Long Saint john Poems
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You came home from Quebec,
you were never alone;
your shadow chased you around town
like a dog in love or out of love.
They told me you have been to places
where flies sat conveniently on the ledges of your lips,
you've eaten ugali with your fingers, someone else's fingers,
soaked in saliva and the red juices of greens and beef liver
I remember you leaving Scott County to drive along the roads
of summer with green trees waving at you. You were famous.
You sent a picture of Niagara. Before a mirror,
I saw my eyes in the falls that should've lectured you,
then you sent Alberta dressed in flora and sunshine,
but before a mirror, I saw where sorrow dug trenches in my brow.
At sunsets, I watched the tired lights walked slowly westward like an old lady on quad cane ... and I forgot the sound of my name on your lips
When July entered our town with loud children, you were in Whistler. His mother is continuing in Paris,
and poor James, God rested his bones somewhere in London.
You killed me with Yellowknife when you spoke of the northern lights,
but not once questioned my lonesome nights in White Sulphur
where fresh winds licked the skirt of a White horse to ignite a horseplay
You say Saint John spoke proudly of Como,
so I searched the map to find you where you would sit to sip something
that spoke proudly of Campari Spritz.
I found Whistle Pig Stout.
Some nights, I'd search for you when my finger was tired of scooping peanut butter from a jar. I traced from Revelstoke to Squamish, then to Halifax,
but I found no lobsters big enough to keep you there.
You called about Ottawa, and I found Rideau Canal, a lazy river that still works for the people. You told me Tofino spoke proudly of Costa Del Sol,
so I searched the map to find you where you would drive along something that spoke proudly of Ruta del Sol y del Aguacate.
I found Chesterman Beach Road.
December drove you home, pulling down your dress
to cover the spots where the cold winds were touching you.
I am getting used to being single.
Written 03\28\20
The Witch of Winslow Street
In West Saint John, no fortune sprang.
But greatness graced the Blue Rock Gang.
As Carleton rascals, David Goss
And Bobby Alexander launched
A secret goal that made them itch,
To see which woman was a witch.
So, mischief was their middle name,
And witches were their call to fame.
There was a place they used to play,
An old abandoned Chevrolet.
From trunk to back seat, they would steal
And plop behind the steering wheel.
Then, they’d pretend to leave the weeds
And squeal the tires at breakneck speeds.
But, always wary for a witch,
Sometimes they’d end up in a ditch.
It was their dream, to try and guess
Which harpy was a sorceress.
It was the toughest job in town,
No cackle, cape, or cone-shaped crown.
But just a weary, worn-out belle
Who squeezed out through the gates of hell,
Attired in a ragged robe,
And sent to their part of the globe.
There was a house on Winslow Street,
A place where witches came to meet,
Where vines grew right up to the stoop,
Amusement for the Blue Rock troupe.
They’d fall back in the bouncy bush
That sprung them back out on their tush.
And from an upstairs windowpane,
A witch was watching her domain.
One night the boys came home from Scouts,
And stopped to check their playground out.
When suddenly they picked up Dave,
Their trait to always misbehave.
They threw him way back in the plant.
Like tentacles, it grabbed his pants.
He couldn’t move! His legs were seized!
The witch was looking very pleased.
An incantation on her lips,
And bony fingers on her hips,
The conjuration barely sent
And David’s legs were like cement!
He tried and tried to free his feet
But vines had tied him up so neat.
His friends, too scared to help him out,
All they would do was point and shout:
“She’s on her way! Get out of there!
She’s coming down the parlour stairs!”
With all his strength, Dave mobilized
Right there before the witch’s eyes.
He ran so fast he passed his chums.
His knees were sore. His feet were numb.
And overhead, beneath the moon,
The witch was riding on her broom.
***
I have tasted my beloved poets’ Bray
In the three great books of our literature:
"The Book of Good Love," "La Celestina," and "Don Quixote"
As well as in García Lorca's The Ass
Who directed La Barraca
Also Rimbaud, Gide, Apollinaire, Verlaine
Poe, Shakespeare, Chaucer, etc.
Digesting their works
Belching their art and poetry
In gatherings, convents, or schools
In salons, platforms, and athenaeums
Announcing, yes, that these poets matter to me
Useful and appropriate in their verses
Leaving in their books clear evidence
Of their braying talent.
Let it be known and not forgotten
That braying was always their rule
And I venerate it as is right.
Isn't it good to give them what is theirs?
So I do and tell it
Washing my hands with my urine
To reach their Muse
Who had goosebumps
And they, the hide of a new Donkey.
All of them rode on Donkeys
Singing of the extreme love
Of the Donkey for her crop
Or recounting amazing adventures
Of an animal's shin
Of a priest with a friar or a nun.
Or the Song of Songs
Inspired to Solomon by a Donkey
As mentioned in sacred scripture.
Oh, Poets, I praise you
For showing me the way
The true path that is Poetry
In the land of Life
As I venerate Abdon and his Donkeys
Apuleius turned into a Donkey
Jester and his praises of the Donkey
Photius, patriarch, who plagiarized a Donkey
Fond of verse
The Donkeys of Jair of Palestine
Lucian's Donkey
Machiavelli's Donkey
Midas with his Donkey ears
Priapus in his bet with the Donkey
To see which of the two had the better cock
Saint John of the Cross
Jumping over the walls of nunneries
Riding a Donkey
Whore, goddess of the bushes
Who swallowed more than a thousand cocks
Including that of the Donkeys
Silenus and his Donkey
Thartac, god of the Hivites
With a Donkey's head
The Donkey that figures in the Temples.
All peoples, Bray with me
Clap your hands
Because the Donkey is the sublime emperor
Of all the earth
And his braying will always dwell in our houses
Because being a Braying and a Donkey
Is strength.
The Saint John River rolls along
Under skies of baby blue,
Touching lives of country folk
Just the way it used to do
Before the war to better times,
When steamboats churned and church bells chimed.
The Continental whistle blew
To barking dogs along the track.
At Sutton's Crossing, passengers
Would smile as they reached Ketepec,
Where noses perked to sawdust smells
And farmers fiddled in their dells.
Allie Bonnell had a dream.
He grabbed his hammer and a saw,
And raised a platform to the sky
Where people came to dance and jaw.
There were no TV shows to watch,
And only baseball bats to notch.
For what's a place without a song
That's played by some and sung by more,
Prancing princes, kings and queens,
All heels and toes upon the floor?
Accordions were quite a sight.
Fifteen cents to dance all night.
City dwellers cherished days
Of summer at the river's edge.
Campfire smoke still lingers where
Fairies flit through forest hedge.
Sailboats slicing, paddles skimming,
Anglers splicing, midnight swimming.
The KBM took center stage
For capital communities.
Ketepec, Belmont and Morna
Steeped in clubhouse memories...
Tennis, horseshoes, softball games,
It could be called the "hall of fame".
And when the flakes of winter sealed
September's corn boil in a dream,
The river made a skating rink
For silver blades and hockey teams.
Deer leaned against the nearest birch
As Christmas called from St. Anne's Church.
The Saint John River rolls along
Under skies of baby blue,
Touching lives of country folk
Just the way it used to do.
As timeless minstrels pluck their strings,
Now we must find the words to sing.
It was a crisp day October 27th 1942
that's when my pop set out for WW11
right after my grandmother Nona
gave birth to my dad orders arrived
his job assignment was to protect the
priest arch bishops and future Pope's
being captured and killed for their
religious belief safety guarded in
Saint Sebastian church in Rome
the actual sight where Saint Sebastian
was arrowed to death I adore my military
family my husband saved Pow's during Vietnam
two uncles served and now my granddaughter
the history of thee armed forces within my
family is quite a treasure my pop protected
Pope Benedict and stood side by side
Pope Saint John XX111 1944 during
the Victory after liberating Italy he would
often shed tears about the mafia in America
with Al Capone how they actually portrayed
all Italians as criminals left a sore spot for my
own great grandmother born Mason Vicentino
all of pop's letter from war read somewhere
in Italy Apo New York my Pop died at 97 years
old clutching this photo of Arch bishop Pope
Saint John XX111 he made me swore on his
death bed to protect it from the mafia hoodlums
so it would stay in the hands of the Vatican
sadly Mafia hoods broke into my home trying
to retrieve the photo without success I'd copied
it several times sharing with the Knights of Columbus
the Abby of Monks the Franciscan sisters Arch Bishop
most Reverend Cardinal Francis George of Chicago
of course storing the original for safe keeping
and Honor for the sake of his sorrowful passion
over Saint Peters Square Di Vatican in Rome
my Roman heritage Somewhere in Rome I'm home
This is not Miami, the real site
of the sea grape. This is a wannabe--
a biker town, a speedway town. Not
the fabled city of Dream Whip clouds
expressed into a flawless sky. Not
the cool Technicolor dawn when an aging
chick like me could still do her morning
run on Collins, come back home
to the high rise on the Intercoastal,
where in the mirrored lobby,
retirees lined up in their wheelchairs
along a wall to socialize, see
who comes and goes.
Here, in this faux paradise on a Friday,
morning mass is celebrated in anything but
Ordinary Time by a Bahamian priest in
a chasuble the color of winter rye. There are
no flowers anywhere, only trailing tropicals;
a graceful spider plant with its dangling
tentacles. An acolyte brings sacramental vessels
on a tray, as if to dinner in his own home
to an altar covered with a simple tablecloth.
Simplicity...in the elaborate setting of
the Saint John Basilica, Daytona Beach.
The real home of the sea grape
with its leaves like tennis table paddles
is where a husband hospitalized in Mia
with a failing heart valve lay in
the pre-surgery ICU fighting for breath
as an insensitive nurse brought food
on a tray no way he could eat.
The sea grape is a hardy tree
that reaches for the heights. My son
in Halifax Hospital is like that: a survivor
of surgery for a metal hip to replace
the one that failed. Bones---
nemesis of our family, meant to last
but do not. Unlike the sea grape
whose limbs grown longer,
stronger. Fail not.
Beneath Australia’s expansive sunlit sky, I recall the patchwork quilt, where my life began
12 provinces united, one country created; uniformity resists when anthems unite the parochial clan
From staunch Overijssel in the north, to Limburg’s laughter in the south
From Drente’s eastern reach renowned, to Zeeland’s exalted river mouth
Friesland’s fair and twisted tongue, a language apart
Her “Tjalks” adorn the “Ijsselmeer”, binding forever a Fries heart
Groningen’s Martini towered capitol sits amid Europe’s oldest man made scenery
While Utrecht at the countries heart, the nation’s birthplace abounds in greenery
The Hollands next both South and North, give us cities which compete
For world renown, both Rotter- and sweet Amsterdam, with tulips are complete
Gelderland’s unfortunate claim to fame came from war
When allies forced a German retreat; they aimed a bridge too far
North Brabant lies beneath southern skies, a friendly place where life is good
Before Lent with carnival spent round old Saint John, is where, my cradle once stood
Limburg land of promise, of fresh fruit flans and singing nightingales,
Where clear streams cascade through oaken forests and silence prevails
Flevoland, the last, where fishing boats of Urk once sailed the Southern Sea
Now reclaimed land doth arise as each polder dries, thanks to the vision of Lely
Fatherland, motherland, though far away now, if truth be told
A warm place in my heart, “Je maintiendrai”; I will uphold
West Saint John has many ghosts,
As many ghosts as people.
They move in mist where shadows twist,
And scrutinize church steeples.
Martello Tower proudly sits
Upon the Carleton Heights.
A cavalcade of ghosts parade
Like Moses' Israelites.
Basil Hamilton will swear:
"There's no such thing as ghosts!"
But his wife knew he'd rendezvous
With many misplaced hosts.
If you observed the grounds at night,
You'd see the spirits roam.
And Basil feared they'd reappear
To escort him back home.
But he was stationed there to watch
If German submarines
Came within reach of Beatteay's Beach,
Or somewhere in between.
"Be quiet in the dungeon, you
Who moan and rattle chains!
You rolled the dice. You'll pay the price.
I guard you with disdain.
I cannot let you out of here.
I'll give you bread and drink.
That's all I'll do for duds like you."
Clink-clink! Clink-clink! Clink-clink!
Some say they've seen the Red Coat ghost
Bent over, looking down.
He's lost his pay, or lost his way
To Heaven's Holy Town.
Martello's ghosts can bear the dark,
But then where do they go?
They're trapped inside, disqualified,
With no portfolio.
Perhaps tonight, some local kids
Sneak in there, just like mice.
They'll then transform, in uniforms
Of vanquished poltergeists.
The Tower ghosts are very old.
These relics know their role.
They can be seen each Halloween
Peering through a peephole.
Silent!
Open your Bible to Saint John 11:35
Somewhere at the junction of fate and survival
let's see the guiltless tears quaking this messed land!
Old sweat of the saints gathered
Ancient blood of the cross stood
And the curtain broke into two
Cracking the raven of the blind side of a
land pouring an old wine into a new bottle.
If there is a God, it is obvious he's weeping
for my country home.
Karma is home again &oblivion of its glories
Shall tame this burning flames of Christ tears.
Are the Saints still crying of their betrayed shadows?
Nigeria left us a sad song to be swallowed into our mouth like the body of Christ.
How do we spell genocide?
How do we write jungle justice on a paper?
Are the Chibokgirls back from Sambisa forest?
I never knew tears have voices too until
they are adapted in the chronicle of emptiness.
When we started from genesis,
We sighted those broken bridges in exodus
Parting the morals to see death multiplying.
And Jesus wept, not for sin but for a home like ours.
Yet, every night we burn incenses before sleep
Hoping that each dawn we'll see through those
illusion in the tears my home brings.
Yet, Jesus still weeps for a land my leaders
made a public forest of pleasure.
My home: your face is now walking behind a black sun!
We'll cease to make ourselves pillars of death.
©John Chizoba Vincent
Yo Ho!, Yo Ho! The pirates life for me
The Jamaica Jewel’s sails are full on seven seas
Skull and bones flying high on the main mast
With a trim bow and keel my flag ship is fast
At both starboard and port, my canons thunder
heard from a distance, time to pillage and plunder
My boots and vest are leather black with buckles gold
When the sunlight reflects, landlubber’s blood runs cold
A gold and turtle shell handled sword slung to my hip
A stylish full brim black hat with a subtle dip
I dress all in black except a plume of vermillion
A chest full of treasure and pieces of eight by the million
Just the sound of my name sends shivers to timbers of all
I am Capitan Blood Head, on mermaid lips and ports-o-call
On sand and beach Capitan Blood Head wanted alive or dead
Where rivers become waterfalls posters for bounty is what’s read
So the legend lives on, from Key Largo, San Juan and St Kitts cay
From Trinidad and Tobago to Saint John and Montego Bay
Don’t you cross Capitan Blood Head and his Scallywags
And don’t even think about his favorite Sea hags
‘cause if you do, they will make you walk the plank
Down to Davy Jones Locker, blub, blub, blub you sank
YO HO!, YO HO! A PIRATES LIFE FOR ME
Warner Baxter for contest "Sketch a Character"