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What Do I Tell My Children?

If you've lived in outback Queensland just as I have,
you must've faced at times the scourge of drought. 
You'd have watched the senseless dying of your livestock
and felt completely drained and numb no doubt.
Did you ponder on why life can bring such sorrow,
when other times you’re dealt a joyful hand?
Though the bitterest of blows is when the children
express, "Dear Daddy, we don't understand."

How I hate to see the hurt upon their faces,
but more so when they give your hand a squeeze.
And the question that forever haunts my thinking,
"What do I tell my children?  Tell me, please!"

Then one balmy morn way back there in September,
my children settled down upon the floor,
as they planned to watch Play School on television,  
but little did we know what was in store.
How they sat perplexed at seeing the explosions
of buildings there upon the tele screen
and the aftermath then left the children reeling -
left wond'ring at the images they'd seen. 

Though I sensed the children's minds took on the notion,
that things they viewed were happening overseas,
how that question still forever haunts my thinking,
"What do I tell my children?  Tell me, please!"

Hosts of men, who searched the mountainous piles of rubble,
live vividly within each young child's mind, 
plus the endless walls of pictures of lost loved ones,
placed there by anxious folk now left behind.
In their classrooms children talk about the horror
and can man stop the threat of war somehow?
Though our home is miles away from New York City,
our children know that life is altered now.

As my children leave the light on in their bedrooms,
lock windows which exclude a nightly breeze,
yes, that question still forever haunts my thinking,
"What do I tell my children?  Tell me, please!"

We had planned to fly the children to their grandma’s,
who lives just north of Brisbane on the coast,
but the thought of going on a 'plane is not on,
as flying is the thing they fear the most.
So as parents we have organised this summer,
a camping trip with some of their close friends,
but I fear the world will never be the same place,
though live in hope the terrorism ends.  
   
All I wish is for my children to be happy,
that innocent young minds can be at ease. 
Though that question still forever haunts my thinking,
"What do I tell my children?  Tell me, please!"

losssadsympathychildrenchildren

Form: Ballad

To Runswick Bay

On a sunny day in late September
we were on our way to Runswick Bay,
on a walk that we gladly remember,
meeting people on the Cleveland Way.

Assorted folk with the same idea
taking in distant views over the sea,
a gentle breeze, the far horizon clear,
nearby hips and haws bright on bush and tree.

Whoever you meet, just what do you say?
Should it be ”Hi!” or rather “Hello!”?
Is it “Good morning” or maybe “Good day?”
If they greet me first I go with the flow.

Whatever is said may offer a clue,
tell you something about the other,
whether there is further chat to pursue
or just some remarks about the weather.

Having arrived we sat by the beach
eating our sandwiches watched by some dogs
and seagulls, waiting to swoop or to reach
for tasty morsels, whatever drops.

After a paddle to refresh my feet,
there were four and a half miles to return
to Sandsend for our walk to complete.
First there were steps to climb by the burn,

passing more people too breathless to greet;
grateful to pause we let them pass by
with a nod or wave – but wished for a seat!
There at the top a gate was held wide

by a couple with smiles to wave us through.
We paused as I stretched my cramp to ease 
also to remove a stone from my shoe;
then onward we trod refreshed by the breeze.

Off the cliff face using the updraught
fulmars glided scanning the sea below.
Retracing our steps, features we'd passed
informed us how far we still had to go.

High on his combine, late harvest to reap
the farmer raised his hand as we stopped,
paused to pick blackberries more sharp than sweet.
Speckled wood butterflies near to us dropped.

At last we came to more steps to descend,
holding the rail as these tested our knees.
Pausing again with views of Sandsend
and spray from breakers whipped up by the breeze.

Back at the car there was salt on the screen.
Time to examine my blistered feet
and to doze awhile, pondering the cuisine
of Whitby and just what we might eat:

Scampi and whitebait with too many chips,
cans of ginger beer to ease it all down,
observed by gulls we looked at the ships
that brought our supper to this port of renown.

*          *          *
We count our blessings that we were able
to escape to the coast for refreshment
before Covid restrictions on travel
could prevent a day of enjoyment.

beachdognatureseaseptember

Form: Narrative

Sleigh Dream

Bundled in a horse-drawn sleigh  
warm and snug on Thanksgiving Day
the children restless, we went on our way
as the shedding forest began to sway
and the gusts of wind set astray
the vestiges of autumn's display
that unveiled the cabins along the bay
 
Past weathered barns fraught with snow
and over covered bridges would we go
through the misty river's chill
turning toward the cider mill
its churning paddles frozen still
past the farmsteads and withered fields
the ghosts of bounty that harvest yields  
caught in a breeze of burning leaves
and all the reveries the season weaves

We arrived on main street after sundown
gliding through the charming town
toward the chiming white church steeple
past the storefronts curbed with people  
in the wake of the gingerbread float
at the stern of the Pilgrim's boat
behind fairy tales and candy lands
as the revelers sang with clapping hands
to the music of the marching bands

From the celebration would we emerge
from the flowery, spangled surge
to behold a wondrous sight 
as geese took flight into the night
over the sea where moonlight sought
to quell the hues that twilight wrought 

Frosted lamp posts lit our course 
and into a trot sprang our horse
his hooves and harness jingling bells
as if to the tunes of sweet noels
while from the shops whose cozy glow
projected windows on the snow
there flashed the goods someone will leave
under a tree late Christmas Eve
the toys and clothes wrapped in bows 
and all the gifts that a stocking stows

Now past chimney smoke and picket fences
nostalgic aspects that stir the senses
where old Victorian silhouettes are found
and gestures of goodwill abound
toward the sound of waves we wound
as our lanterns flickered on the ground 
the atmosphere around us festive
while within full and restive
or nestled by the fireplace
or with their heads bowed in grace
folks enjoyed a simple pace
while outside others strolled about
amid the maize and wreaths throughout 
absorbed in a twinkling universe       
of colors snow-clad and diverse

To our delight there soon arose
a savory ambience for the nose
adrift from tables set with care
with a redolence that met the air
as we hailed the last of passersby
and climbed the road into a sky
whose stars adorned the snowy limbs
to a house on the coast, flowing with hymns

autumnholidaynaturenostalgiasnow

Form: Rhyme

Mail Runners On the Inca Trail

Friends , while reading the History of the Incas , I came across the wonderous story of their
mail runners , the 'chasquis' ! Kindly read their story !

THE MAIL RUNNERS - ON THE INCA TRAIL !
(COURIER SERVICE)

The Inca Empire during their hey-days, *
Controlled a large Empire of an elongated
shape!
On the western coast of Latin America, -
All the way from parts of Ecuador and Colombia!
With parts of Brazil in the east;
Including Chile and Bolivia in the south and
south-east;
While the Pacific Ocean washed their long western
beach!
Where the great Andes range like a raised spine, -
appeared out of reach!
Yet on the central verge of this Andes’ range,
Was located their capital Cuzco with its grand
defence !

The Incas had no horses or wheels to facilitate
communication,
But had an efficient courier service within their
nation!
They relied entirely on their ‘chasquis’, - those
valiant mail runners,
For sending messages within the Inca Empire!
These runners ran on that historic ‘Inca Trail’,
Crossing gorges(pogos) and mountain tracks, -
before night fell!
And rested at ‘tambos’** during their segmented
race!
Those Incas had no written scripts those days,
And used knots in ropes as coded messages!
These ‘quipus’ at relay stations changed hands,
While their runners took them to the remotes corners
of Inca land!
Their suspension bridges with ropes indigenously
made,
Formed their roadways as their Empire spread!
And those bridges were maintained every year,
By villagers rendering public service to the Inca
Empire!
Those valiant runners could run in a day, -
A distance of 250 miles , as experts say !
And could put to shame the Marathon runners
of our day!

I salute those sturdy Incas for their unique stone
architectures,
Who honored their Gods and their ancestors!
Their ‘chasquis’, those valiant mail runners and
their nimble feet;
Without horses and wheels the Incas ruled a mighty
Empire complete !
-Raj Nandy

Notes :-
* During the fifteenth century Incas were at height of
their power!
**Tambos’= relay stations , for the Mail Runner (chasqui)
to rest and handover the ‘quipu’ containing coded
messages to the next runner - to follow the Inca Trail!
Thanks for reading ! - Raj Nandy

history

Form: Verse

You are the Music

'You are the music', the guitar strings of my favourite song.
Your lyrics 'touch my life,' as you are the twin to my soul.
What 'am I' without you, when all melodies sound so wrong.
I'll never question 'what is a woman's role' in rock and roll.

Your lyrics touch my life, as you are the twin to my soul.
My 'midnight flyer' your spirit glows like a 'seafull' of stars.
I'll never question what is a woman's role in rock and roll.
When life 'makes you wanna cry' we can create memoirs.

My midnight flyer your spirit glows like a seafull of stars.
When you 'send me no more letters,' I'll ignore the post.
When life makes you wanna cry we can create memoirs,
I'll follow your footsteps, roaming from 'coast to coast.'

When you send me no more letters, I'll ignore the post,
wondering 'will our love end,' before the ultimate vow.
I'll follow your footsteps, roaming from coast to coast,
until you serenade about 'feelin' so much better now.'

Wondering will our love end, before the ultimate vow,
'it's only a dream,' but you get 'nothin' for nothing,'
until you serenade about feelin' so much better now.
'Your love is allright' when your muse is soft and loving.

It's only a dream, but you get nothin' for nothing.
It hurts 'way back to the bone' when you leave me alone.
Your love is allright when your muse is soft and loving.
'Black clouds' fade to white when I hear your sweet tone.

It hurts way back to the bone when you leave me alone.
I feel like a 'loser' playing solo to a 'jury' of 'back street love.'
Black clouds fade to white when I hear your sweet tone.
I ain't 'keepin' time,' but it's just 'another day' of grey skies above.

I feel like a 'loser' playing solo to a 'jury' of 'back street love.'
What 'am I' without you, when all melodies sound so wrong.
I ain't 'keepin' time.' but it's just 'another day' of grey skies above.
'You are the music', the guitar strings of my favourite song.

21 songs from Glenn Hughes with Trapeze:

What is a woman's role
You are the music
Touch my life 
Am i
Seafull
Midnight flyer
Makes you wanna cry
Coast to coast
Send me no more letters
Feelin so much better now
Will our love end
Nothin' for nothing
It's only a dream
Your love is allright
Way back to the bone
Black cloud
Jury
Loser
Back street love
Keepin' time
Another day

love

Form: Pantoum

They Call This Social Justice

Once our land stretched from coast to coast
and the drums of the people beat proud
we were mighty and we were strong
     we were happy . . . 
then the white came to our shores
they thought our land was theirs to take
they called it Canada
they brought disease unknown to us
when we fought for what was ours they killed us
    and we killed to . . .  
we were a savage people true and skilled at death
many of our chiefs were tricked to come in peace
     many of our chiefs were hung . . . 
                            they called this justice
             the whites stole our land and our way of life
they massacred the buffalo and bear only for their fur
and left their rotting bodies and we wept for them
the ancestors of our people fly with the eagles
drifting and falling on the wind
    their cry is our cry . . . 
we were herded into reservations like cattle
starved into submission and left a broken people
and they called this justice
but in each of us burns a fire bright that can never die
in each of us is a strength and courage
          a tranquility and serenity
we accept the past as the white acknowledge the wrongs
and the Prime Minister of Canada
is trying to say sorry
     with tears he apologizes to the people for 
the hangings
       the killing of our people
          the stealing of our land
            the 1960 scoop of our children
              the residential schools of abuse
                the highway of tears that goes on and on
yet, the social injustice to the people is still present today
             when they steal the land we have left
for pipelines, and other projects without our agreement
      we want to keep our lands pristine for wildlife
             we do not want polluted water where the fish die
some of us are living in third world conditions still
with no water, electricity, heat . . .  still on reservations
so you tell me where the justice is . . . 
I am just a girl of the here and now but
      but I hear the drums of my ancestors beating
                                      in my heart . . .

_____________________
April 1, 2018


Poetry/Free Verse/They Call This Social Justice
Copyright Protected, ID 18- 1009-383-01
All Rights Reserved.  Written Under Pseudonym.

Written for the contest, Social Justice
sponsor, John Hamilton

First Place

how i feel

Form: Free verse

The Town

I can remember passing through
this town as a child,
stopping for a pie
on our way north.
Now it’s bypassed – barely more
than a clot lodged 
in the spidery veins of a map.
Most of the houses are empty,
the bakery is gone.

I've come here again and stop
to walk beneath
a verandah’s pinholed shade,
past the general store,
the post office
and a butcher shop -
all shut. 
Behind windows, 
generations of dead blowflies
have left a black crust
piled against the glass.
Some hang from webs
like frozen pendulums 
hollowed out by spiders
and passing time. 

Across the street an asphalt
school yard is dissolving into grass.
I think about the children 
who once skipped 
and ran headlong
into their lives from here,
where now a clapped out truck
sits propped up on bricks.
Dumped and stripped of worth
an open bonnet seems to gape
its final breath.

Further up the street,
the scars left
by two world wars
are etched in a modest memorial
to the town's fallen youth.
I run my fingers slowly
down the list of names
and whisper each
into the ethereal silence
in which they rest.
This age has made them unreal.
Elevated on the nations alters
they seem unaccustomed 
to the height.
Their age has them stalking
the nearby hills, irreverent,
all too young, blasting rabbits
and empty beer bottles
lined up like soldiers
with their fathers guns.

At the end of the street,
a gutted church squats like
a full stop to the town.
Nothing is beyond except
a gravel road to somewhere else
and a small cemetery
of lichened headstones.
The last person buried here, I read, 
was Helen O’Brien who died
in august sixty five
and beside her, a year before,
her daughter, aged just four.

I make my way back
and reach out 
to the ghosts that inhabit
this place but can't connect.
A feral cat slinks off
into the shadows of the pub.
Few cars stop here anymore.
Thirty minutes drive away
a multi laned highway 
barrels traffic to the coast.

There, towering apartments
glaze the sky where rooms,
like empty shells,
murmur the lonely sound
of breaking waves.
Sometimes there are evenings
when a sadness rides a breeze 
from inland to the coast
and goes unnoticed, 
except perhaps for a child 
who grows silent
and stares at something 
wandering the distances 
way beyond the reach 
of grown up sight.

historymemorynostalgia

Form: Free verse

Long Coast Poems

What Do I Tell My Children?

The Quieter You Are

Nana Papa Pony and Me Edited

Growing Up the Past Runs Deep

To Runswick Bay

Sleigh Dream

Mail Runners On the Inca Trail

You are the Music

They Call This Social Justice

The Town

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