Believe You Me

 

 

Some would believe anything

As long as it is unbelievable,

If you must tell a lie, tell a big lie

And you will convince the people.

 

We believe in seeing the dead

And in talking with them too,

And some are more afraid of them

Than the living; that is true.

 

They are afraid of the cemetery

Especially during the night,

And even to talk of the dead

Will give them a terrible fright. 

 

They call them duppy and zombie

In dramas and in songs

And though frightened for the dead,

They still like to sing along.

 

They like those horror movies

That focus on the dead

And then are afraid to go to sleep

And lie awake in bed.

 

There are suitable beginnings

To dramatically introduce a lie,

“Man, you are not going to believe me”

Is one they often try.

 

“I definitely cannot believe

What I am going to tell you

But I got it from a reliable source

So you must believe it is true.”

 

Some preachers also tell lies,

I do not know if deliberate or not

 But some are so good at doing it

They can hold you to the spot.

 

Maybe not in Barbados

But in other parts of the world,

Some even raise the dead

I guess you must have heard.

 

I have heard of a preacher

Whose count is more than four hundred,

Believe you me, I must say,

I mean four hundred of the dead.

 

I am not saying it can’t happen,

I am not even saying it can

But of these so-called preachers

I am really not a fan.

 

I must confess I wonder

Why the hospitals they always shun,

Those people are still living...

That should be easier done.

 

 

Yes, I know I am a skeptic

And I have good reasons to be,

These things I find unbelievable

Believe you me.

Believe you me!

Some politicians are experts

And given the promises they frequently make

It would be difficult to distort.

 

At election time they make promises

They know they can never keep

But somehow manage to do so

At those times when we are asleep.

 

So that at the next election time,

Listed among their achievements

Are the very things they couldn’t do

Plus the many others they invent.

 

And we often believe politicians,

Especially the good story tellers

That exhibit their craft at election time

At that competition for liars.

 

Believe you me, I must repeat

Not because it is this poem’s theme,

But some would believe anything

Even if it was just a dream.

 

Stewart Russell © October 2019

Not Sure Any More

I decided on the short cut

Since the alternate way was long,

I may look small

But believe you me I am strong.

I fear not a living soul

I can take care of myself

I may be on the other side of fifty

But I am still in good health.

You may wonder

Why I am telling you all this

But keep apace with me

And not a detail you will miss.

It was late going on to midnight

And I was on my way home,

My short cut was through the cemetery

I had never done this alone.

My friends and I had done it before

But we did it mainly for kicks

And they expected at these times

That I would be up to tricks.

But we would do that for fun

I wasn’t sacred of the dead,

I had always said to them

If I had to, I’d fear the living instead.

However the truth be told

I neither feared the living nor the dead

And that night in question

I knew only the dead lay up ahead.

I began to whistle a tune

As I unhurriedly walked along,

Right then a strange thing happened

Somebody was whistling the song.

At first I thought it was an echo

But that was not possible,

I decided it must be someone living

Since dead people can’t whistle.

  

Suddenly I picked up a scent

It was the scent of cigarette smoke,

Looking around I saw no one

And I decided this must be a joke.

I stopped whistling

And whoever it was stopped too,

Then someone chuckled and said,

“You really must like the view.”

Fear began to rise up in me

“Like the view?  What does he mean?”

His chuckle broke into great laughter

And then he screamed.

“Can’t you see the fire?

Can you not feel the flame?

How can you stand there gawking?

How can you do nothing about our pain?”

“Our pain?  What could he mean?

I couldn’t feel a thing”.

Suddenly there was that scream again

And then he began to sing.

He sang in plaintive tones

The same tune that I was whistling

But the words were different

From the words I use to sing.

In my ears they still ring,

“Do you remember me now I am dead?

If so sing along with me, please sing

Let me feel your love instead.

You’ll soon be joined with me

That’s the reason you are here,

Your trek through this cemetery

Is to help you for death prepare.

By then I had had enough

In a flash I shot out of there,

I don’t know if it was the living or the dead

But this I can tell you both now I fear.

Don’t ask me to explain

For your guess is as good as mine

But I know any other night in a cemetery

I would have to be dead at that time.

Not even in a group as I did before

Not if the group is big or small,

Not for a funeral that’s running late

Not another night for any reason at all.

Stewart Russell © May 2018