for Carroll M. & Joseph P.
While shepherds watch, what choice? what chance?
our grounded brown black flock: dreaming
of pastured futures; weary
of crabgrass from the past.
The Skipper, we tried, all cricket-sweatered; the cracked field
strips not level;
plus now the roster's not for gentlemen at play.
The Captain recaps those first tossed ocean renting
timber ships; bulked labour in irons below, the stomach turns
anchoring here.
The Chief spreads fear of fat bricks and lying rumps; dogs in cartridge
garlands, must wear shades; plus natty public servants plotting
panty raids.
The President, Prime Minister? skull caps for Trust me,
I studied overseas! They talk bowl smooth like stool
softener, making life so easy to pass.
The Boss – dem fellas ride hard, boy! overseeing
what we do with warning cuss and stop watch; can't
catch a quick break with doudou.
No, no don't mention the King, and don't try the gender thing;
yes, Auntie K and Sister P
folk friendly and carnival is we ting.
O, the Shaman – well, hear nuh,
this writer chap camped out in the forest with that
to feasibly survey; he came out hearing voices, grabbed wing
for doctors mapping ghost trails faraway.
Our last big shot > the space ship > crop circles
in the sugar cane fields: when it land spindly-legged
fellas, tendril
arms wave wide, will appear offering work and party.
Call them what you will, come along;
and roll out red carpet today;
and smile,
'cause if they fancy they might promise lift up & away.
– W.W.
NOTIONS OF A NATION
A Problem somehow to be solved
by our achieving a Consensus
then turning back to our unsolved lives.
A Future we cannot afford
not to invest in, lest our children
curse us for leaving them less than heaven.
A tribe we must worry about
before it's Too Late and it breaks up
and we're left wandering in a desert.
Strands of rock and river and road
woven slack by the keepers of light
that confounds the terms of earnest men.
(from "Fabula Rasa" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 