seems to hold its breath,
heave a sigh, clutch its steering wheels -
all is ready to take off to the sky.
I close my eyes to whisper to my mind,
but before my sense of fear takes hold,
we are an arrow shooting into space.
The earth below is caught in blazing sunlight,
rising and fading into a bed of frothy clouds
while the sea beneath holds a saucer of sparkle.
All these visions meld a grand display,
a silent symphony against the sky.
How easy to nurture a sanctuary of peace.
With each dip and sway of the plane, I lose
myself to find a refuge from life’s stirrings
be it a momentary lull in pain.
I hear muffled voices of people around
disparate and inane they shatter my thoughts.
I am in a battlefield with bullets flying.
As the plane’s departure was long delayed
the pilot seems to be in a race to catch up,
flies like a biker on a mad motor ride,
It’s now a bumpy ride to gain distance,
the plane swoops down like an eagle, bent
to capture its prey - and eureka! We land
On time safely, if not shakily.
@jjote 072821