Long Machetes Poems
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Before the blast in April's darkened sky. . .
before the electrifying surge of insurgency -
when trucks and tanks were used to block the roads, and
when men and even boys were sought to aid in one malicious purpose. . .
before the rampant slaughter -
the raining of machetes down on flesh and bones
and the cornucopia of corpses left like butchered carcasses
on highways, nearby houses and in churches. . .
before the plundering, the rapes and mutilations
and the exodus of thousands to death-infested camps,
there were whisperings -
insidious and portentous to the ears of the wisely suspicious -
and a voice on the airwaves spewing hate.
Before it all,
there was a brewing of resentment
of a people with a history of poverty and
of transitory freedom and capricious politics.
And through it all, with such grave consternation,
governments debated. . . waited. . . . . . . and waited,
playing with semantics
while thousands dead became the hundred thousand,
and three long months - unrivaled for its number of atrocities -
came to its completion.
Seemingly, peace has been restored
and punishment stingily doled out.
Time moves on . . .
except for half a million
for whom compassion by the world
was spared.
The school bus crawled into the village
just as the sun slipped beyond the horizon.
Villagers emerged with machetes in hand,
clearing the road for their visitors—
men and women united by a mission
to protect and preserve marine life.
Joy filled the island.
Laughter echoed from every corner.
The local captain, Pastor Kagoto,
could not stop reciting his poems,
while songs drifted through the evening air.
Village girls came out singing,
their voices carrying across the shore
as they welcomed the newcomers.
Later that night,
the visitors pitched their camp on the island.
The women retired to their tents,
while the men gathered around a crackling fire.
The waves whispered against the beach,
their rhythm clear in the stillness of the night.
Above, the sky blazed with countless stars,
as if the heavens themselves had joined the villagers
in welcoming the guests.
As darkness settled over the island,
hearts were filled with anticipation,
and every soul carried great expectations
for the days that lay ahead.
Where have all the brave men gone?
They break into your house, steal your money,
Car keys, wallet and whatever they can.
Masked men, or covered faces with hoodies.
They assault the old, children, women and defenceless men.
What has become of facing your enemies?
Not that the innocent people are their enemies.
That’s right! All they are guilty of is trying to
Live in peace.
They attack mostly in the middle of the night,
Waving machetes, knives and guns.
And, if that’s not enough, it’s illegal to afflict
Any bodily harm to these aggressors.
Unless of course if it’s due diligence of self-
Defence. What do we do to defend ourselves?
Sit back and take it on the chin? Willingly let them in?
Judge, please refuse bail and throw these
Scumbags where they belong, even prison
Isn’t harsh enough for all these crimes committed.
Beneath the cobalt sky, where legends are spun,
Island life unfolds, as traced by the sun.
Amidst the palms, a verdant ballet,
A choreography of chores, in the island's sway.
Fishing boats gently bob, tales in their wake,
Nets entangled with the morning's ocean handshake.
Fishermen, weathered, their hands tell the story,
In salt-stained shirts, a testament to the island's glory.
Coconut vendors wield machetes with pride,
Husks cast away, like secrets to hide.
Sweat beads on brows under the tropical sun,
As the islanders toil, their day just begun.
Children laugh, chasing the tide's embrace,
Building dreams in the sand, a jubilant race.
Their laughter, a melody with seagull cries,
As the day unfolds 'neath endless skies.
In the market square, colors burst and bloom,
Fruits and spices scent the island's room.
Vendors banter, a lively exchange,
Commerce dancing in the island's range.
As dusk descends, shadows embrace the land,
Twilight whispers with a soft command.
Stars emerge, a cosmic display,
Over the island, where dreams hold sway.
Mark Scott-Crossley
and Simon Mathebula
Tied up Nelson Chisale
and beat him with machetes
dumping him in
with white lions
Africa Learned
to hate the Whites
Yet this is only
one white farmer
should we hate
all the people
for the act of one man
to easily do we attack
the colour of a mans skin
do the crime do the time
but don't blame others
for the act of another man
you ask that we should apologise
for the acts of our ancestors
I ask you why?
why; should I apologise
for the act of my great grandfather,
I did not, do what he did,
I am not responsible, for his crimes,
should you apologise,
for the acts of your Great grandfather,
perhaps he was a cannibal,
perhaps in the past,
he ate somebody's ancestor,
yet, do we ask you,
to apologise for him
so why do you ask us,
to apologise,
for the acts of our ancestors,
Hate the man who did the crime,
not the colour of his skin,
Black people,
have also been responsible for evil,
murder and rape, happen in all cultures,
You don't expect us to hate you,
for the act of your brothers,
so why should you hate us,
for the acts of other whites,
blame the person,
that did the crime,
not the colour,
of a man's skin,
Every day,
I get up and try
to help people,
try to teach others,
That happiness is created
with a sense of humour,
learn to joke have fun with people,
and the world becomes a happier place.
Yet even a sense of humour
can become twisted
people laugh at the expense
of someone else
learn to laugh with people
learn to joke in away
that builds happiness
without hurting others
To hate all Americans is racism
To Hate all Jew's is racism
To hate all Africans is racism
all cultures have good and bad people
The Farm ©
Fields of mustard
sway in a light breeze
off the river
farm dogs return
dusted in yellow
the clapboard gray of
the farmhouse
weeps old memories
generations of pea farmers,
hunters, fishermen and cooks
heady fragrance of cooking food
saturate the senses as
the screen door slaps shut
the matriarch sings out
‘tea party!
and the city folk sit ‘round a table
laden with baked chicken that was
pecking out a meal in the yard that day
fried venison steak and mashed potato
green beans and corn hanging from the vine
just minutes ago
her biscuits and cornbread; the stuff
dreams are made of
Later they sit on the warped porch steps
listening as the geese honk their way in
to the seed rich fields and
their nightly respite
bats fly across the moon,
frogs call out their secrets,
a loon wails its loneliness
old stories are told
Trisha Sugarek
Moths and Machetes
She gives me a sassy knowing dare me grin as she begins to devour her ladybug sandwich.
I watch her crown nod up and down in rhythmic quiet as she eats in gargantuous bites.
In fascinated horror, I try to imagine taking my turn, and pretending a normalness.
I know what will happen if I balk in any way, even a blink, at partaking of the country’s delicacy.
I dare not offend, knowing I had better gobble mine down in gloriously grateful gulps.
The others in the hall have stopped eating to watch me, they are nearly silent now.
We all listen to the queen’s exaggerated chomping and gulping, meant to bully, and they do.
It would be a giant mistake to insult her majesty with close-minded ways. It is only a lady bug sandwich.
She gives me an almost imperceptible nod. It is my turn to make this dish look enormously delicious.
The masses are watching. Retching would be the largest insult, maybe punishable by death.
Not wanting to add a second of insult to their culture’s delicacy, I pick up my sandwich, picturing potato chips.
Salty, delicious, tiny bits of potato chips, I tell my mind. Only potato chips. And lady bugs! My mind yells.
I stop chomping, suddenly fearful. My mind is betraying me. I already have acid reflux. I wait in horror
As my delicious sandwich begins to rise, suddenly, and with a horrible feeling of dread.
The guards move forward with their machetes, waiting.
I don't want to go my own way, Stevie
I want to rush through the weeds,
the thicket, the gnarls, the never-will-be trails
with you, sharper than machetes,
blazing our way backwards
on bicycles through hell
cutting ice sculptures in heaven
when we need a challenge
Time is an impatient bastard
on leopard legs
but you outdance Shakespeare
"Then I remember"
how your voice of silk and cactus cords
molded the clay into
what I would call me
"But if our paths never cross"
I will keep hacking away at stubborn verses
and insidious cucumber vines
that don't produce
All the guitars are weeping for you,
glorious gold
Now, let's tango time
across the moon
They were doing the tango, the slide and the dip.
We told them they were unrefined; the gargoyle let it slip.
They came after us with machetes, axes, knives and such.
We scurried from the table; Frankenstein knocked down the hutch.
Oh, sorry said the ghouls, the werewolves, and the vampire bat.
But wow! Look at this spread! Will you kindly look at that?
We stopped in mid run, to watch them admire our tea party.
Why don’t you join us? Frankenstein’s ma asked, real hearty.
Are you sure there is enough? A closet monster asked in awe.
Sure! She said. These dainty biscuits would never fill his pa!
We even invited the witches, the warlocks, and the lambadam king.
We shared the table cloth as napkins, our paws reigned supreme.
We discussed the next tea party, who would be invited and all.
After the pandemic, we got along great, this would be a new fall.
The Frankenstein’s hosted it this time, one of the goblins said loudly.
We will be the next sponsors; his kin agreed rather proudly.
We started a masterful tradition that day in the forest of oaks.
A tea party of diverse monsters; and we discovered we are really just folks
Written 8-17-2021
Contest Frankenstein Tea Party
Sponsor Joe Maverick
The sun mounts over crumpled roofs and streets,
Beats from machetes and trombones disconcerts the air,
Brides and husbands-to-be bosa nova where joy and gossip meet.
Little ones run run past stalls,their joy sharp as knives,
Grandmas share gossip,drinking Joko Tea in chirped mugs.
While dear uncles sway,remembering old wasted lives
Smog billows from grills where meat roasts and fry,
Fires burn,mixing ululations and cheer,
Even the emaciated township dog pauses,ears to the sky.
Hubands-to-be jive,hats tilted,praising feats of might;
Ladies-in waiting in skirts that sparkle under sun.
Every furtive glance a nod and a story of delight.
As night comes,lanterns flicker in houses and alleys;
Music is tender,hearts stay buoyed and awake-
In hoboland love and joy endure amidst the pain.