Long Roland Poems
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Cicada Dreaming was told to Roland Robinson in 1965 by Julia Charles of the Yoocum Yoocum clans from the area around Wollumbin in the headwaters of the Tweed River, Northern NSW and is used with permission.
Tiny Dreamtime children, imprisoned in the earth,
pierce the little tree roots to sip sap beneath the dirt.
For seven years, cicada grubs, as they scratch and dig,
keep getting so much bigger that they pop off their skins.
The final time they’re off and up: up a fence, up a trunk, up a shed.
Kids collect the shells they leave, stuck with claws on curling feet.
Buzz, buzz, buzz: cicada wings brush past my nose.
Their raucous chorus is a non-stop drone.
A thousand bodies cling on sticks and twigs and leaves.
Above my ringing ears their yellow wee rains down me.
Every year they deafen us. The noise is really bad -
crying for their mothers, screaming for their dads.
But, this year there are - none.
I’m surprised that I feel sad.
Where have the mad things gone?
Yellow Mondays, Green Grocers,
Black Princes, Cherry Noses -
Much as they annoy me,
I hope that they’ll be back.
Here! Is where another love song is born
With every touch on the keys
An echo is heard on the moon
It's a sweet release
I am the writer of this love song
My wife says she wishes I was as romantic as what I write
She must be right
Considering our house started to dissolve right after
Her,
She is the lead singer in this two piece band
Her voice quivers like an earthquake
With every note I want rip my ears off
But I smile cause she is the love of my youth
These imperfections make us beautiful beings
Even petals on resplendent flowers must fall but that doesn't make them any less beautiful
I remind myself
I am alive today by luck
I desire to let these sinister hands play the garros roland on the strings of what I stole from my father's house
With every touch
I give breath to a lovely symphony
A sweet release
My wife in twines herself with a vibrating Harmony
Blithely and resilient as she is
We are a terrible mixture
Two butterflies flying in a cocoon.
No place on earth is more changeable than the seasonal forest
Undergoing radical transformations from the world above
Year after after year
To spend a day here is nature’s way of offering a spa
A bathe in nature
No place under the constellations echoes such beauty
Denying this blessing is like hosting the roland garros amongst the stars,
My fathers father braved these woods
These vines have been mingling in my veins before my chain and slave trade days
I am an original Blackman
Descended from the soil and birthed from the womb of an African deity
Four hundred rotations ago,my life was worth less than ngwe and kwacha
Or perhaps ivory and copper.
I was taken by ship,auctioned and campused through the door of no return
To Babylon I was cast
Told to believe without questioning their religion,
They called it faith
And in that maze of what is and what could not be, Our fathers tree’s had lost their roots
They now tell us to believe without questioning
And they call it obedience,
But in my dreams I have seen the clouds crushing and the world on fire,
I have pierced my probing eyes through the veil of anonymity,
Ethiopia is the promised land. Not Jerusalem.
on weekends, Mondays, and maybe Fridays too/
across the Bebop time zones/
people be digging at flea markets 4 Bebop jazz gold/
walkin', talkin', lookin' workin' the price/
on a table way in the back/
I dug into a crate of LPS and found jazz vinyl alongside a vacuum cleaner/
It was Mark Murphy singing vocalese/
and the young Roland Kirk before Rahsaan was in there too/
both in mint condition for a buck and a blunt/
we all smoked a few/
as I looked out over the galaxy of tables and booths/
I saw the knot of people selling their unwanted stuff/
Man, what a ride to shuck-N-jive about the vintage jazz LPS you can't find/
Miles, Base, Stanley Turrentine, Hampton Haws, and Annie Ross/
are there for the taking' in a jazz flea market vinyl heaven/
come early before the sun up with a flashlight in hand/
to dig deep into the tables and crates to find a record of Cliff Jordan with sax in hand/
You can dig all day at record stores, flea markets, and online vintage jazz sites/
and not find one 1950s jazz vinyl LP you are looking to buy by choice/
Man, that's such a drag on the jazz-diggin' society/
my time is up walking through the dusty aisles and tables filled with junk/
so dig, all is not lost/
I bargained for and got Cozy Cole's Topsy Part One
now I'm on my way to a garage sale I got hip to the other day/
to were back in the day/
Blue Note jazz vinyl covers had a whole lot to say
My Name Is Roland, Do You Want To Go Bowling
chosen to relate to Richard Lamoureaux's Poem
Best Pickup Line
Best Pick Up Line
You are so beautiful forgive me for staring
It might woo me if I thought he was sincerely caring
However, my first thought, he has used this line before
Although, flattered, I would head for the door
Hi Shirley, my name is Roland,
do you want to go bowling
Best pickup line I ever had
outside the washeteria by an Italian lad
Popping a willy, his bike on one wheel
I couldn't help but laugh, he is too funny I feel
So who told you my name
The clerk at the drugstore was to blame
Well not today, I don't think so
Maybe another day, I will let you know
Then one day I was walking home
He was sitting in his truck with silver chrome
Suddenly, he jumped in front of me offering me a ride
I loved his sense of humor, I have to confide
Only three blocks to my home
In his fancy truck with chrome
He grabbed and kissed me and I could see how this was gonna go
I laughed and pushed him away and said, “ I don't believe so.”
So no Roland, no bowling, just my favorite pickup line
A smile and laugh I can't hold back at this funny memory of mine
*Cicada Dreaming was told to Roland Robinson in 1965 by Julia Charles of the Yoocum Yoocum clans from the area around Wollumbin in the headwaters of the Tweed River, Northern NSW, Australia, and is used with permission. The Cicada Dreamtime Bootheram (lore) involves disrespectful children who turn into cicadas underground, drinking the tree milk (sap) for seven years, until emerging and crying for their parents. It came from an online reference written by S.Starlore, (2018), Cicada Dreaming, which is no longer online.
While commonly known to the people whose lore it is, it is probably new to most of us.
I wrote this in 2021 when I was missing the noise of summer. It now has a few edits and additions.
Tiny Dreamtime children, imprisoned in the earth,
pierce the little tree roots to sip sap beneath the dirt.
For seven years, cicada grubs, as they scratch and dig,
keep getting so much bigger, keep popping off their skin.
One final time, they’re out - up a fence, up a trunk, up a shed.
I collect the shells they've left, when their lead-light wings have spread
"Buzz buzz buzz," they brush past my nose.
All-day the raucous chorus is a non-stop drone.
Above my ringing ears on twigs and sticks and leaves
a thousand bodies cling and rain their yellow wee on me.
Every year they deafen us. The noise is really bad -
crying for their mothers, screaming for their dads.
But, this year there are - none.
I’m surprised that I feel sad.
Where have the mad things gone?
Yellow Mondays, Green Grocers,
Black Princes, Cherry Noses
Much as they annoy me,
I hope that they’ll be back.
Without the story's children,
so noisy, rude, and fun,
the hush of their absence
says that summer hasn't come.