Long Clothed 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 -
OF THE COMMON SEAS
"We must come down from our heights, and leave our straight paths, for the byways and low places of life, if we would learn truths by strong contrasts; and in hovels, in forecastles, and among our own outcasts in foreign lands, see what has been wrought upon our fellow-creatures by accident, hardship, or vice." **
Truth need not be found
in philosophers' musings,
or complicated by thoughts bound
with theorems and words, fusing,
nor within the intricacies
of mathematical proofs,
as one and one may indeed
not equal two; un-truth is truth.
Truth becomes vast in life,
and like the pearl, can be found
as beauty captured, in seas rife
between the common oyster's gown,
Or found within the common leaves
of books written by common men,
discovered by those literates who read.
Truth is simple, now and ever been.
I stumbled on such a prize
In Dana's autobiography;
of common men on common seas
living truths of common humanity.
** Dana, Jr., Richard Henry, Two Years before the Mast, World Publishing Company, 1946, p. 283
1
Like a moth to a candle flame
I pondered the perceived right
of those of wealth, culture, piety and fame
to control and lead the common blight -
(the average, struggling and forsaken souls);
yet have never descended to the lowly station
to learn the culture of these earthly ghouls,
their dreams, their pleas, their damnation.
As gods atop their cloud draped mountain
how dare they, in their empiric quackery
force the masses to their impure fountain
to drink of the laws and life that they decree,
yet having not trod the tracks of the plebian path,
having never felt the sordid plebian passions,
but worshipping instead their comfort and wealth,
adorned in decadence and richly clothed fashions,
how can they govern those they do not know,
minister to anguish they have never felt
or heal their sickness of body, heart and soul?
How can they play the cards, to them never dealt?
Are they leaders, statesmen, kings and lords,
or simply counterfeit men full only of themselves,
vainglorious peacocks, strutting hordes
deceiving not a common man, only just themselves?
We have them here, in this land of the free,
politicians, preachers, corporate men and judges.
None have suffered and worked, you see
yet dare to rule, when by common men begrudged.
Form:
beautification of painted imageries)
Like these broken shadows spread on the floor of my father's tattered room,
Like those weeping spirits by the corner of my mother's excited kitchen singing,
The sky wept in the absence of those beds allocated to the sun of its glories.
Thousand mouths wagged at the dogs for sighting another ghost in the heart of the church that must be hidden at night. we are ourselves the mirror of fantasy handed over to the priest that knows whole lots of women's nakedness,
Let's fire out memories of lost heritages.
"This will cure your madness and gives you eternal life in Christ Jesus" they said "for Chinese Alchemist will come again with a precious gold made by this liquid. we'll drink from it fountain of lost want,
The sand we counted, the priest said It was for the body of the Holy Mary.
The stars we counted, he said it was for the body of Christ who resurrected with sins of the flesh and blood of the lamb.
When next you hear a preacher' mouth preaching ask him of Sodom and sinful Gomorrah before he tells you the truth is bitter.
Here are the eastern equivalent mastery philosopher's stone of creed and prayers before we were born to this clothed love world, mother told a tale of the mirror,
How they found the end in the end light,
How they searched for a way in a way;
But at the end, the clergy men deceived them and saw their prides gazing openly. We'll sit to listen to the pebble of the broken silence the priest will spread yet on another grave for Auntie Tabitha.
Flocks are the shepherd's prey as they lead them into hell of condemination.
We are ourselves the clothes we wear,
The clergy men had sipped the remains of our sanity and gave us insanity of lost. we are ourselves the stream of lines in our thoughts breaking the hun skylines. We believed all they said.
Remember, not all they said by the soil graveyard happen in heaven and hell.
I have been in heaven and tested hell and discovered we're given elixir of life by their lies to keep us following like faithful sheep tracking the greener bush.
You are what you believe and think is right.
We are not immortal but mortals, ashes.
No eternal life, no eternal youth, when we die, the records closed and the world become silent and silent covers all priest had told us with shadows.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent.
Laying my head back, eyes closing,
reminiscing, the years falling away into decades ago
to the 1950s at my grandparents' grand home
for Christmas.
It was a gracious dining room.
Noontime sun streaming in.
Chair rail with deep red wallpaper, white trim.
Decorating the lace clothed "Big Table"
was a tallish 1870s porcelain Meissen fruit centerpiece
with lovers circling the stem.
Even the adults had to look around it.
Grandmother "Lil" and "Mister B"
were at their nouveau best.
All their progeny seated in good form
awaiting the traditional invocation by "Mister B".
Also seated were the ones that were to be
"seen but not heard" at our side table, the "Kids' Table."
Draped card tables for the dozen of us -
me, my brother and sisters and cousins.
Everyone all scrubbed in dresses and ties.
Mine was a clip on.
As expected, a milk glass got tipped. Spilt milk.
Besides that, we kids had great fun and
became friends again as we did each year.
The thing of it was, none of us liked
being at the "Kids' Table."
We felt lesser, unworthy, subtly so.
Even when I was ten, I knew there were
only two ways to get to the big one:
marriage or go in the army.
We all wondered what it was like to be adult.
After all, most of them smoked.
They all had drinks.
The women had figures, swishy swirls.
The men wore suits like they knew how.
At the "Big Table" they all talked like experts
about stuff we didn't understand
and they laughed loudly at Uncle Bob's jokes.
As the years moved on, things would change,
always do.
I saw virtually all my cousins
disassemble their lives too early -
marriages, divorces, addictions, lost jobs, left school -
beleaguered into inevitable submission.
My family miraculously unscathed.
But they're all gone now,
"Big Table" and little table too.
All that's left from the 50s
is my brother, sister and me.
For years, I was at the "Big Table" since my brood and I
took over the Christmas tradition.
The "Big Table" conversation was
superficial and posing was prevalent.
So one year, I put myself at the "Kids' Table." Just for fun.
Yes, milk got tipped.
But oh, the wonderment and hope. A meal that truly was
food for the soul.
Now that I'm old and looking back,
with a quiet smile, mulling it,
I kinda liked the "Kids' Table" better.
Colored pencil illustration by G.Gaul
Family love is born in little rooms,
around sofas, settees, dinner plates,
with paternal bond that strengthens and grooms,
unswerving link that lasts till heaven’s gates!
We were such family in a French town,
traditional, true, religious us four,
mother was good at making wedding gowns,
father a decorator ran paint store!
Sister and I watched German troops on streets,
Tuesday August year nineteen forty three,
parents held us close, could hear their heartbeat,
that was the last day we would all be free!
Dragged on to street by the Nazi soldiers,
our father was punched kicked and beaten blue,
we wept helpless, clung to mother’s shoulders,
that was the last of our father we knew!
Pulled away from mother and Sis I cried,
screaming imploring, no mercy, no heart,
that day for me when humanity died,
was day my family was torn apart!
Packed in a train suffocating with stench,
alone defeated waited journey’s end,
with dead and dying that made stomach wrench,
four days of thirst and suffering to spend.
I remember that train to Auschwitz well,
journey that destroyed many lives like mine,
where our love and hope to tyranny fell,
to death we were paraded in a line!
Six months past we heard exchange of fire,
that made evil enemy pack and run,
We were all rescued from behind barbed wire,
was still hope and goodness under the Sun!
When God smiles he smiles generously well,
lifts suffering souls from bottomless pit,
That day he was smiling we could all tell,
his eyes perhaps gleaming and face well lit!
Each life and hope with dignity restored,
we were treated, bathed clothed and given food,
In room of people saw face I adored,
sobbing with outstretched arms my mother stood!
United with mother back to my house,
and years of togetherness we would share,
on the wall hangs our striped prisoner blouse,
to tell trappings of hatred and its snare!
The train to Auschwitz took many to death,
guilt ridden, to and fro ran that train,
but tracks remain, hate may creep back in stealth!
train to Auschwitz should never run again!
Premier contest 6th placement
Written 09/April/2021
10 syllables each line (PS syllable count)
based on a true story as related by a 93 yr old Auschwitz survivor
The last train to Auschwitz poetry competition
Kai Michael Neumann sponsored
It was said of old, 'Truth lies open to all', but today
perception is all; no one is perfect but perception
can cure all blemishes, avoiding the fate of being hero
to zero that brittle celebrity promises in life, in posterity.
What a vicar would be shocked to hear, to see, as though
these shock jocks of life and death are maiden aunts who
have never lived: after their demise what a media shock,
what a surprise that these puritans had a love life being
charitable on the sly, belying their dark clothed strictures.
Prim and proper Betjeman's Fifties pose metamorphosed
into a lamentation that he wished that he had more sex
unlike Greeneland's adventurist aunt who had no need to
fabled in the Sixties: our time for ever and always for everyone.
Making our moral dilemmas not confusing morality
with law, hating injustice but being unjust by being
self-righteous becoming our own judge-pentinents
before the fear of ourselves more than this wicked wide world
of wonders defying cynicism by imbedding in us scepticism;
not just of the hypocrtical red- tops that only rarely have a
kernel of truth besmirched by lawyers some of whom not
not having their chopped heads off are a sure defence
of the powerless and true. Even when perception is as
broadminded as the times while being full of righteous
outrage if time fast forwards the past obeying a new
morality old, dressed in new garb.
Who riots? Who occupies? Who wins? Who loses?
We see darkly as we shadow the mote in our
own eye until we can see we are all in this together whether
we are together or not; when hidden charity characterises
us in not in righteous mode in nor complacent commode,
so that one day, for all living on this oblique spheroid,
we can all truly say that, 'Truth lies open to all', on the good Earth.
I was alone
Lost in this world
Trying to find just a glimmer of light
I was blinded by misery’s darkness,
Drenched by shame and fright
I was alone
Seeking shelter
Hoping
That one day I might find.
A place for my heart to call home,
Somewhere that was truly mine
I was alone
Seeking nourishment,
Longing to feed my hungry soul
On a quest for completion,
To make my flesh feel whole
I was alone
seeking refuge
A place of tranquility
then I met my heart’s joy
The missing part of me
He took me and clothed me
in his finest garments
silks, satins
And his robe of the pure white
He gave me dominion over his heart
And accepted as his wife.
I was alone
And seeking
But never know that I was searching
Until I met this man
Who showed me that I was worthy to be loved
And held my heart in his hands.
Now,
I am no longer searching
For that something that is true
I have found all that I’ve sought after
And I found it in you.
Form:
In the heart of the night, with Chopin as the ally of silence,
Looking towards the sky, I wonder, who shall listen,
Knowing illusions fade, but you are eternity,
I'd summon you to me, through some conjuration, maybe.
I taste your kiss, a memory and reality,
I shiver and am clothed both by cold and passion, starkly,
I'd sleep, but the dream that you might disappear tries me,
The thought of you being taken by a lofty wave frightens me, dearly.
Tomorrow, where will you be, in this vast world?
I fear a capricious and cruel fate might be unfurled,
For perhaps you'll be caught in a web, with no escape,
In the boundless heights of the celestial vaults, an astral wraith.
My love is like a war, a mystery pure,
Nothing can take me away from your consuming flame, for sure,
I wouldn't give up this passion, mystical and pure,
For a quiet destiny, in an eternity devoid of allure.
My hand that knew your softness,
If it were to be taken and thrown into darkness,
I'd find you, rebel angel, at every crossroad, wide,
Or I would crash down, a victim of love unfulfilled, inside.
Eternal existence might be a blessing or a burden to bear,
But I'd offer this eternity to all, even to the worst, I swear,
Just to live beside you, a moment, a second, an hour fair,
And then to crash down, like a lost star in a heavenless sky, rare.
We look at each other, and in this gaze, we lose and find our realm,
Time seems to slow, yet slips away in a tireless overwhelm,
I rebuild myself with every dawn, in every chant, every hymn,
Knowing you, perhaps, believe that my love is a fatal blade's helm.
The streets are our prisons, each with its own fate to attest,
I head east, you to the west, in contrast, we are pressed,
A mystical discord, like a fierce wind, keeps us apart, unblessed,
Rewriting the same old story, an unending dance, an eternal quest.
The distance between us is greater than any galaxy's span,
In the theater of our life, the final act nears its plan,
Shadows of past love follow us, with melancholy as they began,
And the tragic play of destiny continues, every card on the table ran.
A single glance embraces an eternity of farewell,
So many emotions in a simple touch, they swell,
Embrace your memories, time will betray you, I know,
I love you in every detail, in nothing and in everything, a constant flow.
Here lies papa, the bravest warrior
Who turned the cats back to the ground.
Whose mighty sword slain thousand soldiers at a sight
And his presence calmed the snarling hyenas
Salute to the mountainous beast among humans
Salute to the king tree, the iroko.
He, who fought the wind in a physical combat with a fist,
Oh papa, enfolded by glories, demon, flapping fans of war.
He walked with the lions of the forest
And his eyeball sent fears into the elephant’s heart.
Wolves trembled at his sight, here lies his corpse unmoved
Now,
He has gone to meet his ancestors
His glories diminishing unnoticed;
And his honour with held.
Death threw his door wide open to receive him
That glories Eke morning.
His bony claws were outstretched to hook into his heart,
And plucked out his life.
His cavernous mouth was determined to drink his blood
To the last drop.
Freedom! Papa cried and fought but the hands were too strong.
Stronger than the winds
Later,
The ground protested for freedom from his grip
As he joined them.
They kept moving on razor edge to penetrate him
Mother earth wept for peace.
The worms hastened in
Alas! They all bleed the day to death.
Suddenly, the underworlds stared at the body
I understood their plight
Papa was stronger than them all.
Ogbuefi, my elegy burst in the name of isieke
Your ancestral home land.
The iroko has fallen.
The fallen iroko was once upon his glory
And men dared not look into his eyeball.
But here lies he, unmoved.
Feeble ants now laughed at him scornfully
Yes, we dreamt of conquering death.
So lives could live and grow sore not.
I remembered the lures of that ancient call.
Of what importance is life any way?
That man stumbled and struggled for evil.
Vanity, it is, vanity upon vanities.
But men understood not the call there of.
I will walk through the pains
Promising with all hopes
Not to turn down men of good will
For I pass this road but once.
To wait on this great green side
Till the coming dark clouds have cleared
Then, death be no more
And, father emerged in joyful smiles clothed in white
To welcome me home to dwell in his bosom with his Chi.
ALL RIGHT RERSEVED(JOHN CHIZOBA VINCENT) 2013
I stood on the bridge looking at the river below.
A strange-looking man came up to me and said “hello,
“Do you know where I’ll be able to find a job here?’
That is what the strange man asked me in a voice quite clear.
I said, “I don’t really know. I don‘t live very near.”
The way the man looked at me gave me a little fear.
He heard what I said, and then began to walk away.
However, I would meet that man again that same day.
The day in Wisconsin was quite hot that September.
The man I saw was heavily clothed, I remember.
I was relaxing; stretched on the grass when he appeared
the second time that day. The scenario was weird.
Not looking straight at me, he seemed to sense my presence.
He was a big man with some burgeoning corpulence.
Perspiring heavily, he would not take off his shirt.
As he spoke again, he seemed emotionally hurt.
“I haven’t held a good job in nearly forty years.”
The way this man spoke to me rekindled all my fears.
“Mind if I keep you company a little today?
I’ve been on the road a long time with no place to stay.
It’s Labor Day, the height of the carnival season.
Not one of them will give me a job for some reason.”
“What seems to be the trouble?” I asked him politely.
He said nothing. He unbuttoned his shirt quite slowly.
With his eyes closed, he would answer me somnolently.
“I hope to perspire enough, and have them all wash off.
I’ve been hoping the sun would burn me, and they’d cook off.”
With his shirt removed, he asked me if they were still there.
I responded, “Yes they are”, and could not help but stare.
Skin illustrations made their appearance everywhere.
He told me, “My appearance is enough to frighten.
So, I wear this shirt especially around children.
They follow me on the roads with curiosity.
However, they are all filled with fright when they see me.
I know this seems to you to be a very strange thing.
These things are staying on me; it all keeps on going.
I am this way all over. I hope you understand.”
He opened his fist to reveal a rose on his hand.
It looked so real; yet it was just a mere illusion.
His body was a pervasive colorful fusion.
There were all sorts of images in three dimension.
I said “They’re beautiful”. It was not my intention.
To be continued
Based on the short story "The Illustrated Man" by Ray Bradbury