working in the fields, picking cotton, and given food that is mouldy and rotten
Sweating in this heat with nothing to drink clothes ripped and dirty, and they are beginning to stink.
Chains around our ankles so that they cannot run, dropping exhausted in the blazing sun
Women were being raped, abused, and they went through hell
Made to have babies for their masters to sell
locked in at night, in wooden shacks, with welts from the whipping and the blood running down their backs
If they tried escape, hobbling would be done. Our masters would break their ankles so they could not run
So they did what they had to do in order to survive.
Bowing their heads to the masters just to stay alive
And if they were to die there would be an unmarked grave
No one cared who was buried there, just a worthless slave.
Those dark days are gone now; not slaves, they are now free
Able to live as equals, that is how it should always be.
Now go to the grave with no name to see
And say to them thank you for setting us free
Rustic hints of shambolic yet magic shacks
Glints of silky footprint frolic tints the tracks
Mussel sacks demonic crab claw tussle cracks
No skinflint skimps sprinkles winkles & shrimps
Cockles twinkle the bucolic prawns the pimps
Shiny oysters briny gangster & milky prankster
Iconic lobster the mobster swish shellfish stacks
(Although to be fair for the heir of fancy flair fayre
The French care so much oui they say Fruit De Mer)
Monday morning sneaks through shack and grime,
Bullets whirr where drug barons plot their trade,
Gatas tread gingerly.wasting hours and time.
The spaza hums,mugs chime,Rooibos Tea in the lane,
Bambinos sidestep shadows,mae geri into dustty tins,
Old timers murmur incantations under the day's first pain.
Smog sprinkles from braai stands where mamtanies fry,
Pirated Kalashnikovs twinkle in the sun's first glare,
Yet souls beat steady,declining lies.
Klevahs shuffle,wallets empty,agrrements whispered fast,
Tiny tots peep through windows,hearts throbbing loud,
Even in agony,a tenacious hope holds steady steadfast.
Through shacks,mirth trembles,sharp but bright,
The day starts with grit,with pain,with dreams,
In this dream struggle, the spirit fights for light.
A tangle of moss in the new gray dawn—
Palm fronds whisper hush, hush—
Waves shiver on the sand.
The sea sighs like a tired dreamer.
Fiddler crabs scuttle sideways in the hush—
Sideways like folks around here,
Slipping sideways in the hush.
Behind ragged shacks, I stand.
Smoke curls like a question mark.
A rooster crows a single note of gold.
Somebody’s frying fish, crab cakes,
And hush puppies.
Breakfast for the sun, maybe.
Somebody’s humming the blues—
A low, slow song of yesterday’s chain gang.
But the sea keeps calling—
Even the sand listens—
Dreaming of a better tomorrow,
In nineteen sixty six.
O' there's so much resilience in residence;
People so inside...
vessels, lessons, treasure, houses,
dwellings beaches, farms apartments in caves
Living in dwellings homeless shelters grounds yards sidewalks condemned house trains and boats
Scampi shanty shacks
O' there's so much resilience in residence,
People inside
RESIDENCE
4/16/25
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.2025
A cold, comfortless park bench
an empty subway train
A bed of leaves, trending damp
a knoll of grass behind an exit ramp
Long-abandoned shacks
or railroad tracks
Boarded-up homes
no-trespassing danger zones
All these serenade me to sleep
echo the music, all night I weep
It was just like before riding my bicycle along the beach my tire rolls right over a star fish braising bump and scratches on my knee the gulf was thirsty for human blood this year as the manatees floated belly up the pelicans shivered with empty beaks again the school of sharks gathered while the dolphins danced chattered sea urchin washed ashore I put salt water on my wounds feeling sad that the sea turtles rushed back to sea unaware of the mexican oil spill there home covered in black tar I walked my bike passed the book store just in time for bob crab shacks oyster bar funny the owner yelled come on in gal why you looking so blue in that moment the blue oyster became my signature name on the beach the sun shined the breeze blew softly over the nape of my back silence abode over the Caribbean Sea
In Paramaribo
I met a girl, half Indian and beautiful
there was a big church and a castle
to defend Dutch interest
A hot and swampy place, which I liked
coming from Norway, a cold country
with a poor working- class who sent
their sons to join the merchant marine
The housing estate in Paramaribo
consisted, mostly of shacks, among
romantic palms
Had I married the girl and settled
I would have been a beneficiary of
the promised oil wealth
As it is, as a Norwegian, I get a pension
so mean, I have to live in Portugal
because the rulers put the wealth in
sovereign fund for a future that
appears to be at the threshold of a war
Simple slacks, nymphomaniacs bent over against the wall
Training tracks, trapped out shacks three pirouettes then fall
Switching blues not of the clues pills not measured in balls
Way to close the overdosed introducing the new King Fentanyl...
bmdavey@08/2024
"Just breathe, you're having your breath taken, 'Aweigh anchors away,' the blessed follows," ... by The Poet
The unnoticeable lulls a fancy
as obscurity stares at a lost
such are promotions
of a trance
stages all ages
a momentous chance
for lifetime promise of romance
shattering glimmering
convinces glimpses
alarm bells--"Hush little baby don't--OH NO!"
"Release the Kraken ... or mices ... an ant if you have any?"
She comes, A ROWER?
It's The Specifics of the Ocean
Those islanders will come out - rigging
and surfing, Aurora, in a pipeline ... she's a dreamer ...
OH NO! WIPEout, its ecliptic ... but there at the ocean's edge
o'er the horizon, Aurora, RISE
the shacks are empty, the fields aplenty
The Drums of the Islands, Aloha Alive.
It's a new day as the hot sun starts,
here reporting on the cheese battle.
Overnight the wine and cheese taverns,
moved in for the cracker spread.
The cider & charcuterue shacks,
were not having any of that.
They are fighting back hard,
with hard salami and cubed cheddar.
Looks like they will not let some wine and cheese taverns,
win this cheese battle.
As the sun sets,
both sides are very tired.
The wine and cheese taverns,
did the unthinkable.
They let loose the wine,
and drowned the other side.
This reporter from String Cheese City,
is signing off for tonight I'm Sharp Slice.
In Delhi's heart, a tale untold,
Of towering shadows, harsh and cold.
Gleaming steel and vibrant lights,
Hide a stark contrast, unseen at night.
Pan across narrow, winding lanes,
Zoom in on makeshift shacks, defying rains.
Corrugated tin, a patchwork quilt,
Where dreams and desperation, subtly melt.
Close-up on faces, etched with care,
Weathered hands, a burden to bear.
Eyes that hold a flicker of hope,
Yearning for a future, out of this scope.
Tilt down to children, playing in dust,
Laughter echoing, a fleeting trust.
Barefoot innocence, in a world so harsh,
A poignant reminder, of life's uneven marsh.
A long shot captures the skyline's might,
Luxury contrasting, in the fading light.
A silent plea for a helping hand,
To bridge the gap, in this divided land.
Focus on resilience, woven in tight,
A community spirit, burning ever so bright.
For in the depths of Delhi's underbelly,
Lies the strength of the human spirit, yearning to tell me…
It is a story of struggle, yet fight,
Of hope flickering, in the darkest night.
A plea for change, a call for all,
To break the cycle, and answer the call.
A brotherly jaunt through sinister mirth
behold the brothers Death:
gowned and guided, an ill century
the fourteenth, an alliance of crop, of plague
in ground-down death of torrential pains
in sores and blood under the rains
that drowned the land, starved the bellies
there echoed howls of ill exclaim
a wanting of a light to shine
is where the brothers thought that they
worked well together, effectively
one would scoop from ruined crop
one from sickness, war, attack
the beak, a sign, of the plague mask
in shacks, where hags mopped weeping rot
crosses on doors, on floors of straw
with nothing in the cooking pot
the brothers danced and sang their wealth
of many clientele they sought
and on they went, and on they struck
perfecting songs on appetites
of pestilence and of disease
hand in hand like trees whose leaves
do smother, smite, in murderous breeze
the brothers, down the ages tease
and beckon, wreaking havoc on,
like rolling waves of seas on high
always taunting their sister - life
Follow the red dirt road.
Take it slow, walk it,
this is not an exploration
nor a pilgrimage,
it is a short tour around
the beginning of an idea
and its end.
Move along
past the few rural homesteads,
pass beyond the shacks
and the weather-beaten
tumbledown cabins,
the double and single wide
not so mobile homes
with their rusting trucks.
Hurry past the gypsy encampments.
with their gangs of wild dogs
until that dirt road ends
in a dry long uncultivated field.
This is where the dust
covers the old road maker
and beside his sunbaked bones
see how his maps and plans
are rolled up tight
never to be unrolled again.
Those dingy streets are filled,
with lost souls forgotten.
Their hopes have long faded,
and each dream lies rotten.
Each life holds a story,
that will never be told.
Among the crumbling shacks,
down on Hurricane Road.
There’s things they will teach you,
like anger and stealing.
To make a few more bucks,
you’ll cut what you’re dealing.
Can’t care ‘bout your neighbor,
when you’re making a buck.
You hold on with both hands,
there’s no such thing as luck.
In this dark place so filled,
with anger and sadness.
One thing remains certain,
on these streets of madness.
Life is just a trinket,
that can be bought and sold.
Behind these crumbling shacks,
down on Hurricane Road.
Even the best silver,
can tarnish when it’s old.
As will the crumbling lives,
down on Hurricane Road.
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