Long Carts Poems
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This poem was inspired by the interviews by Earl K. Pollon and S. S. Matheson conducted with native Sekanni peoples who were negatively effected by the flooding of their communal homelands by the building of the W.A.C. Bennett Dam. “This Was Our Valley” tells that story of injustice. 640 square miles of riverfront and hunting territory would be flooded to form Williston Lake. The Sekanni peoples were driven from their ancestral homeland in northeastern British Columbia, Canada and dispersed.
The Shopping Cart Injustice
People, place and spirit
All were our relations
Biopeds, quadrupeds, winged or finned -
River language told us so.
Fishing rocks spoke the run
Where the riffles and the rapids talked.
Ancestors, dead and alive, told living stories where
Running the river banks, the children played.
The land was a book written in forms.
We made our mark with love, community
Fishing weirs, aspen dugout canoes,
Hunting trails, camps and sacred sites.
Always traders, we traded furs with
White settlers when they arrived
On the rivers Parsnip, Finlay and Peace at
Finlay Forks, Fort Grahame, Fort McLeod.
We added pack trains, teams of pack horses
River freighters, flat bottom ‘longboats’
For supplies and for mail delivery.
It seemed that we could live together.
Then one day a government agent said
That shopping carts were coming
They would flood our world
Water rising everywhere
Shopping carts with electric can openers
Full, fast to check out,
Shopping carts with electric hair blowers,
Full, faster to check out,
Shopping carts with electric air conditioners,
Full, fastest to check out
Shopping carts with electric stoves.
Check out, check out, check out.
They would make our rivers into a lake
We would move or drown.
Our elders did not believe it.
That was the only consultations!
Soon Saskatoon berries all under water
Next, the banks sloughed back to graveyards
Next, cliffs crumbled, and banks fell into rising lake
Houses of the villages slipped and floated
Coffins, bones and bodies strewed the shore
Where tangled trees, debris and more
Eddied with flotsam in the wind.
We wept for our ancestors!
We weep for our children.
We had to flee the destruction
Caused by tree grinders, D-9 bull dozers
The dam construction.
Now they want to take more
Another dam for more shopping carts.
Please stop Site ‘C’.
It stands alone four square, white-washed straw-thatched,
small window panes, black frames, and out back chickens hatched,
pecking weedy ground around a single willow.
Set just a little back from single country lane,
high-hedged between the farms with tracks for bumpy tractor rides,
strong arms to try and guide wobble wheels on hardened sun-dry ruts,
to draw trailored dung across winter's dark and muddy fields.
Father's fingers, numb with frost by hand-picked sprouts,
with dawn's dim light not yet bright enough to warm his back.
And hundred weights of summer grain on neck and shoulder,
staggered through barn doors to store, to tip hessian sacks piled high,
sack upon sack.
My mother, crushed and bruised at milking stall,
squeezing squirting teats to fill the milking pale,
to complete them all before mucking out the dung and straw,
then moving on to something more which bends the back
and rubs sodden foot sore in chilled hoof-trodden boot.
This was no Eden's garden which followed war enough to harden
even softer souls.
Yet, it was a paradise for smaller feet to roam free among the fields,
not caring when to make for home and sup on sprouts that dad had picked
and mum had peeled, and soft cooked, with such hard labour,
all overlooked by youth, and by youth's youthful ignorance.
For some, certainly for dad, and for mum,
Eden's garden gave way to thistle and to thorn,
and to sweated furrowed brows serving children's carefree days,
and precious hopes for first and second son.
These rode upon the carts and crossed the dykes in leaky barrels
and threw their stones at tethered bull not caring for the weather,
whether fine, or whether dull, or whether small gloved fingers numbed with chill.
For them that Eden's garden was a Paradise still,
and though choking staining seed was sown, it was not yet grown,
and eyes not yet exposed to serpent's smaller gardens,
composed for ever younger eyes, for the tainting and enslaving of ever younger lives.
That wiley snake now lurks and lies inside dark orchards of delight,
a world explored unseen from pillowed comfort,
and sometimes in the darker night with a different sky blue light,
that Eden web now known world wide, that Eden made with fallen pride,
that Eden oft obscene, that Eden all of lies, that lies behind the pixel screen.
Loneliness
He sits at the table and watches the shoppers walk by
There aren’t many seats here, his half-hour limit’s long past
As one by one each worker chats with him; they know this guy
He offers them something for which they could never have asked
Is he all alone but for these times where these grocery carts
Roll blind past this spot where store patrons with sandwiches sit
How much does it matter: he touches the store workers’ hearts
As he in time opens his heart to them too, bit by bit
We need much more than loose companionship: each needs someone
Moment to moment – if you neglect this basic need
And find yourself lulled fast asleep in the Florida sun
The others who share the beach with you will pay you no heed
Your skin that was once yearning warmth having found itself burned
Though long you’d been caught in the thought that you hardly had much
Real need for another – your heart was blocked till you discerned
The pain forcing you to withdraw your own wound-healing touch
Loneliness thus begets loneliness through lack of flow
Leaving society toxic and cold, though aren’t we
Some of the most social creatures: you think we would know
Given the size of our brains that we’ll never be free
To live in our grand isolation – say is it not sad
That we who’ve accomplished so much remain cruelly alone
In safety behind our four walls or four doors, for we’ve had
So many a fear we may act like our hearts are of stone
Most folks are either religious or distant, I think
Though there sure is joy in connecting with someone untamed
If you can sell such on your pat ideas, you may well drink
One and all from the same cup; how could instinct be blamed
For scorn and exclusion of real individualists
Don’t we know strangers whose ways of life cause them to be
Left to themselves with their thoughts – why they’d hardly be missed
That’s why it’s trouble to live as a visionary
He sits at the table: what is he, a healer a saint
Or maybe Kieslowski’s calm witness of silent insight
Observing the Decalogue unfold without the least taint
Of any least judgment, since all of us know our own plight
If you would engage him in talk would you hear unique thoughts
Or would you yet cover him up in the news of the day
And squelch him clear out with a barrel of shoulds woulds and oughts
So leave him there lonely since he’ll never know you that way
~ Thanks Always Returns
[Continued from Part Two]
The elder took no notice of risking life and limb.
Hither, thither ran the children, glancing up at him,
while indulging mindlessly in each impulsive whim,
with no apprehension of the future looking grim.
Their chances for salvation seemed increasingly slim…
That aged man’s deep compassion filled him to the brim.
The father knew the children liked any strange device,
exotic playthings, trinkets, whatever would entice.
He needed now to improvise a mode, in a trice,
that could capture their attention— something to suffice
to hold their young imaginations— to be precise,
a mechanism marvelous, no matter the price.
He had stores of immeasurable wealth, beyond doubt,
and his warmhearted love was impartially devout.
Just then the elder had the thought that not in the least
would his limitless riches and reserves be decreased,
even if to a kingdom vast he were to dispense
his overflowing fortune… so why shouldn’t he hence
give out his wealth directly to his progeny all,
before the children’s catastrophic deaths should befall?
The aged man reflected on what tactic to pick—
an expedient means that was sure to do the trick.
He told the children of exquisite toys he possessed
along with lots of precious carts of the very best
craftsmanship and quality, that all had been designed
expressly with the youngsters’ own enjoyment in mind.
The elder next, in order to persuade them, stated
that right outside the house at the entrance awaited,
to suit the young ones’ fancies skillfully created
goat, sheep, deer, and ox carts, ornately decorated.
He said that they must rush to leave the mansion, in haste,
and he’d give them everything— there was no time to waste.
Then the children finally fulfilled his desire
and scurried in a race safely out of the fire.
The father beamed with bliss that the urgency had passed.
They had securely left the burning building at last!
When they’d exited and scampered out, they all sat down
on the dewy earth and asked their father, with a frown,
where the toys and carts were that the elder had portrayed
for their own special likings to have been tailor-made.
The youngsters had escaped and the elder’s heart was eased.
But now each one of their capricious wants must be pleased.
[Continued in Part Four]
~ Harley White
The front rank hold stong,
from where does come the strength?
pushing forward, one step, another,
Keep pushing you red.
Swords, spears, axes, striking home,
black with enemy blood,
All weapons must be fed,
let Evil blood flow.
Yet blood shall still flow on both sides,
the horror of battle fulfilled,
the ranks of light and dark, hard pressed,
sweat mingles with blood.
The Arlaghs slowly moving back,
still, they are not done,
now a pivotal part of the battle,
the red cannot give ground.
There are still archers behind the main foot,
see how they ply their death,
they still fire their death into the air,
arrows striking home with deadly accuracy.
Carts now rolled from Alahsar,
they kept the archers supplied with death,
yet these supplies were not limitless,
never waste a shot.
Yet still, the enemy numbers hold,
do the dead rise upon the field?
What black magic is this?
the numbers did not decrease.
Look at the number of enemies fallen,
no one can see them rise,
their numbers still never seem to fail,
and a cold touch of fear can pierce the heart.
Men of Alahsar,
what power of spirit leads you on?
What song of power does grip your heart?
it is the song of man's glory.
This song has no end,
it is glories song of grace,
yet everything can have an end,
an end that brings forth bloody death.
Could this be the end of the song?
The song of golden Alahsar,
the time for warriors to fall on their swords,
the end of all that is joy.
These men shall have it not,
they shall fight on even though strength starts to fade.
strike home you men of honour,
fight on for all you love.
Onward, onward, let the spirit fire their souls,
one cannot think of the cost of defeat,
men, Arlaghs, spiders and wolves, all sing the song of death,
each fighting for the precious gift of life.
Battle does ever come with blood and pain,
The repugnant smell assails the nostrils,
oh, glory, how terrible is your song,
the living dread of all who love life.
Blood now freely mingling with the Earth,
the green dies before our eyes,
black, red, and dying green, now part of the song,
thunder has exploded on Badicha.
The battle rages on and on,
vacant eyes look to the skies,
glory's dream to live or fall,
the fulcrum falls one way or the other.
To Be Continued ..........
NYC nior in black and white
NYC nior in black and white
Dark landscapes 1957 NYC
of automats radio city and hotdog stands
memories of things past
Take us back to lucid dreams of light and shadows cast
set the stage late night dark wet NY detectives on the beat
slow moving like grit and steel they stride down the great white way
steam and clouds shoot to the sky from sewer covers
smoke rings blast out from bill boards of urban midnight cowboys
from route 66
On the street hipsters glide down in pinstriped suits
cool sleek long with straddled watch chains dragging
smoking stogies from drooping lips
wing tipped shoes rested on black boxes at shoe shiners row at 53rd and lex
wanting fem defal’s dark diva’s in fish nets tight red skin dresses with sleek spike heels long cigarettes with long brim hats and netted veils as they walk the line swinging their Purses leaning against posts on the foggy corners
Dharma bums gaze at city lights dreaming of old bards songs
through garment push carts and rushing feet
in the machinery of the steamy night
the boxcars moving past open doors
The cities glare in shadows bare
neon signs striptease flashing in the backdrop of honking horns and traffic
night clubs casinos and one night stands in greasy motels
pool hall hustler’s poker players loan sharker's and scheamers
whisky bars dockyard and widowed screams
tenement houses windows open curtains drawn
sweat and muscle tee shirts yelling out to others
saxophone city of butchers boozers bribers and brown baggers
Bright yellow checkers and taxis on Times Square
down the smoke hazed dark lanes against the hard walls
slim Jim zoot suiter’s lazy dazed side leaning
roll loaded dice with steaming cheap Tricks
Newspaper stands and barbers shops with marbled checker floors
white steaming towels with waiting hot lather
man with straight edge and black leather strap leans over
with Sinatra playing in the back
Neon city balanced in chaotic disorder of abstract lines
of municipal signs
city where monk lady day and Coltrane play Improve
in old coffee houses of smoke filled cafes for pennies a day
as street poets whisper and drink their troubles away
dreaming of Brando bogie smoking Joe's and blondes
of slip hips and jive
BEING A DISABLED AMERICAN SEVERE PTSD ANXIETY DISORDER PANIC DISORDER EMOTIONAL PANIC ATTACKS TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY AND NARCOLEPSY I AM BASICALLY UNABLED TO DRIVE OR OPERATE A MOVING VEHICLE I NEVER DROVE A CAR TOO BAD MY IDENTITY THIEF DIDN'T TAKE THAT IN CONSIDERATION WHILE STEALING MY IDENTITY IT BASICALLY MEANS SHE CAN'T BE ON THE ROAD ANY FLORIDA ROAD LAST TIME HER HYUNDAI FLIPPED IN SPRING HILL GOD ONLY KNOWS HOW MANY PILE UPS ARE UP AND COMING IN HER WAKE THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO DEAL TO BE MADE WITH THE DEVIL THEE HARSH INTIMADATION TACTICS BULLYING IT BEYOND CRUEL PERSONS OF POWER ASSIST IN THE TAUNTING CHEERING THE IDENTITY THIEF ON HER FRAUDULENT ENDEAVOR FALSIFYING HUMAN LIVES TO GAIN WHAT A HYUNDAI KARMA WATCHING ALL THOSE EMPLOYEES IN ATLANTA FRAUD WASTE THRIVES IN THE SOUTH I AM VERY LUCKY TO BE ALIVE COULD YOU IMAGINE BURGULARS ARRIVING GIVE ME YOUR IDENTITY OR YOUR LIFE OF COURSE THE IDENTITY THIEF HAS NO REGUARDS FOR THE ABUSE OF POWER LOSING THIER CAREERS TO ASSIST IN A SHEER COVER UP THIS NEVER EVER LAST SOONER OR LATER MISTAKES ARE MADE IN SPITE OF POWER FALSIFYING DATA TO ALLOW ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT TO GAIN DRIVERS LICENSE BY HACKING INTO AMERICAN DRIVERS NO WONDER THE HIGHWAY PATROL IS SO BUSY SCRAPPING UP HUMAN REMAINS DRIVERS LICENSE IN THE WRONG HANDS IS MURDER IN THE FIRST DEGREE IT CERTAINLY SHOULD BE NO DEAL ON FAKE DRIVERS LICENSES MOVE ACCORDINGLY STOP TERRORISTS THREATS MARC AUTOS 3181 PALM BEACH BLVD FORT MYERS FLORIDA ASK FOR CIRO GARGANO TELL HIM YOU NEED 30 CAR TITLES ON THOSE STOLEN VIN NUMBERS DON'T FIRGET TO CALL JD BYRIDER FOR THE DEALERS TAGS FOR THE VEHICLES ON THE FRONTLINE REPOS IN THE BACK ITS AMAZING WATCHING CORRUPTION AT ITS FINEST HOUR CIRO CONTROLLED PERSONS OF POWER BEING A USED CAR SALESMAN HE PAID OFF DMV EMPLOYEES ALL THE TIME EVERY MONTH HE FALSIFY PAPER TAGS TO CARS WITH NO TITLE THAT'S HOW HE RAN HIS CAR LOT SO I'M NOT SURPRISED HE IS SEATED WITH MY IDENTITY THEIVES USING ABUSE OF POWER TO COMMIT HORRID CRIMES AGAINST FLORIDA DRIVERS NO DEAL ON DEALERS INC MURDER INCORPORATE WATCH OUT FOR HYUNDAIS THE DRIVER HAS A FAKE LICENSE FROM MARC AUTOS USED CAR LOT SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW SOMETHING NEVER CHANGE EXCEPT CIRO GARGANO NOW SELLS GOLF CARTS IN SENIOR COMMUNITY STILL FALSIFYING VIN NUMBERS GOFT CART TITLES FALSIFYING DRIVERS LICENSES
A knight wields a sword
after the killing of his love,
a beautiful maiden was she
God sent her, from above.
They loved each other truly
he was the King, of his land,
wanted to marry the maiden
asked her father, for her hand.
Her father gave them his blessing
known each other since they were young,
had the hope, to one day marry
the maiden's heart, the knight had won.
On the day, the wedding came
dragons flew in the sky above,
there for the maiden and knight
in the celebration of their love.
Off in the distance, there was trouble brewing
clans that were not invited, stood,
the young knight and maiden
knew they were up to no good.
These men of uncleanliness
jealousy raged in their hearts,
tried to steal the land from the knight
had set fire to his hay carts.
These men did their very best
to get the maiden as their own,
but, she, was smarter then they
said she had a heart of stone.
But, they knew she had lied
when they saw the ring on her hand,
they tried everything they could
to put her under their command.
These no good, filthy, mongrels
had broken up the wedding day,
they laughed and drank merrily
didn't matter, what anyone had to say.
Each had a sword at their side
waiting for the chance to a fight,
teasing the guests at the party
which wasn't at all, very bright.
The knight and his beloved maiden
tried their best to stay together,
but, they ended up, getting split apart
during the nasty, rainy weather.
All hope is very well lost now
when the unwanted clan starts a fight,
the knight tries his best to be calm
fights them off, with all his might.
From behind, there came a scream
so horrid and so very shrill,
"The maiden is dead!" someone screamed
the knight saddened, with tears, his eyes did fill.
How could they have done this to him?
He ran over, to be at her side,
this was the day, to marry his love
and he wasn't with her, when she died.
He didn't want her to die in vain
time to up and be a man,
he had to get even, for her
and protect his ancestry land.
A beautiful maiden was she
God sent her, from above,
a knight wields a sword
after the killing of his love.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
Nov.11/2012
The words at the end of the title, were challenge words.
People connect, people want to connect, if stranger-you, stranger as you find yourself, as I see you, wish to speak to me, The Poet once asked, then why shouldn’t you?
We lose touch with it, we try to tease it out in poetry and song, and wrong it comes
In the wrong form and shape it shows, we are embarrassed to try to: I am embarrassed to know.
There are things on YouTube that make us cry. Homelessness on YouTube that make us cry
But why?
I lived in Brooklyn for twenty-five, twenty five years of me in Brooklyn and I saw them everywhere.
With no place to go, the phantoms of the train.
Those who tried asked for dollars and cents and some didn’t. And a lot of them smoked crack, many of them brimming high, capsuling, in clouds of mist of drink, most of them had to.
& there are nights of coldness collected in the steel, and there is blue-coldness that hardens the steel
& to them, we look as blue as it, unable to peel the ring off their voices, silence, not flesh-like like they feel when the blue-coldness touches their skin,
& to them some of these holidays make no sense, for out of misfortune or kin they have not a thing to attend
In subway carts I see some leaning, bending with the weight of O’-that-feeling
O’ that hit of steel that makes them want to
Spiritual, black women prayed for them and sang to them I remember. Y algunas, las viejitas, afraid to look their way, said an ave-maria in their heads.
Some white folks prayed, others gave change and some played in their minds other moments that made this one naught.
But that was all of us.
We made the train ring with our laughter and indifference
O’-that-feeling is why I can’t quit
And homeless they are and have been and then has-beens
& we give change and expect none in return
These subway doors open:
“O’ I hope he gets off”
“He’s making me sick”
The songs we sing
People want to connect even when they don’t want to stranger, you
& through train-sliding doors, a glimpse of this, and we try, we try not to lose sight of it
locked eyes looking and no fear
human recognizing human & no fear
pain recognized by pain & no fear
& no fear, and fear not fear
& they will slide
And you will move - and you may remember and may not
"For over a thousand years Roman conquerors returning from the wars enjoyed the honour of triumph, a tumultuous parade. In the procession came trumpeters and musicians and strange animals from the conquered territories together with carts laden with treasure and captured armaments. The conqueror rode in a triumphal chariot, the dazed prisoners walking in chains before him. Sometimes his children, robed in white, stood with him in the chariot or rode the trace horses. A slave stood behind the conqueror holding a golden crown and whispering in his ear a warning: that all glory is fleeting".
General George S Patton
*****
A great general returned home a triumphant hero ~ victorious.
His golden chariot drawn soaring through the sky
Entering the city 'neath the arch of a technicolor rainbow.
He, dressed in pure and untainted white robes,
Savoured the grand and tumultuous procession.
And he was honoured ~ he smiled.
Amid the fanfare announced by the bright trumpeters
And the cheering of the redeemed and grateful crowds
He condescended to a small wave of the hand.
Before him traipsed his captives, they dressed in chains,
Followed by titanic elephants ridden by mischievous monkeys
And he was happy ~ he laughed.
Yet no children came to greet him, to ride with him,
For they owned no white robes to wear on the day.
He rode alone, save for his slave bearing his golden crown.
No one rode the trace horses to welcome him home,
He the glorious, undefeated, returning conqueror.
And he was sad ~ he wept.
And when he awoke and the world became real once more
He found himself assigned to a different place,
Where the highway becomes the battlefield.
The trumpeters salute had been replaced by a motor horn
And, as an olive drab 'Jimmy' crossed his path, he knew it was true;
This time he had been defeated and he was beat ~ he submitted.
For this would be his finest hour,
The hour when all would be revealed.
And at that moment,
That final moment,
He could clearly see it was true
That all glory is fleeting.
Alan S Jeeves