The piper coming from far away is you
With a whitewash brush for a sporran
Wobbling round you, a kitchen chair
Upside down on your shoulder, your right arm
Pretending to tuck the bag beneath your elbow,
Your pop-eyes and big cheeks nearly bursting
With laughter, but keeping the drone going on
Interminably, between catches of breath.



The whitewash brush. An old blanched skirted thing
On the back of the byre door, biding its time
Until spring airs spelled lime in a work-bucket
And a potstick to mix it in with water.
Those smells brought tears to the eyes, we inhaled
A kind of greeny burning and thought of brimstone.
But the slop of the actual job
Of brushing walls, the watery grey
Being lashed on in broad swatches, then drying out
Whiter and whiter, all that worked like magic.
Where had we come from, what was this kingdom
We knew we'd been restored to? Our shadows
Moved on the wall and a tar border glittered
The full length of the house, a black divide
Like a freshly opened, pungent, reeking trench.



**** at the gable, the dead will congregate.
But separately. The women after dark,
Hunkering there a moment before bedtime,
The only time the soul was let alone,
The only time that face and body calmed
In the eye of heaven.

Buttermilk and *****,
The pantry, the housed beasts, the listening bedroom.
We were all together there in a foretime,
In a knowledge that might not translate beyond
Those wind-heaved midnights we still cannot be sure
Happened or not. It smelled of hill-fort clay
And cattle dung. When the thorn tree was cut down
You broke your arm. I shared the dread
When a strange bird perched for days on the byre roof.



That scene, with Macbeth helpless and desperate
In his nightmare--when he meets the hags agains
And sees the apparitions in the ***--
I felt at home with that one all right. Hearth,
Steam and ululation, the smoky hair
Curtaining a cheek. 'Don't go near bad boys
In that college that you're bound for. Do you hear me?
Do you hear me speaking to you? Don't forget!'
And then the postick quickening the gruel,
The steam crown swirled, everything intimate
And fear-swathed brightening for a moment,
Then going dull and fatal and away.



Grey matter like gruel flecked with blood
In spatters on the whitewash. A clean spot
Where his head had been, other stains subsumed
In the parched wall he leant his back against
That morning like any other morning,
Part-time reservist, toting his lunch-box.
A car came slow down Castle Street, made the halt,
Crossed the Diamond, slowed again and stopped
Level with him, although it was not his lift.
And then he saw an ordinary face
For what it was and a gun in his own face.
His right leg was hooked back, his sole and heel
Against the wall, his right knee propped up steady,
So he never moved, just pushed with all his might
Against himself, then fell past the tarred strip,
Feeding the gutter with his copious blood.

*

My dear brother, you have good stamina.
You stay on where it happens. Your big tractor
Pulls up at the Diamond, you wave at people,
You shout and laugh about the revs, you keep
old roads open by driving on the new ones.
You called the piper's sporrans whitewash brushes
And then dressed up and marched us through the kitchen,
But you cannot make the dead walk or right wrong.
I see you at the end of your tether sometimes,
In the milking parlour, holding yourself up
Between two cows until your turn goes past,
Then coming to in the smell of dung again
And wondering, is this all? As it was
In the beginning, is now and shall be?
Then rubbing your eyes and seeing our old brush
Up on the byre door, and keeping going.

Kumasi, the Tree City,
The Kingdom City with a divine eagle
Standing bravely on a mighty stick,
The unquestionable love that embraces
The soul of the arch enemy,
The tradition that swallows
The ancient courage and modern pride,

Kumasi, the Tree City,
The mighty city that lies under
The flying wings of the
Beautiful Okumanin tree,
The golden city of the Western Sudan
Planted by the arm of the Almighty,
You are truly the dwelling
Abode of unity and majesty,

Kumasi, the Tree City,
The echoes of your ancestral spirits
Do not sleep nor slumber
You that provides a comfortable
Seat for the grandson of
The almighty Krobea Asante Kotoko,
The modern pride of the great
Ancient mother of Yaa Asantewaa,

Kumasi, the Tree City,
The great son of the vulture,
Otomfuo Osei Tutu, may not
Appreciate your present
State of modernization,
For you have surrounded
T he Golden Stool with
Carelessness and filth,
Your crime rate has swept
Away the memories of
The great Okomfo Anokye,

Kumasi, the Tree City,
Oh, the inhabitance under the protective
And motherly wings of the great tree,
The Ayoko kingship deserves a clean land,
This great city must regain
Her serene and inviting sweet-scented
Greeny and stable environment,
For mother Ghana has always
Pride herself in your glory and dignity,

Kumasi, the Tree City,
The precious eye of Asanteman,
Never deny your former glory,
Oh, the pride of West Africa
You still have what it takes
To be the Garden City of West Africa,
You are Oseikrom indeed,
Okumaninase, the capital city of Kwaman,
The heart of the Republic of Ghana.


© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: nanaspeaks@gmail.com

Poem 6 edited
I know and understand the cynicism of most on this topic, but I can assure you that I have not invented any of this, so treat my poem with the seriousness it deserves.

It is a tale of forgotten events.

Things I'd pushed away from my mind as a child.

Things I did not believe we're real.

The dark.

The uncanny.

The Unknown.

I'll begin...

The Evil Tree.

To get to the gravestone we had to pass an old tree
One with a terrible history
A tale that ended, evilly

We walked through the dark woods toward the evil tree.
The mist hung the way it does normally,
but in an evil way.

The trees around the evil tree leaned away fearfully
Or some of them leaned towards the tree,
but less toward than they'd normally be
If it weren't an evil tree

The evilness of the evil tree
was so great that it hid it cleverly
By looking just like every other tree
But evil

Its roots were evil roots
Taking evil nutrients
That looked like other nutrients,
But evil

The evil nutrients fed the evil trunk
Like an evil woody chunk
Filled with standard sappy gunk
But evil

The evil gunk was in the branches too
The branches were evil through and through
They were deepest, darkest evil brown
With evil moss up and down
Swaying in an evil way
Like other branches day to day,
But evil

The branches followed on to the evil twigs
Twigs thinly evil; branches evilly big
Growing out ShArP AnD POINTY!
Like skinny arms, evilly jointy!!
But at the ends of these twigs...

Unlike ordinary twigs...

Were leaves,

BUT EVIL LEAVES!!!!!
Evil leaves!
EvIL lEaVEs!!!
Everywhere were evil leaves!
Some of them high in the trees!
Some of them were on the floor
And on the graves I saw yet more!
Evil green
And brown and red!
Many of them just lay down DEAD!

And if that were not enough...

I walked toward this evil tree
Unaware how evil a tree could be
As I bravely gained upon this pillar
I saw a hungry caterpillar
It was crawling in the normal way
Like caterpillars do every day

Slowly, it crawled
Creeping
Twisted and contorting its body
Edging ever closer
Toward me

I innocently reached down to pick him up

And that's when I noticed

The bite marks

In the leaf

An evil leaf!!

Time seemed to slow right down
I noticed too late, the evil brown!
I saw its evil greeny hue
And it's evil hairy back
Looking like other caterpillar do,
that don't give you a heart attack
Tick and tock
The time passed by
I saw the evil monsters eye
Raised upon an evil stalk
Wondering if he could scream or talk
What would he say?!

He'd say...

I'm an evil caterpillar
I will maim and devour these leaves
Not just the evil, the innocent too
Their life will be a tasty filler
And as their branchy mother greaves
She can watch me as I chew, chew, chew
Just like other caterpillars do
But evil!

And then I'll grow an evil cuccoon
One with plenty of evil room
And hang high in the evil branches
Where nobody would take their chances

Outside, it's still and eerie calm
Inside I start to dis embalm
Myself
I flay my skin
And then begin
To change
Evilly!!

And after many evil days
You think you've lost my evil ways
Until I break
I'm born anew
My evil body grew and grew
The most hideously evil things
A pair of pretty butterfly wings!
BUT EVIL!!!!!

And as I had this evil thought
I realised that I was caught!!
The caterpillar crawled on to my hand
But ...
strange enough I felt just grand!
There was not heat nor evil sting
Just this tiny little thing
I realised he wasn't evil
Less evil than a common weevil
I lifted high, held him aloft
When suddenly he fell back off!

I looked down on him, like a God
Lifted my foot and then I trod!

I now know what happened you see
He passed his evil on to meeeeeeeeee!!!!!!
Mwahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaa!!!!!

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound
With joy; and often, an intruding guest,
I watched her secret toil from day to day—
How true she warped the moss to form a nest,
And modelled it within with wood and clay;
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue;
And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,
A brood of nature’s minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

There were raised voices. Ingrid heard them. Her father's booming voice over her mother's screech. She stirred in her small bed. Pulled the blankets over her shoulder. Sheltered by the thick ex army coat of her father's on top of the blankets she snuggled down trying to shut out the sounds. It was Saturday, no school. She hated school, hated the tormenting kids, the lessons, the teacher bellowing at her. Only Benedict talked kindly to her, only he made her laugh, took her on adventures round and about, the bomb sites, the cinema, the swimming pool in Bedlam Park. The voices got louder, there was a sound of glass smashing. Silence followed, her mother's screeching began again, her father's booming voices trying to drown her out. Ingrid pulled the blankets tighter around her. She daren't go out along the passage until it was over. Even though she needed to ***, she held it in, thought of other things. Her wire framed glasses lay on the bedside cabinet her mother had bought at a junk shop. The thick lens were smeary, the wire frame slightly bent where her father's hand had clipped them when he slapped her about the head for talking out of turn. There was a small cut on her nose where the glasses had caught. A radio began to play, the voices had stopped. A door slammed. Her father had gone out. She poked her head out of the blankets. Music filtered through into her room from the radio. She got out of bed and stood on the wooden floor boards. Her clothes: dress, cardigan, underwear and socks were laid neatly on a chair where she'd folded them the night before. She opened the door of her bedroom and ventured down the passage to the toilet and shut the door and put the bolt across and sat down. The music played on. Her mother began to sing. She had weak voice, kind of like a child's. Ingrid played with her fingers. Pretended to knit, as her mother had unsuccessfully tried to show her, with imagined knitting needles. As she sat she felt the bruise on her left buttock. Her father's beating of a day or so ago. She knitted faster, fingers racing. She stopped dropped a stitch as her mother called it. She left the toilet and went to wash in the kitchen sink. She wished they had a bathroom like her cousin did. Her parent's bath was in the kitchen with a table that was let down when not in use. She washed in the cold water, her hands and face and neck. Dried on the towel behind the door. Her mother came in carrying a cup and saucer. She set it down on the draining board and looked at Ingrid. Get yourself some breakfast and then get dressed, if your father catches you in that state, he won't half have a go, her mother said. Ingrid went into the living room and got a bowl from the glass fronted cupboard and a spoon from the drawer and poured herself some cereals and added milk from a jug on the table and sat to eat. Her mother brought in a mug of tea for her and put it on the table and went off to the bedroom to make the bed. The music from the radio played on from the living room window she could see the streets below, the grass area beneath with the two bomb shelters left over from the War where she and other sat or climbed or played around. Over the street was the coal wharf where coal lorries and horse drawn wagons loaded up with sacks of coal. She ate her cereals. A train went across the railway bridge over the way;puffs of smoke rose in the air. Below boys played on the grass. One of the boys had offered her 6d to see her underwear, but she had refused. He shrugged his shoulders and said your loss and wandered off. 6d would have bought her sweets, a drink of pop, but she had her pride. She finished her breakfast and sipped her tea. Warm and sweet. She let her tongue swim in the tea. Benedict said he would buy her some chips after the morning film matinée at the cinema. Her mother said she would give her 9d for the cinema, but not to tell her father. As if she would, she mused, watching a horse drawn wagon leave the coal wharf. She drank the tea and took mug, spoon and bowl into the kitchen  and washed them up and left them on the draining board. She went to her bedroom and took off her nightdress. The mirror on the old dressing table showed a thin pale looking nine year old girl with short cut brown hair and squinting brown eyes. She only saw a blur. She put on her glasses and peered at herself. No wonder the boys laughed at her and the girls avoided her. Only Benedict was friendly to her. He said she was pretty. She couldn't see it, the prettiness. She turned. Over her thin shoulder she saw the bruises on her buttocks. Fading. Bluey greeny yellowish. She walked to get her clothes off the chair and began to dress. She wished she had a cleaner dress, she'd worn that one for nearly a week. The cardigan had holes and there were buttons missing. She did up what buttons there were and brushed her hair with the hairbrush her gran had given her. It had stiff bristles and a large wooden handle. She stood in front of the mirror and peered at herself. She put the 9d her mother had given her in her pocket. Ready or not Benedict would be there soon. He knocked his own special knock. Once her father answered and glared at Benedict and asked what he wanted. Benedict said, to see the prettiest girl in the world. Her father glared harder, Benedict simply smiled. How did he do that? How did he do that to her father? There was a tensive wait, her father glaring and Benedict looking passive. Then her father called her to the door and said, this here boy asked for the prettiest girl in the world; he must have got the wrong address. Ingrid went red and looked at Benedict. No, right address and girl, Benedict said,looking by her father's brawny arm at her. How she managed not to wet herself she didn't know. Her father just walked back indoors and left them to talk on the balcony without any more words and she never got a beating afterwards, either. Now she waited for that special knock. That rat-rat and rat-rat. She smiled at her reflection. Prettiest girl. Ugliest more like. Rat-rat and rat-rat. He was there. He'd come. She could hear his voice. She took one last look at herself in the mirror, wet fingered she dabbed at her hair. Time to go, time to get out of there. Her knight in jeans and jumper had come on a white horse to take her away; imaginary of course.

royal rulers mighty roar,jungle dwellers all in awe,mountain,bush, pasture, plain,reigns supreme his domain.but...could this kingdom cat compare,on close cut grasses greens of fair?would he fill ten holes for fun?bag nine birdies, not just one.does he stroke a lengthy club?***** that swing thro greeny shrub,best perfecting all he masters,dimpled ***** inbag with castors.would he ryd-her cup of love? use two hands, just one glove?could he bunk-her in the rough?wedge it, chip it, putt the ****.could he ease the game with foreplay?drive it homeward up the fairway,does he eye the aim while kneeling?as caddy guides his pole to feeling,so who's the top dog ***** cat?won't take long to answer that,would lion do it if he could?i know for sure......tiger wood

he wore pastel pajamas
and a crown of feathers
his world was mosaic

petals rained on his hair
red berries trailed his path
and his eyes reflected the ocean in them

he sang
and the leaves danced in fluid motion
he loved
and the ocean was warm in its embrace

A merry forest pig was he
he woke up very early and hunted until three
snorting, sniffing, the air he's whiffing
never is he ruffled, only focused on his truffles
He goes **** rumping
grunt, grunting for truffle - O's!

Wild he runs and trots the greeny forest
with a jolly jig he wriggles and digs
his cloven hooves moving dirt like lightening
hunt, hunting for truffle - O's!

When at last he finds his gourmet morsels
a squeal is heard and fly the birds
clear from the forest, a happy hog
a squealing song of treasures found, his beloved
Truffle - O's!

Years and months of tidy weather.
A sunny and partly sandy time
Where did it all go? The breath?
There was no rain on my heart!
There was no greeny leaves on my garden
Like the desert with deserted heart
Then there was a rainy cyclone
It poured out with a thundering storm
The first day storm was cool and calm.
The second day was with heavy lightening
Why does it sound like thunder & blow like a lightening
There grew a little tiny seed inside the sand
The wet, rainy, eroded sand gave a little light of life.
The patchwork of the untamed desert;
The cyclone doesn't last long, knew the desert;
Could it be more alluring & enduring?
Do you say no to a thunder storm on a desert?
The desert cooled and calmed.
The rays of hopes & the pointy days with blacky clouds
Cloude move but not the rain;
Everyday it rained; somedays were sunny;
Desert knew the rain will stop one day.
But it started believing that the rain will last.
On a day when the rain went to the deepest of the sands.
How could there be water on a unwatered area?
Melted the poor sunny day light desert.
Then the subsequent day it stopped raining suddenly;
It was all sunny, dry and hot again.
But it was not like the time before the cyclone.
There was wet in the deep sand.
There was a leefy seed with blossomed flower;
All of them in despair, in confusion, terror.
It was a catastrophe for the desert's soul.
The cyclone will never know what made this catastrophe;
For it never looked back at the desert's aftermath;
The desert got the new ray of acceptance;
It actually grew and groomed, made more of itself;
Spread more cacti, cactus & wildflowers;
It was dry on daylight & cool at night;
The stars & the sun grew brighter on the desert.
The desert started making more of sandstorms & laughed;
It was what it was & what it will be with or without the rain.
The desert know that now. It's a good thought;
The desert  is overwhelmed with joy & happiness;
For it will find it's own companion one day who stays;
But the desert thought sometimes;
"one last time, will you rain again?"

immensity
wealth of life and beauty

could fathom nobody
but stand in awe

greeny rice fields
nature in wonderment

within....reconnecting...

... i am
the breath
the mind
the body
the spirit

at peace ... within

Fingers locked
     in female hands
a riddle
   like legs     free of clothes
   crumpled jumpers
     in a corner
resembling a salad
of what-the-hell-went-on
last night   greeny-reds.

   Dolled up
bees' knees
     next time
not a person to     impress
or   dazzle   with a fedora
   top-shelf aftershave
charcoal-black shoes
gobbling     this week's wages.

Miss your     mouth
                              completely
see if you   tick
the thirty-one boxes
     know nail polish
     birthdays
better than second-hand
lips   and teeth   and tongues
   and lips
stash wit in a drawer
humour   under the bed.

Spot the odd   one   out
like finding a disease
     in a bloodstream
always observe
     an   owl   in the room
   watch others hurl feelings
I miss   you's   about
gobbledygook
resort to stories
     only your pillow knows
they want the     fire
not a                           lonely snowman.

Nature is everything
From tiny protozoa to the largest whale
Even the simplest insects
Contain elegent complexity
Beauty in even the most ugly beast

Peaceful, quiet and beautiful is Nature calm,

Like a natural healing balm,

From the largest beast to the smallest fly;

Under Mother Nature’s air so sweet and high!

The mist, the moon, the stars, and the night,

Are Mother Nature’s biggest delight!

The light, the sun, the rays,

And light of the first morning’s day,

Are all a part of beauty;

Nature is a beautiful treasure to see!

Nature is my favorite theme,

The morning is Mother Nature’s greatest scheme!

The leaves are falling from the trees,

And land inside the blue-green seas.

Blue-greeny seas and red firey stars
Dancing fish and snarling wolves
A little red fox trotting across cold snow
A flash of bold crimson in an icy white land
The aurora borealis and corona of the sun
The swirl of galaxies floating unfettered
Crashing into one another and stars dancing between them
Even these touch upon nature
A sort of large scale metaphor for the people of Earth
The whole of Mother Nature,
Her essence, and the ideas around her
Stretching into the greatest star and the smallest seed
The essence of life subtly covers all
Echoing the shapes and spirals
Mountains high and valleys low,
Spiders and creepy crawlies
Soft minxes and gentle pachyderms
A world of life in even the tiniest
Drop of water or crumb of dirt
All this beauty and wonder
Falls in Gaia's realm

A sunrise in the sky,
Birds chirping in the trees so high,
The sun reflecting on the sandy shore;
It also hits the forest floor.

The hot and dry desert with scorching sand,
The long miles of vast-bare land,
Only a few birds chirp in the air;
There’s no water over there!

The mountains of powder white,
Are so pretty even at night,
When owls do roam and birds doth sleep;

In trees on mountains steep.

Cats that are a homeless stray,
Still walk onward even in the cold day,
They sleep outside at night;
No one should make them homeless they have no right!

Mother Nature mourns when she sees cats not treated kind,
Still she walks onward through the wind,
She looks onward crying;
Watching sick animals dying.

Help this earth become a better one,
Until then our work may never be done,
The sun may never fade away;
Or the sky ever become gray,
But help keep Mother Nature from crying;
As she watches sick animals dying.

Her brother's
vinegar-soaked-oven-baked
                  
conker

conquering all other

conkers.

The moment held on a a string
before swinging to collision

like a cartoon
pOW!wOW!baMMM!

She cuts her chestnut
carefully in two.

The popped out conker
...her baby

in its greeny spiky
pram.

She talks to it.
Kisses it.

"Shhhh...baby a sleeep!"

Her brother's marble
a blue and cold world

propelled by a swift deft flick
of a bitten-to-the- quick thumb

the little blue world inches
relentlessly  towards

scattering all be-
-fore it:

when worlds
collide.

A solar system
destroyed.

He now
the conquerer of conquerers.

She
places her marble

gently in her other
spiky green pram

like she's rearing
an alien.

She's got two babies.
One a conker...the other a marble.

She takes good care
of both of them.

Worries about
their well being.

Loving them for what
...they are.

She watches the world
through the eye of the marble

a tiny blue universe
held in her palm.

i saw the autumn leaves

f
  A
     L
        l

like downy rain. they crinkled and fell softly to the Green earth.

silently surrendering their souls to a

GRAVE
of brown ashes.

simple stories, they all possessed
tragic in nature...

the green leaf filled with ENvy, cried out, "why should the brown fall first, why not I!"

He lay alone to fall by his lonesome self, turning brown as he imagined, only to fall by himself like a lonely book on an aching self.

the orange one desired to be like the sun, she saw the dawn a glow with ORANGE delight, and wanted to fly up there in the bluey sky...

the red loved her soft home amongst the tallest branch

she out cried as he let her go, to fall among the ashes of others, her beauty was FINE,

only at a glance. It died as she drifted farther from her last chance...  

the one that mesmerized me the most, was the Brown one,

He D R I F T E D across the morning air

dreaming of a long awaited rest.
                                                   d
he had dangled and F            e
                                   l      A t
                                      o
                                             from,

west                      to                  east

         his journey was

L                      O              N            G.

but he found no wrong in his life,
only joy,

he cared no more of Vanity, or GREED, or the wonders of the Sky.

he had lived his life in these heights and he long to rest among the Greenly pastures of life.

God blew a soft wind and lifted him off course,

he now drifted to the greeny land and laid there, in pure

BLISS

he was not worried of the fall or his homely grave, he dreamed of the simple pleasures of this Bark filled home and drifted away

like an aerial nomad in gay nature.

Unlike the others, the brown leaf was blessed to die among the soft green ground,

a blessing for a humble spirit, cheerful at HearT.

as the other men walked along the thoroughfare,

i watched the autumn leaves f
                                               a
                                                l
                                                l
, like the spirit of the browny leaf,

i was humbled and very happy

Lizbeth cycled in from the town
and set her bike
against a fence
and asked your mother

where you were
out somewhere
your mother told her
bird watching

or digging up old bones
in the woods
oh ok
Lizbeth said

and walked back out
on the dusty road
and walked down
the small lane

by the cottages
birds calling
mostly rooks
high up

in the trees
or the flutter of wings
as birds flew
from hedgerows

at her approach
she trod carefully
between the cow pats
on the lane down

her black Wellingtons
touching the hem
of her black skirt
the green top

short sleeved
showing
her thin arms
a steam ran slowly

on her right
over pebbles
and stones
and weeds

and then she saw you
by a tree
looking up
through binoculars

unaware
of her approach
didn't know
you bird watched

she said
breaking
into your world
of birds and nature

with her words
you gazed at her
her red hair
drawn tightly

into a ponytail
at the back
of her head
her freckled skin

the greeny eyes
not much else
to do
you said

us London boys
have a lot to learn
in this
off the beaten track

of a place
she nodded
and stared
her eyes focusing in

at the bird book
in your hand
and binoculars
around your neck

what's London like?
she asked
like Dante's Inferno
you replied

whose?
she said
who the heck is he
when he's at home?

you walked towards her
tucking the bird book
in the back pocket
of your jeans

Italian poet
you said
wrote the Divine Comedy
you added

she raised her eyebrows
and gave you
that I'm none the wiser stare
thought I'd come

and see you
out of school
she said
remembered

your address
nice of you to come
you said
unsure why she'd come

to this neck
of nowhere land
I saw your mother
Lizbeth said

she told me
you'd be bird watching
or digging up bones
in the woods

she had that
I'm getting bored look
the way she stood
don't get the chance

to talk with you
at school
what with
the separate playgrounds

and nosey kids in class
thinking there's
a big romance
if you talk

to a member
of the opposite ***
she looked older
than her 13 years

much older than you
being the same age
and the boys
are pretty much

dumb arses in class
except for you
she added
looking at you

with her green eyes
want to see
my collection
of bird eggs

and old bones?
you said
where are they?
she asked

in my bedroom
you replied
oh
she said

odd place
to keep old bones
nowhere else
to keep them

you said
ok
she said
and walked with you

up the country lane
and in the gate
and along the path
to the cottage door

will your mother mind?
she asked
why should she?
you asked

no reason
just that my mother
would give you
the third degree

under a bright light
she said
you took her
in the back door

taking off
the muddy boots
and so did she
standing there

in her white socks
just taking Lizbeth
to see the old bones
and bird eggs

you told your mother
ok
she said giving Lizbeth
a quick glance

don't let him bore you
to death
your mother added
with a smile

Lizbeth smiled too
and followed you up
the narrow stairs
to your small bedroom

she looked around
the room
at the wooden
chest of drawers

and double bed
who sleeps
in the bed with you?
she asked

my younger brother
you said
oh
she said

staring
at the small window
that gave view
of the garden below

and the fields beyond
you showed her
the bird eggs
you'd collected

and the old bones
from the woods
kept in a glass tank
you handed her

a blackbird egg
it lay in the palm
of her hand
it looked good

and blended well
with her soft skin
and lifeline
and headlines

across the hand
fragile isn't it?
she said
bit like my heart

she added softly
she handed back the egg
and wiped her hand
on her skirt

removing invisible
or imaginary dirt
what do you do
when not watching birds

or digging for bones?
she asked
get the cows in
from the fields

or help weigh
the milk
or help my father
in the garden

or go for walks
on the Downs
you said
you certainly know

how to live
on the wild side
she said
oh not always

you said
sometimes
it can get
quite boring

and I have to read books
or watch TV
she smiled
do you think

about girls?
she asked
not much
you said

why's that?
she asked
what's to think about?
you said

seldom see them
out here in the wilds
and at school
there's little time

or opportunity
or too many
complications
or too many

ears and noses
and eyes
what about now?
here now?

she said
gazing at you
and the double bed
what about now

and here?
you asked
putting away the egg
in the tank

and closing
the lid
to keep out air
or dust

she frowned
and sighed
as if a moment
had burned out

or an old world
had died.

Intro:         C      G7        C       G7         E7           D7          G7
   C                      G7
Shine away your bluesies,
   C                                                         G7
Why don't you shine, start with your shoesies;
   E7                           Am7                       C7
Shine each place up, make it look like new,
   D7                                           G7
Shine your face up, I want to see you wear a smile or two.

      C                             G7
Cause my skin's light creamy,
       C                                    G7
Just because my eyes are greeny;
     E7                 Am7                          C7
Just because I lack some shade of brown,
    D7                                                  F7­
Don't stop me from funking down when I funk uptown... Funk!

C                       G7
Cause I dig rap music,
E7                               Am7                C7
With jazz and blues I boogie all the time;
  F                                 Cdim
Just because I jive to Reggae,
  C                          A7        D7            G7
T­hat's the reason, Baby, why they call me...

C                                 G7
*****,  watches ice hockey,
  C                            G7
******, he likes to copy.
  E7                          Am7                          ­C7
I'm Caucasian, the abbreviation won't do,
D7                              G7
Drop the name tags, see me the way you want me seeing you.

   C                               G7
Why don't you shine, your these and thoseies,
   E7                                            Am7       C7
You'll find everything's gonna turn out fine;

  F                            Cdim.    C
Folks will shine up to ya, everybody's
                                       A7
gonna howdy-doody do ya;
  D7                     G7                C
You'll make the whole world shine.

      C                                            G7
So,­ clap your hands, shout Hallelujah,
     E7                             Am7                   C7
You'll find everyone's much the same inside;
    F                      Cdim
You know we all share blame,
C                                                         ­           A7
Don't “Howdy-doody Whitey” cause that ain't my name,
D7                           G7                 C
And we'll turn the world colour blind.

Walking down my lane with downturned chin
every bit of bright closing up shop for the season
I noticed a fluttering butterfly beckoning me on
leading me to an enclosed tunnel of riotous color!


Stepping inside, my view was obscured by foliage
every texture and hue with unlimited adornment
a studious lady with a clipboard stepped out from
a row of sunflowers, vivid coral with buttery edges.


I was stunned by the majesty of her shiny black hair
and I remembered reading about a plant whisperer
so I asked: “Are you the bloomin’ botanist of lore?
Please show me how you create all these colors!”

She nodded her head, with a big wide smile, saying: 'Yes! For Sure.'
We were soon amidst foliage, so green, so pure
She handed me a twig of dark pink rose,
She smiled in surprise, like a playful child,
Asked, 'Isn't this one adorable enough to be explored?'

I was thrilled to glance at the rose, the one indeed majestic enough to be explored!
She plucked a petal, and the fragnence filled my nose,
She told me of a 'pigment', called Anthocyanin
The initial chemical constituent that provides it's colours.

I pointed my finger towards a yet wonderful rose,
The one yellow, with tint of orange edges in a big wide row.
It ignited my curiosity & more to explore,
I asked: 'What's the pigment for those colours?'

She smiled & led me closer to that row,
A row whose smell grew intense and more.
She picked a petal on her palms to explore,
& told it was a blend of two colors!

The sunset yellow the flower showed, was due to a pigment called 'Carotene'
The orange tint at the petal's end
Was due to a fixed mix of Carotene and Anthocyanin!

She told that plants have a definite substance,
A chemical constituent called 'Pigment'.
These pigment yield the colors so new,
The ones we call Lavendry, rosy, grapy and  hues.

While most leafes have a common green pigment,
Which makes them so greeny in appearance
Is nothing but this common pigment,
A pigment called 'Chlorophyll' often.


I was thrilled, amazed, and smiled so wide,
To quench the thirst, my mind always strived!
These flowers, these plants, these leafes and trees that surrounds us all sides,
Have a natural colour pallete, named 'Pigment'' inside!
The one that imparts the colors so bright.

And while my heart was imbibed in this thought,
My soul danced to discover this merry thought.
My mind, My eyes, got stuck at a flower!

The flower was adorable, with a lotusy pink view,
But I saw a bee, dancing around & singing, buzzing.
I gazed, I watched, I wondered, and pondered.
My mind had a question, which urged the answer!


I turned then to my plant whisperer,
For a yet new answer,
She turned back with her utmost grace,
Asked 'Is there a new question for me to be answered?'


I pointed my hand towards the bumblebee,
I asked why was she dancing around those flowers incessant and merrily?
Are those flowers in any ways necessary for those bees?
What are those creatures doing, minsculely in the centre of the rose disc?


She smiled in delight, with a radiant face in confidence,
I was sure, she'd teach me something interesting then!
She told me they were helping the flower with pollination,
They are nature's pollinating agents!


The flowers we see, with the adorable hues
Are bright & attractive for a reason good,
You see the bees, You'll see the birds, You'll even the honeybees doing the same the wiggle
The all come here to **** flower's sweet juice,
& While they **** it from their nectar tubes,
Their bodies pick some pollen granules!


Those pollens are the powdery make seeds,
Which are often present at the central disc.
The flies when **** the sweet flower's juice,
They sit on the structure, called 'pollen bed', and fill their 'pollen baskets' till the deeper depths!

While these bees, leave the flower at their best, ready to go to a flower next,
Their wings dust these pollen dust, to the flower's pollen tube,
Ready for the phenomenon next!
A phenomenon called 'Fertilisation' best!

The fertilisation is the fusion of male to a female's reproductive cell,
A phenomenon which forms new 'Embryonic cells'.
The Embryo formed is but the new young cell,
Ready for the cycle, it's origination led.

Nature adorns this embryo with petals,
A structure we know as 'flowers' and its  'Whorls'
The center of which forms new pollen cells,
Ready for the cycle, a part of the cycle
Of turns into a mature adult.

My teeth are smiling back at me
From a glass beside the bed
I wonder "Do they look that bad"
"When they're positioned in my head?"

They looked all kind of cloudy
***** brown, and green
I think I need to change the way
I make my teeth get clean

Right now I use polident
To make my choppers shine
But, if this is the way that they turn out
I'm embarrassed that they're mine

I took them out and washed them off
I stuck them in a glass of bleach
I thought, "This will make them whitey white"
The colours will all leech

Out of my clean choppers
And will brighten up my smile
Then you'll see me from afar
Well, at least a half a mile

I left them for two hours
and they came out brown and green
I thought, they look no better now
They look totally obscene

I even took to painting them
A glorious shade of white
I left them on my workbench
To dry and harden overnight

They still look brown and greeny
Like they were buried in the yard
I swear, I've never had a thing
That's made me work so hard

I cannot put them in my mouth
with out cleaning off the crud
It's looks like I am smiling
With a mouth that's full of mud

I took a pad of wire wool
And scrubbed them like you do
They didn't get much brighter
But, now at least...they're blue

I went down to the chemists
To get something for my teeth
I needed something powerful
To relieve me of my grief

The chemist said "please shut your mouth"
"You're scaring all who passes"
"Your teeth are oh so snowy white"
"The dirt is on your glasses!!"

After breakfast
after doing shopping
for your mother
you met Fay on the grass

in front of Banks House
and you lay there
looking up at the summer sun
and white clouds

and the sound of trains
shunting
over by the railway yard
and Fay said

my daddy says
I’m to be able to recite
the Pater Noster in Latin
by the time

he gets back
from his work travelling
what the heck’s
the Pater Noster?

You asked
looking at her sideway
her pale features
catching your eyes

her blue eyes
gazing at the sun
it’s the Our Father in English
she said

what’s the big deal?
You said
doesn’t God
understand English?

sure He does
she said
but Daddy wants me
to learn the Latin

he said all good
Catholic girls
need to know
their Latin

what’s kiss my ****
in Latin?
You asked
she looked at you

and laughed shyly
and said
I don’t know
ask your dad

You said
I wouldn’t dare
she said
looking away

back at the sky
does he know Latin
your dad?
You asked

some he does
she replied
but he wouldn’t know that
I shouldn’t think

maybe
you should learn that
and say that you him
instead of the Pater Noster

she looked anxious
I wouldn’t dream of it
she said
and as you both lay there

on the grass
she moved her leg
and you saw
a blue bruise

on her thigh
turning greeny yellow
but you said nothing
of that but talked

how your old man
had made you
a blue metal money box
to keep your pocket money in

and she listened in silence
her pale features
and blue eyes
holding your eyes

as you spoke
looking along
her lime coloured dress
at the leg showing

the bruise still there
like a fallen fruit
and she smelt of apples
freshly picked

and held to the nose
better go
she said
best learn this Latin

before his return
and off she walked
across the grass
waving to you

as she went
and you blew her a kiss
from your palm
but she had gone

but at least
You said
gazing at the sky
it’d been sent.

Before my father died I bought a ***
with a small plant, a fragile sapling
with pale green dotted leaves. He came
to my place to see me, bringing a slice
of watermelon with jagged green stripes
on its rind. He placed it in the fridge and
looked at me, asking with stern eyes: “Do  
you forgive me?” I didn’t understand his
words and I answered “Yes” with all my
heart, stabbed by his stare that moment.

He died a few days later, after calling me on
the phone, saying that I should move into
another house. I did that, taking with me
from that place my small green plant beginning
to rise. I placed it on my desktop, letting it grow...
leaf after leaf from her thin stem, like a stairway.
Eight years passed and she’s my only child, my
only friend, my only lover. She grew steadily
and slowly, I changed her compost a few times.
She’s still here, my small calico greeny treasure.
Two years ago I became a proud grandmother
for three new shoots, stemming at her feet.

I had to tie it to a plastic stick to help it grow up
And when I look at it I still can see my father’s
eyes, taking hold of my heart.

O, how I admire the flower larkspur  
Anytime   I sit on the greeny meadows in despair!
Larkspur, a beautiful, lovely fragrant flower thou art with other flowers I compare.
Moments unforgettable in blooms berry, larkspur!
  



Jasmine, daisy and lily of the valley, the flowers that care
Larkspur, a flower so dear and rare  
Admired at the sight of bloom, but forgotten soon at noon, blur
O, how I long to smell the sweet fragrance of larkspur in the time I spare




Of all natures beautiful flower is larkspur  
The symbol of love, binding couples so dear
The uniqueness of larkspur I cannot compare
So clearly depicting the true nature of love I declare, sincere




The bride’s bouquet hailed, kissed and preferred but at noon, marred
Symbolizing the truth of love, I pondered, larkspur
Love, so unrequited and err
Fleeting love, takes wings, stirred, like a butterfly on larkspur




Gear towards love's  hidden truth,  clear
Everything in larkspur has a lesson to spare, stare!
Attractive, adorable, wonderful, sweet scented flower, larkspur
Gorgeously adorned on the bride’s hair; in fair to glare




Rose flower and larkspur, a perfect pair!
Unrequited love, so impaired and blur
Stained by man’s feeble love affair, bizarre.
Larkspur, not a flower mere; to the brokenhearted, repair

  


The brokenhearted's  nightmare, larkspur!
Flaring mixed moments of happiness of the lover’s vows, glare  
Drawing sad tears to the eyes, where vows are broken, there!
Stare at the wedding pictures in eyes blur, here…




The shining diamond ring and the beautiful bridal bouquet; larkspur, tears incur
Now, fleeting love mystery and vanity bare
True perfect love non - existent;    rare,  but where?
Sphere of unrequited  love revolve around me, as I stare at this larkspur, now aware!



Augustus  Quaicoe

“Last Call,” I hear the bartender gurgle
him with the potbelly, and tousled red hair
slick with pork grease and beer slosh.
I hate him.
He withholds my whisky with dignity and disdain,
remembering when I said I’d never see him again.

So I tell him the toilet is overflowed
and as he waddles off
I grab a bottle of Jim Bean, wishing it were Scotch,
and sneakily amble out the door
hitting my head on the frame.

Quicksilver
is spouting from the rooftops,
sloshing, washing
or burning
clean the gutters with its molten-ness

Drops sizzle into my skin
and I am
a few hundred dollars more valuable.

Some neon pamphlet slaps my face
and tells me of sales on lingerie
while the sky cracks open;
burning vermillion.

An aging drag queen shouts,
“The poles are shiftin’, honey!”
but they seem fine to me as I slump
on a lamppost and knockback more bourbon.

The sky’s red mouth smile has split
into a yawn
and somethings like oily pigeons flutter out.
Instead of hovering, they thrash the air with angry swishes
and dive to earth, spearing my bartender
before throwing him
off of the Chrysler Building.
When’s last call now *******?

And around the corner of Houston and Broadway
I see a skeletal horse:
all bone and gristle
and glowing chartreuse.

Feeling clever, I walked over
and told him he was looking thin

He raised a bone-eyebrow and smirked a bit,
told me I was looking sickly.
Being cleverer and far more ironic
he shook his flames
nodded to his friends
and cantered off;
flanked by blurs of black and red and white.

War
Conquest
and Death
ride on ahead
But greeny looks over his shoulder-haunch
as if to say,
“You sure about this?”

With something like a pout,
I drop my unfinished drink in the trash
Fine, fine.
I lob my flask in too.

The night is just night again
and skin is less valuable
but my horse remains,
glowing with awkward judgment.
“Jesus Christ, really?” I say,
and move my bottle to the recycling.

There is the tree--
it juts out of the earth,
a sword in the stone.

Alone in a field
of green grass, alone
amongst the flowers,
the emboldened
plumage.

The leaves, greeny finery,
ancient and reborn
age after age,
sag beneath the weight
of the breeze
and the clouds.

Here I am again,
At the road I've walked a million times before,
But never appreciated its splendour, until someone showed me how.
I look down at the pavement; at the brown, greeny soil.
I watch as one foot steps in front of the other,
A never ending cycle,
One falls back; the other jumps forward.
Always.

I lift my head up high,
Looking at the wide blue sky
I see the birds that fly by,
Seeming as free as the water's tide,
And the Sun's shine that grazes my eyes.
I bow, and I smile.

I look at everything that surrounds me,
The row of trees that show my way.
The leaves that rustle as the wind blows hard,
The people that smile when your paths cross.
I continue onward - forward.  
And as I have walked the road I've walked a million times before,
Here I am. I am home.

REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE FLOATING IN THE SKY,
SO FAR ABOVE THE GROUND WHEN YOU COULD FLY,
THE COLOURS WERE GREENY BLUE WITH A LIGHT HUE,
YOU COULD NOT LAND, THERE WAS NOTHING YOU COULD DO.

REMEMBER HOW THAT YOU DIDN'T WANT TO WAKE,
NOTHING TO TOUCH YOU AND NO ONE TO SHAKE,
YOU COULD SEE JANE WATERING THE GARDEN FLOWERS,
IT WAS EASY TO GUIDE WHEN YOU HAD SPECIAL POWERS.

A WHISPER IN THE EAR PRODUCED A YELLOW BREEZE,
MADE THEM BELIEVE AND GET DOWN ON THEIR KNEES,
I BLEW A FLUFFY CLOUD AND GAVE THEM ALL RAIN,
IT PASSED QUICKLY AND THEN THE SUN CAME AGAIN.

I REMEMBERED IT ALL WHEN I WAS A BOY,
NOW THERE'S NO MORE TIME LEFT TO FLY AND ENJOY.

crusty crispy crabby shrimpy scallopsy
meaty cheesy peppery greeny reddy
mushroomy creamy saucey
yummy tummy fully full
--- now sleepy

From village to village
throughout the country...

        village is turning
                       turning  round
         one greeny path
                         away sing sound

         in the farm of green sun tree
         from village to village
               throughout the country....

Whatever else
her Polish accent
didn’t do
it didn't stop

her quest for ***
and Benedict
nigh on gave in
one or twice

(who was counting?)
time on his hands
(a rare event)
or caught unaware

and thinking
do I dare?
and he had to admit
even against

his better will
she was
a lovely dame
and such

well?
Sophia said
you want to?
he looked passed her

at the door closed
the bed fresh made
as if she knew
bins all emptied

of their dust
and muck
you want me?
you want to ****?

he looked
at her blue uniform
the greeny top
the tight pressing bra

the eyes ice cool
I don't know
he said
what if some one calls?

or the old guy
comes back
to his room
for some reason

or other?
Sophia stood
always the excuses
always the worry

of others coming
or going
she said
come on

she said
sitting on
the fresh made bed
have me now

make up
your mind
he gazed out
the window

the snow was settled
trees hung
white with brown
not just now

he said
as she spread
herself down
upon the bed

one leg raised
a glimpse of thigh
caught as in a mirror
of his turning eye.

The World talks about pollution 
But still there is no solution 
The world behind is so green 
But the fire and smoke make it grim
Oh! there was a beautiful linden
But the hazy smoke made it hidden

Presuming the world will end one day
And there would be no body even to say 
The smoke was so much pernicious
Which turned into distress and was serious 
Tis our obligation not to feel ignominy 
But to look forward to make the earth greeny

This smoke will make us one day motionless
If we do pollution and remain being careless 
Let me warn you it is a slow poison
Even more dangerous than the nuclear fusion!!!
At night the fire became so intense 
That gave a scene of joy and tense

In pale moonlight it looked so grey
Which was due to the burning of ******* and hay
The smoke arose and arose so high 
That covered the stars in the sky 
Oh! God I wish it should go to space 
And save some years for the earth to face

Hatred isn’t black - it’s not that pretty-
It’s that dun color greeny-muddy-brown -
The color of dirt around a rusted pipe.
It’s the color you get when you mix
Red and yellow and Blue together.
A hideous shade without a useful purpose,
And stirring in some white won’t help it.
The only thing to do is scrape your palate clean,
Wash out all your brushes and begin again.
ljm