"Country Rhythm"- 7 Poems

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Country Rhythm

Published in  the Sunday Observer's "Bookends"

Sac-cloth and Ashed

Bucket filled, she raises praise sounds

as she scurries away, duty bound.

Wearing this burden, sac-cloth cushions

her head, as herstory hides (beneath apron):

‘bout how she came to know to raise load,

‘bout tilting carriage so as to never spill

the yoke which, she can never put down,

but she lifts and eases down Salvation Hill.

here women, drifting down the narrow road

listen as she lifts her voice. Forgetting load.

With no patience to wait, or hand to wave; the call

of her praise sounds haunts them, like a dogs howl,

pulling women into the stillness of Sunday morning

testimonies dragging at stories under skin charred

from being born load, bearing and now mourning

this recital whose rhythm hasn’t yet been broken

Nine Night

here the once white, now dirtied harden sand

has become just another burial ground

expect no weeping no free dem song

no baritone quire urging a mourn along

just fingers checking, selecting the harvest

preparing the numbers game for those trapped

and wishing home- aware of how they caress

death. So quickly they toss aside the spoil

into the scale. Found wanting: unto the sand;

minutely searched- looks right: into the pan

no memory of the route that brought them here

just death lingering. Held together, cloaked in fear

tossed away on land unable to return, seeing death

washed up into the bay, watching the birds overhead.

But here on the soiled sand the cost of death isn’t felt

there aren’t burial rites, no return trips for the discarded

Salt

Rasta hide from the heat of the sun

him cane cutting cutlass in hand

to him the market start to produce

strange crop and in him head him just refuse

to stay silent, peel cane and watching

youth fall prey to the fruit of craven Babylon

him stand in line arranging him timing

before him can pounce high like zion iron lion

Nehemiah drape savior cloth ‘cross him wagon

ward spirits, that missing god knows how long

Nehemiah never seem to forget what was here

before fast food chains, before streets had tar.

This market here, that stand by the bay, was always selling

strange fruits: washed, oiled, left to dry in the sun.

Nehemiah feel is his right to start chasing

out, all who eat salt, and deny man him flight of freedom

Deaf Ears

before sun light conquer the dew

we outside skirt lap, perch over the produce.

If you listen, you can hear leaves drop

graze grass. Then, the sigh cause it to stop

suddenly, fueling the words affixed

to wondering minds digging up speculations,

like a heavy breeze lifting leaves already dead

it spring her business into conversations.

Words spill over like apron over legs lap lose

spread ‘way, suddenly all lie drape up like truth

Then one sacrificial lamb: call Jesus from the cross, rent

garment, prostrate him tongue before the court

itself, just to talk what his deaf ears catch. Don’t notice

that the lady that just pass make the silence raise high.

Him so happy to get a chance to talk, cant hear leaves

fall he can’t see the older folks shake their head and sigh

Market truck

Bus stop turn: truck stop, nobody walking

anymore we wake up later then sit waiting

Here you carry burdens rest at your feet

ease yourself down turn you head and wait

soon deliverance will come burning down

the rocky road lift up you and the burden

cause you exercise patience on the ground

infront the stop sign endure the wait in silence

Early bird, neck cramped waiting eagerly

locked between load and women silently

This village heavy breasted breathed

raised thoughts of journey captivated

us, reverberating whispers in flight

each early morning ease down Salvation Hill

but time change and we now get caught

waiting. Seem we forget we never born to stay still

Waiting

Salvation Hill there is no street dance

Just this heavy waiting silence

Before early morning comes the women

Already lowed and strapped down

Apron tight, dragging duty drearily along

she cup her voice to push her through

lift song and water before the heat of the sun

slap her down. Singing “so much things to do”.

Salvation Hill has this heavy weight silence

That teach him how to sit with patience

Behind him rasta flag whistle through the stilled.

In front: she return with vessels overfilled

Him dressed for battle with sun and soil; sitting:

is then he recognize the dance, like a survival

step, weighing down on him dragging out her singing

into the silence igniting within him its powerful recall

This is the house Jack Built

Necessity calmly carved hands

Black, corned from “lets see” pangs

Here Jack trades maybes for must

while over him impatience keen and robust

watches each step for tomorrow and grows

mockery incase of the next mishap.

Between Jack and necessity there will be no sorrows

When what you don’t expect suddenly snaps

He’s found a rhythm to his abilities

Spins, checks, whispers, scratch whistles

Soon a crowd will gather in the streets

By now they all know “no-one speaks”

Just watch Jack create