Long In chains( 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 -
Where there is a will, there is a way
And I remind myself that this is just the beginning
But being here is keeping my heart in chains
I want to fly away to the place where I know I'm wanted
To the arms that belong to more than just a person
My heart struggles to find the words to scream
It yells in vain because there is no one to hear it
The echoes of silence resound inside my head
As I comprehend that I could be somewhere else...
The knowing of the loss is unbearable
I wait in agony when there is nothing left to do
And I will him to come back for me
Hoping there is something in his heart that draws him
In my arms is where he should be
But there is a troubling and sorrowful doubt
That placed itself in my brain
What if when he returns he won't want me?
What if he doesn't echo my love?
That is the question, dear friends
So I beg the one who is more than just human to come back
Be my lover and don't present yourself with an opportunity to leave
He says that love is just a word and he wants to say so much more
But if love is a word, what does he really want to say?
It drives me insane hoping that the word he searches for
Is the one I have waited my whole life to hear
But again the nagging doubt in the back of my mind
Whispers conspiracies and plants hopelessness in my heart
And I feel alone in a world where he doesn't exist
He says he will wait for me and I promised the same
But what about the saying
"Promises are made to be broken"?
If that is true, I cannot fathom what life will be like without him
But maybe that's what promises are really for
To gain trust in the one you depend upon
And know that what they say is true and not just another empty lie
Others cannot understand what we do
Being together is what keeps us from falling apart
But some are jealous and won't stand for the "abomination" that we are
But if love is really true, why should they care?
What is it about our business that makes them so interested?
What is it about our love that drives them to insanity to keep from happening?
There is no cure for true and unselfish love
There is no denying it for the world
And when they have the revolution that there is more than meets the eye,
They will leave and never return
Never again bothering us and we can love in peace
And that is the dream I strive for
And that is the dream that will soon be mine
“The Shedding of our Skin”
I am writing about the transition from lost now found,
Darkness to light, one being into another, death to life,
Old skin to new skin.
Its like the rejuvenation of skin
The restoring of flesh over flesh of an open wound
And that does not happen all at once but over a duration of time.
Little by little not specific, but unpredictable start to finish.
My skin was tough, tough as leather
It had to be broken in, sat and stomped on over time
It was miss-used, abused
Unappreciated, contaminated and unpurified with uncleanliness toxic substances, people, places and things.
Miss-guided with ill desires and will
But by grace my transformation had begun
Before it was to late there was a death to life ending activated
In my darkest space, In my mess
The shedding of my skin had begun
There was a shift in my ways my desires my walk and talk
My mind and heart had started to align up with the whispers of Gods divine word.
My old skin of the one-track roads, addictions, attitudes and desires.
I no longer craved or desired
My mouth was filled with affirming empowerment for myself and others.
I was able to articulate the things I felt, thought, wanted, and needed, liked and disliked.
Speaking fluent in the moments with no more hesitation or reluctancy holding my words or fear.
I am shedding my broken past of my childhood strongholds and obstacles.
Letting go of my resentments and anything that has kept me in chains.
I’ve moved from complacency to contentment with a peace and understanding I cant explain.
Compelled to be of service and good works with a drive of passion energy and love.
I AM SHEDDING
No longer stagnant in my engrafted past
Now free and flying through the fog, trauma and strongholds that once hindered me and my growth in so many ways.
Today my mind is renewed with thoughts and visions of life and light.
My new skin enables me to persevere on in faith and hope.
Trusting and dreaming of an abundant life sober and free
To properly handle and face life gratefully
Overcoming any of its obstacles that may come up against me
I am shedding with new profound revelations and abilities
My shedding has provided me with a variety of new talents and gifts.
Something that my old skin would have never allowed....
Continuing to shed “The Shedding of my Skin”
I also feel blasé today February 19th, 2024
Linkedin to being lax,
and shirking house cleaning tasks,
which negligence cost us
(yours truly and the missus)
a golden opportunity
to relocate to Hillcrest Village
in Boyertown, Pennsylvania
another HUD subsidized property
under the aegis of Grosse and Quade,
one of the larger residential
property management firms
in the Delaware Valley.
Physical unwellness
(insync with racing heart) arose
because Kathleen Bergen
the new property manager
here at 2 Highland Manor
voiced absolute zero positive feedback,
upon taking lock, stock, and barrel
of appalling living conditions,
her blistering vocalization
(from wuthering heights)
translated as a foregone conclusion
against our hopes
pinned on moving into
two bedroom apartment
referenced above topmost lines.
Said plummeted disappointment
(courtesy blunt admission
out the mouth of
(humpty dumpty sat on a wall)
frumpty recent hire
identified in a previous poem
as new warden)
verbosely predicated upon
gross appearance of living space
immediately dashed cautious optimism
citing unkempt state
within no crater than
moonwalking unit b44,
whereby we wished to skadaddle
far away from obligation
to be mindful of rules and regulations
codified within a binding lease.
Unlikely home ownership
will ever come to pass,
nor the lesser prospect
to rent more spacious domicile
larger than a one bedroom apartment,
no bigger than a bread box
den me and the missus,
(a hen pecking spouse)
might befriend Bugs Bunny,
who might guarantee
adequate sized rabbit hole
constituting large enough wonderland
receiving stamp of approval
courtesy Alice in Chains
subsidized lodging money back
plus additional warren tee
granted by Mister Michael Fox,
who took me back to the future,
when the pace of life
plodded along at leisurely rhythm.
Only within outer limits
realm of twilight zone,
where dark shadows
inch along edge of night
(while two thumbs and index finger
belonging to separate good sports
grab hold the furcula
(or wishbone) structure
formed by the ventral fusion
of the right and left clavicles
and the median interclavicle
silently mouth invocation)
holds at bay, the inexplicable phenomena
moored, harbored, and docked
awaiting lucky recipient,
whose merrythought bestowed
upon he/she, they/them.
she carries the child on tired hips rested on chains ‘round her waist
wasted on freedom designed to serve a white man’s lustful desire
branded inferior as time repeats itself and the pain knows no end
a tattoo on her skin confirms her as chattel in self-righteous shackles
festering wounds of Apartheid resemble the foul stench of humanity
as her child suckles from an empty breast and cries out for more
they did not really abandon slavery merely gave it a different name
too sweet are the rewards of exploiting the world as we know it
division of labour and they enshrined her firmly as an illiterate pawn
her soul wrapped in skin and bones and her eyes like rusted steel
an empty gaze almost gave up on merits of justice from hollow eyes
camped in concentration of power domination she is raped daily
of her dignity while she ploughs on in fields of plenty and the dust
of history and yet she never gives up on struggle for emancipation
some got the vote in a rigged system with dice slicing the fortune
disembowled by wolves in capital’s fangs her innermost treasure
has become hope that succumbs to memories of her forebears
born into poverty and meant to stay there she rattles her manacles
in vain in defeat because leg irons and handcuffs are made from
diamonds and gold in the heartland of theft and misappropriation
when her child dies she carries another from the master’s loins
expendable and forgotten her tears are salty and polish the gyves
and just maybe might help to corrode bilboes and unholy bonds
because human emotions do not forget who triggered the hurt
outcast in a so called homelands or locations she requires a pass
to enter the kingdom of opulence in which she serves as a maid
but the young maiden has become old and dies cleaning their dirt
a stolen life is all that her daughters will remember with hatred
and when they rise they too will die by the greed of their captors
but one day the tables will turn and revolve in anger and retribution
20th August 2020
‘Apartheid’ in South Africa was the system of racial discrimination
Workers needed a ‘passbook’ to enter rich suburbs for work
‘Homelands’ were the allocated regions where black people would live
Their abodes where called ‘locations’ to sweeten the tongue of evil
Deep within Earthen bowels
immensely distant from sheltering sky
amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape
with here and there a projected
craggy, derelict chasm
precipitously crooked
rocky claws pointing toward
an infinitely wide yawning abyss
dwelt kindred spirits
comprising soul asylum
where grateful dead (albeit marked,
via weathered tomb stones)
hermetically sealed
once vibrant corporeal mortals
betook their eternal slumber.
One among their number
included a misanthrope
who sported long straggly hair
bushy eyebrows shield
ding cold eyes of steel
straggly bearded clammy chin
in tandem with a hairy body
which when alive (long time ago)
upheld upon unshod feet, a severely
hunchbacked cretin
Within dense pitch-black terrain
(Mother Nature enlisting
a menagerie of life forms
accustomed to hellish environment)
awash with unrecognizable
alien sights and sounds
mollycoddling bewitching warlocks,
mailer daemons, trolling trojan horses
imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery
long and fostered Golems
who called underworld
their private demesne
also alluded to Marcy's playground
holding hostage Alice in Chains
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
The Beastie Boys, Culture Club
The Human League, and
Village People a Crowded House
Emitting wisps of ethereal matter
appearing a small medium at large
chat snap ping, flickr ring
indeed joyus minions
exalting piety good and plenti.
Prone ounce sing proud purgatory
promoting protean phantasmagoria
hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms
highly distorted grotesque
silent 10,000 maniacs screaming
sinister semblance to banshees
slithering across escarpment.
Echoing one end of universe to the other
putting to shame initial big bang
ranking as a mere whimper
that original primordial blast
which cosmological exploits
generated heavenly sphere instantaneously
comparison viz Krakatoa times Googleplex
essentially reduced to insignificance
albeit on the analogous tinker toy
premised conjectures of brilliant minds
could gander feeble educated guesses
asper extraordinary natural phenomena
mortal mankind could never approximate
as belligerent threats punctuated,
via nuclear warfare
merely rates as a flickr
amidst uber kindle snap chat ting
tinder blinks, extinguishes,
snuffs out one lowly
Beatle browed bipedal simian.
In the narrow corridors of lost time,
where light seeks its shadows in dusty corners,
words sit like butterflies with heavy wings,
suffering under the weight of unspoken silences.
In the silent cells of a forgotten world,
my books traverse walls, like birds searching
for the sky in a windowless world,
trying to free thoughts trapped in chains of paper.
I wrote for those who bear invisible burdens,
for those who find solace in lines,
but literature, a mystery to the ordinary mind,
weaves into the soul like a forgotten melody,
a song even the rarest of us
cannot understand without feeling its pain.
Poetry, a labyrinth of emotions,
sheds complicated meanings,
leaving behind clear, human words,
like an honest gaze in a world of masks.
Williams called for clarity,
and I followed, seeking to open paths
for those who have forgotten how to see.
But writing is one thing, life another,
we improve the words, but our lives
remain stuck in the same patterns,
like birds repeatedly striking
the glass of painful transparency.
Perhaps, by writing better, living more beautifully,
we will make life ashamed of itself.
Maybe artists were never strong enough,
maybe those who rule the world were too strong,
and we, pale and precious,
let words flow like a river
never finding its sea.
But art, in its intimacy,
bears the same burden:
women, governments, God,
love, hate, poverty, slavery,
insomnias and roads without destination,
times and spouses, and all the rest…
A man in a cell dislikes how commas dance,
how words stray from their path
to capture the exact essence,
without knowing the intention is to relax, to humanize,
to make words like butter or avocado,
something you can grasp and taste,
like a simple and nourishing meal for the soul.
Art may wander, but it keeps the essential form,
like Dostoevsky or Bach,
who taught us to layer melodies
one over the other, creating a symphony
of hidden meanings.
I do not defend my work, but the right to create it
in a way that makes me feel alive.
A writer's boredom is the reader's boredom,
and perfection is just a myth,
an illusion keeping us away from the truth.
You, in the neighboring cell,
receive this letter as a gift,
as a whisper of hope and freedom,
for art needs only the freedom
to be itself, imperfect and real,
in a world that forgets to listen.
Arthur was 16 when he entered the system
i could never ask him why
he was too old when i met him
he was on soo many pills
and not very pleasant to talk to
he heard voices
he would sometimes get up and punch someone
but who knows if they deserved it
or not
after being in a mental institute
from the age of 16 until the day you die
wouldn't you go crazy
the first real guinea pig
i met him
i never cried for him and his pain
but he always wanted to check my shave,
perhaps a victim from some sick war crime
I'll never know
Graham is not from our country
and I've written amnesty international concerning his welfare
they say its not any of their concern
as he wears shackles and chains on a daily basis
and goes to the bathroom in a diaper and eats cold food like sandwiches
because he hits people
mainly his doctor who lies to him
in my opinion
just like the doctor lied to my dad about me trying to bite him,
but i have no proof
just lucky I'm not in chains
going to the bathroom in a diaper
I know he committed a crime but two years locked in one room
alone with a window curtain opening and closing to spy on you
is enough psychological insanity to inspire mania if you ask me
Andrew was a crack head
and held up some convenience stores for some money
so he could get drugs
now hes been in the funny farm for like twelve years
still trying to get a hold of his next hit
watching his youth disappear
watching his life fade away
jumping through the hoops of a system that holds your freedom above you
that may or may not ever grant it
Andrew ran away
gave it all he got
saw people chained to the wall
people dieing there from the age of 16 for ridiculous crud
and knew they were toying with him
so he ran away
now he on a unit where god only knows
what mind hell they're putting him through
what rainbows hes swallowing down
Shelley was the meanest woman i had ever met
but it was always worth seeing her smile
don't know haven't figured out if the drugs really helped her
but she was in that place since she was seventeen
and died in a group home from some sickness
they claim wasn't related to her meds
I'm no fool, the stuff they pump us full of is deadly and toxic
i never made it to Shelly's funeral to see her murderers
there crying fake tears
for someone they would never really miss
Perfectly conceived in the Almighty’s omniscience
she was breathed with life wondrously by the Creator
granted full freedom to accomplish entrusted role
which according to the Scriptures, is “an help meet for him*.”
As such, what right has anyone to chain her?
to imprison her soul?
to enslave her being?
to diminish her feminine quality?
Completing the man by virtue of her God-granted attributes
she is vitally needed with her significance
a home can’t be a home without her
and a family devoid of her touch loses its verity.
Then why is she treated as a mere possession?
as an object of masculine’s lust?
as a darling partner to meet sexual cravings for a night?
as a comfort-giver who is not emotionally compensated?
The woman awesomely created by the Sovereign
is that lady with a unique task to perform
she can be your daughter, sister, mother, or girl friend
who’s doing her very best --- thru love's commitment of gracious trust.
Woe unto anyone who is undermining her and her personhood
mistreating her contrary to justice essence
abusing her against righteousness precept
minimizing her worth along unfair value system.
In the name of the Lord Who is the great Defender
the ultimate fortress, protector and sustainer of life...
everyone is called upon to stop chaining the woman…
since depriving her of genuine freedom means mankind’s liberty-loss.
Christ be praised for His compassion-propelled dealings
with women during His earthly ministry:
He showed them His care, forgiveness, comfort, appreciation
...brought to them healing of wellness favour
reaching-out to those grieving with mercy...
...lifted the ones humiliated publicly, granting His pardon…
rescuing their repentant souls from the condemnation of sin’s wages.
As a woman privileged to enjoy God-driven freedom bliss
I strive with faith to help advocate for human lawful rights
while praying for and assisting victims of "violence against women"
and spiritually leading them to the divine freedom Source.
*Genesis 2:23 And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.
August 31, 2020
3rd place, "Woman in chains" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton; judged on 9/1/2020.
Wake up,
there'a a rebellion going on
There's a revolt,
and the conspiracy is strong
Two hundred and fifty princes
against Moses the man of God
They all got their swords aimed
against the power of Aaron's rod
The leaders of this evil insurgency
are two lovers of Egyptian idolatry
Wicked men trying to resist the truth,
but their folly will be made known to all
Reprobate concerning the faith,
brother against brother is the judgment call
Now whose side are you on,
whose's it gonna be
Do you choose Moses and Aaron,
or do you vote for Jannes and Jambres
Whose side are you on,
now that you've crossed the Red Sea
Do you wanna be free and serve God,
or worship the idols of Egypt in slavery
Brother against brother is the battle call today
Do you wanna go back to Egypt,
or remain here in the wilderness to stay
Some say they'd rather have their bellies full
and be in chains
Then to die of hunger and thirst
in a land where it doesn't rain
Some say Moses is a false prophet,
who brought them to the desert to die
Some say there's no land of milk and honey,
that's just crazy talk, pie in the sky
Now whose side are you on,
who do you choose to believe
Will you stay with Moses and Aaron,
or will you follow Jannes and Jambres
Whose side are you on,
now that you've crossed the Red Sea
Do you want to go on to Canaan land,
or do you want to go back into slavery
Speaking for myself,
'cause I don't know about you:
I'm sticking with Moses,
and I'm staying with Aaron too
We got the Rock,
with the water gushing out
We got the Manna,
every morning on the ground like dew
Then the glory of the Lord
appeared before the congregation
Ready to destroy the whole Israelite nation
But Moses said, Lord please,
please don't destroy them all
And God showed mercy, letting only the rebels fall
into the pit, where the earth had opened up her mouth
Into the bottomless pit, where there would be no climbing out
Standing before the throne of God on judgment day:
Brother, whose side were you on,
did you follow the devil and pick wrong
Were you part of the rebellion that took place,
did the dirt from the pit cover your face
Brother, whose side were you on,
on which side did you belong
Did you help defend the two holy men,
or did you die with Korah and Dathan