Long Debris 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’.
2/23/24
It's not in all the books we read
Souls put to sea
Continual butchery
They carry on crookedly
Trying to coat the truth with something sugary
Some know and don't care others never could agree
A never ending battle where evil is trying to make the good bleed
Nah no really look at me
I stirred the hornets nests and shook the trees
Among endless wood debris
To be an honest man, you've no idea what it took to be
Gone beyond lucid dreams
Please do believe it's about much more than you perceive
Hmm the conclusions seems
They never have our best interest at heart nor any future needs
While unscrupulous humans scheme
They left our bodies out to rot all through ravines
As well as areas where sewage seeps
The truth it seeks
A way out usually
Regardless of opportunity
My mom asked son why must you suffer so
Caught up in an undertow
There's just things a mother knows
My true colors shown
I called my brother's phone
He thought he knew how it does and doesn't go
Unlike other folks
Through centuries still much unknown
All across this bloody globe
Studies show
Most want the whole honeycomb
All to themselves like life's only about hitting the motherload
As they judge and drone
It's not all cut in stone
Told him what was once a home
Started from just a stone
Now it's a bunch of those
Amid piles of mud and bones
Nearby encrusted tomes
Beside dusty clothes
Sat an old toolbox that rusted close
Outside stood trees full of a dozen crows
By fields with buffaloes
Bumps arose
In clustered nodes
Turning it into a rugged road
Nearby water full of sunken boats
The destruction grows
Life comes with no instruction codes
For any sudden woes
You'd think eventually it struck a note
Many looking through a tunneled scope
Always fascinated by the puppet shows
Another day redundant and alone
A struggle to find love blows
Causing a loss of what was hope
Reaching the point of being ready to jump below
By the end of it my bro said I must atone
He said I chucked the stone
At what I thought was a toad
Then went back to work in the construction zone
Only to find out that it wasn't though
Said he began to suffer slow
Caught in a thunder dome
Until he discovered those
That suffered the same fate buried right under nose
With a new adjusted approach
Learned first hand and through several hundred notes
The chapel wall ornate brass findings are long gone as no more
Years of dust and debris lie upon, the now no longer used pews
Pieces from the stain glass windows, broken upon the tiled floor
In this small chapel God’s words they no longer need, or choose
Years of dust and debris lie upon, the now no longer used pews
Old leather bound bibles, lie sprawled across the floor in misuse
In this small chapel God’s words they no longer need, or choose
Cited local lack of interest as in order to claim their poor excuse
Old leather bound bibles, lie sprawled across the floor in misuse
Their lightweight Scritta’ pages waver from the windows breeze
Cited local lack of interest as in order to claim their poor excuse
A religion to which these folk burdened in as some dirty disease
Their lightweight Scritta pages, waver from the windows breeze
As relate long forgotten messages written within its open pages
A religion to which these folk burdened in as some dirty disease
The small abandoned chapel, which lack of trust in God enrages
As relate long forgotten messages written within its open pages
Relictus, where the Lord’s words lie within here, as all forgotten
The small abandoned chapel, which lack of trust in God enrages
No shoes to clink the granite tiles as no more the aisles trodden
Relictus, where the Lord’s words lie within here, as all forgotten
Silence, befalls this chapel now, as no more sermons to be read
No shoes to clink the granite tiles as no more the aisles trodden
With God’s words now muted, his messages now remain unsaid
Silence, befalls this chapel now, as no more sermons to be read
Whilst yonder angels; weep in sorrow, to them they have failed
With God’s words now muted, his messages now remain unsaid
As the Lord’s purpose to his people, no longer his worth availed
Whilst yonder angels, weep in sorrow, to them they have failed
This forgotten chapel now lies in ruins so it ails in its own decay
As the Lord’s purpose to his people, no longer his worth availed
Once cited a place of worship, leaves its parishioners, in dismay
This forgotten chapel now lies in ruins so it ails in its own decay
Pieces from the stain glass windows, broken upon the tiled floor
Once cited a place of worship, leaves its parishioners, in dismay
The chapel wall ornate brass findings are long gone, as no more
Suddenly everybody was awaken by the strong tremors
of the early April's earthquake...walls falling all around them,
dust suffocating them as they ran out to the debris-covered streets;
with no slippers and shoes on their cold feet;
people of all ages with their robes and pajamas on...screaming,
running scared with horror-stricken faces, not wanting
to be buried alive and actually die in the rubble!
L'aquila, the mighty, has crumbled into the dust,
and by the dauntless spirit of its people, it must be rebuilt:
as it arose from destruction and returned to dazzle;
the earthquakes that preceded were unpredictable,
but this one was announced by a concerned scientist,
who warned of the disaster, but authorities ridiculed him and didn't heed
the warning, but rather called him an imbecile!
O L'aquila, unless your bells hadn't rung, not everyone could have been told!
This medieval town of L'Aquila was besieged by armies,
but they never conquered it and its invincibility angered its enemies;
now, it is crumbling, shaken by the fury of the inclement Nature;
devastation is seen everywhere: churches with a toppled bell tower
or cupola...castles and historic buildings heavily damaged;
corpses strewn along the dusty streets...people searching for survivors:
digging with their bare hands to save lives, and some are found alive!
O L'Aquila, highest eagle on this devastated hill, see all the tears shed!
A dog, limping and bleeding, seems lost among dusty stones and faces not so recognizable,
is he looking for his owner; and over two-hundred fifty bodies not yet excavated...
how can he find him? By Heaven's mercy, someone lead him to the piles of rubble,
to let him sniff in the spot where he is buried...hoping he'll be alive, not dead!
And why should everyone despair?...Isn't life worthier than those lost art treasures?
L'Aquila, the mighty, has crumbled into the dust and light is erased from the taciturn sky;
I weep like others, and my lamentation echoes in the doomed valley when peace was audible!
O L'aquila, more glory awaits you: arise from the ruins and your greatness won't fade away!
This poem is dedicated to the unfortunate people of L'aquila and those of the surrounding
villages that were devastated by the earthquake of early April.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
What's in writing?
What makes one to author something from the absolute scratch?
What is the science of this art?
Is it just the perceptible version of the human thought or something-deep lies within this solemn form of art?
The little magic of letters, the funny games between the lines…..
The kinship of paragraphs and hence the literal tribute to the risk that architects the inner thoughts that gloriously shapes the unyielding passion for a literary style and way of life.
Behind the veil of shadow charmed words, dwells the writer-man.
Who, armed with pen, tirelessly searches beneath the debris of feelings and desires,
And simply treasures the moments that designs this lissome piece of art.
Composing words
With skilled engineering of ideas that run down through the alleyways of mind…..
The writer-man illustrates the canvas where emotions are drawn,
Reflections are sketched,
And tales are told with human color and ardent strokes.
All those whispers of the little voice inside…
Wondering around the spaces between fiction and reality…
And all the conversation between the mind, heart and all the musings of the soul,
Where do they all go?
Locked up in the bubble of time?
Chained up by the codes of life?
Surely, beings in us desperately struggle to breathe in this secular sphere of ever expanding confusion.
In the quest for freedom, the spirit in us excavates our very soul,
And vibrantly surfs on the waves of emotions and loans ear to the assembly of million thoughts that continually circle around our misconstrued mind.
And often by the shape of words
These inner thoughts find their way out,
As they gently sail through our consciousness and make their way into the light.
The alchemy of alphabets allows us to have a glimpse of ourselves by streaming down soul's rearview mirror.
And the key to enter upon the realm of words lies on the urge of willingness to declare the innersole and the ultimate self.
Penning down the casual percepts and the untamed imagination could always open up the magical door to an unpredictable certainty.
Dodging the reality it creates a sense of belonging in a world,
That is designed to fit the shape of one’s true conscience,
Whether simple or mystical,
It surely travels right at the heart route.
(C) Obaidur Rahman. Published in the poet’s debut book of English poetry titled “The Mystic Inferno” in 2012.
He stood at the foot of the hill and gazed at her watching from her window sill with the night light shining in her face and particles of hope running all over the place. Her bulging eyes circle the contours of the deep spilling oil from the bottom of the well onto the village street and the night pays its own sacrifice.
Oh, mountain of hope you have the remedy for my soul, mountain of hope come and rest with me before I grow old. I can feel the vibration in the clouds and I can see the deity standing on top of the mountain in a golden shawl with hands stretch out reaching towards the Pyramid floating in the sky. I know that I have to make that journey but the path to the sea is full of debris and the roads that emerge from the back are blocked.
Build me a castle on top of the sea where my soul will know no misery build me a castle on top of the sea where I can escape from the rigorous journey; that is only way out and you can attempt it if you have no doubt.
The mountain of hope is on the other side of the sea, the mountain of hope will solidify your dignity. Take the remains of those that died tragically in the street and sprinkle it in front of the castle in the deep; light a candle and say a silent prayer for them and for the couple that fell off the bed, their remains are in a bottle and their last wish was to let in float in the deep among the aquatic family.
Time passes quickly and they are coming, the weather is constantly changing and heavens are glowing; thousands of them stand in the desert gazing at the skies above them something is happening up there and the earth is responding down here.
Lights are flashing all around and a rocket is sailing across the city, where it will land nobody knows, but it will move what mind cannot measure and blow up what the spirit cannot understand and it explode in a distant land and courage will keep them strong.
The mountain of hope is shifting, the mountain of hope is singing they have broken through gate and occupy a spot-on top of the mountain.
Destiny has led them to that place because the mountain of hope knows no race, each one has a place and they will live there until the rest their days. The mountain of hope is the secret to their soul, pitch your tent on top of the mountain before the sun goes down, the mountain of hope is where it all began .
So when the webbed-tide snares the lunars nether recesses in its glow casting shadows that arise among the craggs wedged beside some cliffs of common confirmed debris of the unnamed fallen heaps of mucked mired forgottned decay of worthless grime not meriting the struggles of a just reclaim promptly caused to fester including the residue of the reprehensibles whose lacking morals that from some particular decedent, intrusive spirit of Ne'ermere that steer souls to the steppes of the moors, where thou commands those hounds that wish to sever your sensitive skins and drain your spirit waters down that moat where your convictions will spark a lifetime of despair, honors the ambling of the blood moon of its wayward course of trailed afflictions that you wished and begged for death's swift visit for the determined inklings inscribed on petals of the columbine and their guarded secrets, steeped in the devil's brew of stirred concoctions meant for the hags of Ne'ermere and the warlocks of destruction and mayhem who pounces playfully on their prey of the misguided who are filled with disillusioned words that are as hollow as you, e'er stretching the imaginative liquified existence exposing a mirage of iniquities galvanizing its hold of treasured happenstance of certainties lost, fulfills a page of the intrepid who is but a shimmer presenting hope a hand of salvation gathered up in a smotherance and they'll all flicker away, anointing souls spared the vacuum of insignificance for doomsday is here bridging the channeled souls in their mortal state of decay of their tenous grasp of withered mass of fiberous veins where remnants of vigourous life succumbs to their true demise of the incredibly hideous and the indescribable now in the passage way between dying and death of their heinous acts of torturous screams bellowing throughout the chamberous pits of the unwanted dead where the lame, mute, and deaf search the living dead for their body parts, of severed limbs, eyes that hang out of the eyesockets, the unjointed tendons that flay about ever so freely, stenched air that festers while not only choking of whatever remians, seemingly an act of deceny, bestowing on the residue of assemblage from the former occupant, might be afforded an instantaneous journey into the sunrise of the...everlacking.
2019 September 18
Mother told a story yesterday
of how poets die in black penury
she said I won't be a pretty poet
as my dreams dance on my ink
"Poets are mirror of deceit and pain
craving beyond the debris of life
over my dead body will you be one!"
she pulled down the heaven on me!
a woman is a country of many colours
the hearts of men are far country
we are all students of life, learning
even the masquerade has a date,
a date to join their ancestors beyond
hold your tongue to your bosom
fate knows whose palm wealth will
be planted sooner or later by nature.
You will be raped by darned darkness
fed by junks of insanity lurking by...
a teary gland shall emerge, right in
the bosom of your myopic despair shall
you live by your sorrow like an oiled
orchestral stammerer down the street
father raged holding my LLB firmly
like pixels collection from a twisted
camera abandoned by a loner.
writers are mirrors connected to reflect
this world filled with broken stanzas
if my fears are not for my brothers and
my sisters and for Nigerians chains...
I will leave my hope dashed in the air
tilt this morning with the eyes of the night,
we will dice this moon for hand
on the paupers animated series of life.
Aduke birthed venoms last year for you
Chioma made your tears red images
words are like Sunbeams, the more they
are condensed the deeper they burn!
demise of a poet, no one seem to notice
in your domain,you don't expect praises
if a kingdom falls,there are several others
to replace it while you rot calmly.
Poetry pays but its a business of the Elites,
a trade not meant for children!
Shakespeare name is still carved on the
body of the sky, his head still seen today.
what is penny without a route in life?
Poets are pauper to their testy tongue!
Father, leave me to my dreams to perish
alone, even if evil calls for good,
I will stand as one poet and always will.
let the traces of a saint be kept in peace
let the shining armor of a poet glitter
becoming another star is not a sacrilege
Poets are not broken and shattered dust
this musing muse is only our spirits;
a spiritual elixirs to the clay world
we are crops, the worldcover, ladders
let the ways of poets be kept, we are
not paupers on the street begging for meat.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent
I am water,
I flow single mindedly in search of the sea,
I am a fast moving torrent of rage,
As I rumble over the shallow rapids,
I am a slow and lazy pool of the darkest, still depths,
I hover above you as a rain drenched cloud,
Holding back no more I spill down,
A warm cascade that sooths as I wash away
Discord and debris,
Your parched skin hungrily drinks me in,
I drench the dry banks and nourish new growth,
A slow and steady soaking inwardly seeping,
I fill your spirit and flow through your veins,
I am the current of hope and an inviting cove of belonging,
I flow gracefully around obstacles meant to block my way,
I batter the shores with my rage,
I am water,
I flow single mindedly in search of the sea,
Onwardly around every bend…..
I am Earth,
Home to all creatures, infinite and unconditional,
The bosom of my soil yields life, comfort, peace and love
I am wonder filled caves,
Green hills of glory,
Valleys rich in splendor,
I am steep rocky ledges
too treacherous to navigate,
I am dangerous slides of loose stones
To which you loose your footing,
Send your roots deep within me
so I may hold you up straight and strong
as your reach upwards in search of the sun,
I am generous in my abundance and shelter,
I am merciless in the barren waste lands that yield nothing,
My terrain is every changing, impossible to predict,
I am high mountain peaks too dangerous to scale,
I am a vastness of beaty and life,
I am Earth,
Home to all creatures, infinite and unconditional,
Patient, loving, forever
I am the wind,
The roar of my soul fills your head,
I am a whirl wind that blows through the cracks in your heart,
I am a restless first breeze of Spring,
That ripples over grass and skin,
I am the still and content breath of summer,
Breath me in and be filled with relief,
I am the un-predicable brilliance of Fall,
I touch the leaves and send them spirally downward,
I am the first bite of winter to which you put up your collar and turn your back,
I am the cyclone of emotion and furry of confusion
hat rips at the walls and rattles the windows,
I am the breeze that flows smoothly through the grasp of those
who try to hold me or control me,
I scatter your seeds to the four corners,
I am the wind,
The roar of my soul fills your head,
I change direction and disappear ….
Oh gosh, another tragedy.
The news of Libya
Shatters the world.
Storm Daniel brings down
The first dam wall.
Water hurtles
Towards the second dam wall,
Breaching it from the
Pressure, it breaks and falls,
Flooding the river which broke
Its banks and swept in a
Devil like, sweeping, horrific
Water mass into the
Town of Derma.
A nightmare of a situation,
Which broke all communication,
As bridges washed away,
Electricity no more,
Destroyed by the angry
Torrent, consuming everything
And everyone in its path,
With a determined wrath.
Eventually flowing into the sea,
Which in turn spewed
Out bodies rapidly,
And relentlessly.
What a terrifying night
As people died,
Leaving behind their loved
Ones to grieve, if they could
Find, or identify the bodies.
The town was leveled
To the ground, and
As Storm Daniel ceased
Its roaring
And drowning,
The living wailed,
And cried
And screamed,
Living each moment again,
Such sorrow.
Dear God, give them strength
To face the morrow.
They search for a sign of life,
A husband lost his children, his wife.
The red cross came,
Doctors, medicine, and nurses,
Volunteers tying to grapple,
And cope with this tragedy,
They climbed and scrambled
Over debris and mangled,
Bodies, Muddy water,
Cars that were smashed,
Homes that water swept
Through that were bashed,
By an enormous giant like monster,
A furious force of uncontrollable
Charging water.
The helpless prayed
Lifting their arms up high,
Towards the heavens
In the sky,
It was not their time to die,
Yet some hoped they had,
As the pain of knowing,
Their loved ones had
Suffered and now dead,
Would be a lasting dread.
People by the thousands
Became homeless, the
The number of the dead,
In the town of Derma
Was Unfathomable,
And Unimaginable.
They wandered aimlessly, in a daze.
Could they come to terms
With what had happened.
The survivor’s strength,
Would come only as they
Rallied together.
You must do that dear friends,
Rather sooner than later.
God bless you all, the world
Grieves with you,
You are incredibly brave,
Let all your good memories
Surround you now and forever,
And see you through
This horrible reality, a nightmare,
Think of the good times
Your heart and mind will remember,
And will slowly and slightly repair.