I.
The tranquility on the hill ceases
Peace of Shalom shattered to wee pieces
A farewell of twisted steel, wood and lime
Left lots of broken homes to mend with time;
Natural disaster no one to frame,
And Dean is not the one to really blame
For Ground zero with rubble in our face,
When hell, broke loose upon the Bajan race.
Evil thoughts nestle in the human brain;
Is it Kick’em Jenny or hurricane?
That caused five souls to drop dead in the cave?
Marshalling brave guys brought them from enclave.
Who ponders natural losses would find
Glee mixed with sorrow; good with ill combined.
II.
Brittons on the hill see plain in the dark;
Opened well, Pandora’s Box beams with spark;
Blogs' questions press news spread like cane fire
With lots of answers Bajans desire;
How worthless are the coral strands on the land?
Proactive plans, in the plant they demand,
And if Swiss cheese is the main course on plate,
Map plans where cows should graze on which estate.
Will flying fish swim back in cou cou strew?
Arch Cot victims are heroes we construe;
A monument in their name is good taste;
Recovery mode demands this with haste.
Shalom to them, we grow for-get-me-nots
On hillsides, terraces and vacant spots.
©Paterika Hengreaves
September 6, 2007
Paterika, you must have read my mind. Yesterday I sieved through some of my old images of things old or old fashion and decided to write some poems to them. My aim is to write 25 poems.
ReplyDeleteWell, let see what happens.
Novels, especially fiction books I cannot stand. Non-Fiction I can deal with because I can learn something from it.
But Poetry is a different animal. I love it. One can in two verses tell a story. No long 200 plus page book is needed.
Your poem above is quite lovely. Lovely in the way you can create a particular sonnet and with the marriage text create a thoughtful portrayal of a calamity. The poem gets better the more times you read it.
I write poetry myself but I have not been doing so lately at all. Motivation and inspiration is vital for me. And after loosing many of my poems while moving some years ago, I became cold to poetry. But now and then I see some images that evoke something in me and I have to write something on them.
There is a photographer on Flickr that does some crazy fresh things with photography. So I quite naturally wrote a few poems to some of her work. Runaway Slave was one of them, even though it is a revised one from one I did in 1984. Hung Clothes was done because I see meaning in everything, even when others do not see it. And Old Wood came out of my love for wooden houses.
I love sonnets and old literature and understand why folks love form in poetry. But I am more of a Langston Hughes, wild but controlled in free verse.
PEACE.