Early morning ...
Sunlight urges the hills
to draw bold lines in the sky,
disclosing sloping ridges
randomly, until the valley's
myriad shades of green
the eyes delight.
Mid-morning ...
The naked hills
now wear a
honeymoon - translucent
gown of mist, transforming
inverted triangular
valleys into soft,
amorous shapes.
Afternoon ...
Super-sized clouds hug the hills,
dark grey bases sitting
lazily on their lower slopes,
towering skywards,
forming cirrus anvils -
lightning, thunder, refreshing rain showers
draw a final curtin of
white obscurity.
- Roy St C. Thomas
----------------------
Hoist the tattered sails
Toot, toot
As she sailed into the horizon,
In the shadows of the cabin,
The black minds were shackled,
Drugs, hatred and violence were embedded
In the black man's thoughts.
While this black ship
Sailed on waters of blood
Into the stomach of destruction
Cries of sorrow and pain
Fill the empty space of the black mind
Who was taken to slatter,
The blood, the cries and the thoughts of the
Black mind
Have darkened the smiles of the sun,
But with education
You black minds can rise
Arise! And calm this bloody and dreadful tide,
Hoist the sails of forgiveness
And sail gracefully upon
This never-ending sea of blackness - Samuel Cohall
--------------------------
Yesteryear
You men of yesteryear,
Who tilled the soil between the rocks
On hillsides steep to plant
The corn and cocoa, yams, and pigeons peas,
Where have you gone?
I remember how you laughed spontaneously
At your jokes,
Laughed even before the joke was told,
Loud laughter, loud and free, coming from the chest
And echoing from the hills.
Men leaned on pick axes then and drank cold lemonade
Or water from the gurgling spring,
Straw hats or cotton caps upon their heads,
Sweat running down their faces, down their hands,
To lubricate the handle of the tool
With which they worked.
Sometimes, you sang, too, men to songs with words
Spontaneously, if not immaculately, conceived
But sweet enough to ease the pressure of the toil.
And young boys, who are now grown men,
Walked in your wake to sow the corn and,
Perhaps, to reap the fruits of all your toil.
You men of yesteryear, where are you now?
- Louis Alexander Hermans
