I only have one quarter to my name,
and here's the reason that I came.
It is to ask a question of a feller,
the world's greatest fortune teller,
but not to ask the usual queries
like who will win the world series,
or will I ever get to kiss Patrice,
or will the world learn to live in peace.
I want to know the next prompt from Liguori,
so, I can make up a silly story
after researching the new names
that I will learn from Robert James,
so, I can write a poem that is unique.
Here's a quarter. Zoltar - speak!
For Patrice Lumumba
25-06-2025
When you gave back just a tooth
You didn’t even feel ashamed
At all though you knew the truth
You were never deeply blamed
For what you did to Patrice
Lumumba whom you tortured
Then chopped and chopped to pieces
Like an onion you nurtured
Your ego and turned our land
Into a profit death camp
Which fulfilled what you had planned
You took and took to revamp
Belgium thus exploited
All our raw material
Thinking you were anointed
By God to act imperial
No one was prosecuted
For what you put us through
Your deeds can’t be disputed
Even your own crew knows it’s true
When rubber quotas wasn’t met
You cut off my limbs with an axe
To make an example of me on set
Were you proud with all those stacks
And stacks of hands you displayed
Like medals on parade after a race
Were you aware of the game you played
Which was gory yet turned our face
Sad when blood gushed like water from
A hydrant still no remorse
While you just stood there numb
To the course you had to endorse
As we metamorphose
away from mumbo-jumbo,
we cleave to poetry, abandon prose.
Science is the only one that knows.
I saw it on “Colombo”.
A laptop’s far more useful than a rose.
Remember Walden Pond, and when it froze?
Or when Aunt Bernadette prepared that gumbo?
You won’t forget the north wind when it blows!
America’s best movie? If it chose,
the Number One would probably be ‘Dumbo’.
And ‘Tik Tak Toe’ would be the Show of Shows.
We all have sadness, live through woes,
but strong folk are not looking for macumba.
Rain falls – that’s all we need suppose.
Just check your seams are straight: adjust your hose,
and get out there and trip a raunchy rumba.
You know the tune real well. It’s one of those.
You think that milk and honey are what flows?
I’d like to see you tell Patrice Lumumba!
It’s been that way for many other Joes.
Art long, life short? The poem has to close.
But maybe, from the shadow of the tumba,
some vestige will remain for you to gloze.
Mrs. Marvel wore sweatshirt for twenty-eight years until her final breath.
Signed by her 8th grade students, four whom had died a tragic death.
Killed in a tragic bus accident on the way to a state cheerleading rally.
They met her at the pearly gates – Linda, Cherry, Patrice and Molly McNally.
Saint Patrice day
In 1957 my ship docked in the town of Cork (Ireland)
If you think that is a long time ago, you are probably right
but in my head, it was yesterday.
Life was slower back then, cargo was lowered into
donkey carts, there were many mules waiting
we went to a pub, a stone a throwaway and drank Guinness
Never did I tell my mother, but I told her of the Irish girl
I was going to marry had red hair and green eyes
she had the aroma of an angel.
Leisureliness has ended ships leave as ships do
On the shore, she waved, we cried, and people smiled
they didn’t know; no one had loved so deeply as us.
Our letter writing petered out, so many adventures for young
minds I met a girl in Amsterdam, she had a bike.
My mother asked about the Irish girl. Her name was Catlin.
I tried to be a good girl, to be quiet and unnoticed.
Because the world is a scary place, and evil people frighten me.
I felt if I was unassuming, hiding inside dark doorways, I would be safe.
I watched other girls be loud and proud, getting away with it
Not tempted to be the real me, because I thought I would be a target.
If there is one thing I did not want,
it was to be “the one” the bad guy kills.
Patrice was one of those “out there” girls in every way.
She flashed her talents in the best way possible, and it was marvelous!
I felt jealous of that, but still stuck to my molehills, hiding under stairs.
After watching the movie “Looking for Mr. Goodbar” Patrice disappeared.
She was not found for six months, then it was just her body.
She was gone.
A bad guy got her.
My mindset changed immediately.
If they could murder her, they could murder me.
Did I want to get murdered without living the life I secretly wanted to live?
Thanks to this epiphany I became the real me, forty years ago.
Written 8-11-2022
Contest The Epiphany that Changed Your Life Forever
Host: Chantelle Anne Cooke
There once was a wrestler called Patrice
Who gobbled food till he was obese;
Though round and full his tummy
He overate pork yummy-
And beat rivals licking their oiled grease.
Bawdy Limerick Contest , Tania Kitchin
30 Dec 2018
P-oems
A-re
T-ruly
R-efreshing
I-n
C-ool
E-xpression
J-ust
A-ccepting
C-omments
K-ept
S-weetly
O-r
N-icely
Topic: Poetess (Patrice Trice Jackson)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
THE MAUSOLEUM OF ALL
Africa is the burial chamber of many,
Millions of men and women rested in peace,
The deepest hole full of important bones,
The bones of *****sapiens are in the graves.
It is the cradle of humankind.
Africa the sepulcher of our ancestors,
“Rolihlahla Nelson Mandela, Emery Patrice
Lumumba, Julius Kambarage Mwalimu Nyerere,
Jomo Kenyatta, Kwame Nkrumah, Samora
Moises Mashel, and Prince Louis Rwagasore.”
Africa! The black coffin for all dies in Africa.
Africa the mausoleum of humanity,
I wish to be buried in Africa only,
The angels are walking free in Africa,
The guardians are guarding the graveyards
Day and night.
Africa! My last resting place, your burial place,
Our burial chamber
The last resting place of many kings:
“Shaka Zulu, Haile Sellasie, pharaohs, Samore
Toure, Mswati II, Tenkamenin, Mansa Musa,
Sundiata Keita, Oba Ewuare, Sonni Ali, Osei
Kofi Tutu, Sumanguru kante, Ngongo lutete,
And Ezana Axum.”
Africa! The mausoleum of many messenger-
Prophets:
“Isaiah Mloyiswa Mdliwamafa Shembe, Simon
Kimbangu, and Jean Mwambi Mulaya Kadima.”
You are our grave, oh Africa.
All will pass there.
By Alfonso II Warally. Chris
Aha! Where is Kwame Nkrumah?
Black-unity champion with cocoa-filled head whose
Calabash never misses palm wine for elders;
Departure to bliss not a reality, tell us why?
Everything must be done to wake up Patrice Lumumba
Freedom fighter for Zaire- the lion of the exploited
Gave your blood to water the tree of liberty,
Is truly the Martin Luther King of Africa,
Join us again, animate our spirit of struggle for liberty
Kambarage Nyerere, are you still praying for brotherhood?
Mouth dripping honey, soul pulsating love for all
New, healthy tomato in stained basket of governance
Open the door of freedom; Jump into the ring. No delay
People-powered Nelson Mandela, are you coming back?
Quartet member of the moving train of liberation
Recall that you’re the curative Aspirin of power-ache
Stronger than the cruel stones of Ruben Island
Time for Africa to fly away from Ruben Island
Unfortunately Ruben Island guards still arrest
Very many and paint them “Old boys of Mandela”!
Your thought not to hate
But why I hate you so much
Lord please come into my heart
My heart has hardened
She left me
Left me with the boys
I loved her
But she loved the bottle
Smoke
Party
Streets
Friends
She was unloyal
Had my questions DNA
But my genes run deep
Lord bring forgiveness in my heart
I want to break her down
I wish she drop dead
No I don't
Lord help me please
How could she
I wanted to be family
Be a man
Do right by her
5 years no calls
Letters
Visits
Now you expecting again
How dare you
Lord bless her soul
Will you abandon
This one
I pray not
Lord take this hostility
Out my spirit
Take it out
This built up anger
Remove it
Lord my heart hardened
-Patrice Jackson and Ricky Jackson
She liked being her own boss
It suited her personality very well
Coming in at your own hours,
occasionally taking a nap when you chose to
Surf the latest fashions,
scroll through the top trending news
Nothing like having your own business,
it's even better when it becomes a success
As an intrepid entrepreneur,
just another day in the life
She enjoyed making the fresh bread,
she enjoyed holding the butter knife
Spreading the wealth
gave her much satisfaction
Treating her employees good
was the ultimate euphoric lift
Shopping at the free market
is such a volatile affair
Things don't always go as they should
Bids accepted, bids denied;
some days she won the contract,
some days she was miffed
But making her own decisions everyday,
was like each day giving herself a gift
As an intrepid entrepreneur,
she enjoyed tasting the frosting,
she enjoyed cutting the cake
She enjoyed setting her own clock every daybreak
A tribute to my beloved sister Patrice
I paint your beauty in my heart and mind
in swirling strokes of wind squalls and light;
the youthful lift of limbs of early spring,
with summer’s joyful red, with fall's surprise.
I paint you in wonder of winter’s white
through snow storm's chill and my loving eyes.
I paint you beyond the blue pain of the past
with the gray of fear the future hides.
Jealous of luring space and power of time,
yet, with all the hope, the joy, the ache
as seen in the strength of my trembling hand;
I’ll paint you again my child, mesmerized.
After: L'Enfant au Tablier Rouge, 1886 by Berthe Morisot
For Debbie Guzzi's Challenge: Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 8
Kim Patrice Nunez
17 January 2016
the hour is past, the sky
overcast and the chill feels heavier
on a drooping shoulder
ships have come,
and gone like the last biscotti
for the little one,
she worries
her hand
maybe they should just go
home where there might still be
some warmth left in the
morning’s espresso
she never thought she would have
to look for warmth, she had always
had the rush of heat
from his arms
somehow the cobbled walk seems
much longer, harder than when
they set out at dawn
maybe tomorrow morning
the quay will be less cold,
and the sky a little brightened
with his return
After: Morning at the Quay in Venice by Helen Allingham
For Debbie Guzzi's Challenge: Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 9
Kim Patrice Nunez
15 January 2016
Not all news of its existence brings joy –
a heartbeat is denied the trumpets
instead, news is shared in long drawn
out breaths with eyes that never dry.
A vow was broken long before –
Those nights, when they turn off the light
a silence is broken amidst long sighs.
A creature of habit learns in time certain
vested interest will come to be expected;
promises are forgotten in the dark.
But this is unexpected news; now the light
need no longer be turned off every night.
The weeping stops when a decision is made;
she finds that self-sacrifice does not extend
beyond the sanctity of life. A creature
of habit learns hypocrisy the hard way.
After: Twilight Confidences by Cecilia Beaux 1888
For Debbie Guzzi's Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 7
Kim Patrice Nunez
14 January 2016
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