Reflecting and Projecting

 

 

A reflective look

To that first Independence Day

Very early in the morning

Before black turned to grey.

 

Very muddy conditions

When our flag ascended

Flying proudly in the night air;

Colonialism then ended.

 

Me, just 13 years old,

But proud to be present

Though at that very early stage

Void of the full essence.

 

 

Essence of its reality,

Essence of its responsibility,

Essence of no longer a colony,

Essence of accountability.

 

Essence of growing pains

And setting goals,

Essence of success and failure

And relentless blows.

 

A very short honeymoon

And the fairy tale effect;

Our people our greatest resource

Regarding what to expect.

 

  

A thrilling moment it was;

All will be great!

My understanding of Independence

Though not here of late.

 

We’ve come a long way

O’er mountain and thro’ vale

And a signal moment of reflection

Reveals this trail.

 

Chronicled in our history

Etched in our minds,

From Errol Barrow to Mia Mottley

Across the annals of time.

 

 

 

And in between:

Tom Adams and Bree St John,

Sandiford and Arthur

All four now gone.

 

Thompson and Stuart

The former also gone

Being the second shortest stint

Before passing on.

 

Just two of seven

Remain with us today;
Stuart, having been ousted,

Mottley holds sway.

 

An impressive journey

Since our Independence

Though, not without ups and downs

And times of turbulence.

 

 

Presently a Republic

Approaching three years

But can we say like the Anthem,

No doubts or fears?

 

Me thinks not

For we have changed face

And things we once held dear

Have been replaced.

 

"The price for progress"

Some will no doubt remark

But the truth be told

We are in the dark.

 

Community is weakened

While the block thrives,

And almost every single day

Another youth dies.

 

 

 

Either by the gun

Or the cutlass or knife

One of our greatest National assets

Loses his life.

 

The church in absentia

Is praying without ceasing

But the reckless taking of life

Is still increasing.

 

The police constabulary

And the judiciary:

Both appear to be in the dark

Regarding this mystery.

 

 

Cases going back

For many a year

And recidivism on the increase

Adding to our fear.

 

Offenders offered bail

To reoffend again

And this being done repeatedly

Like summer rain.

 

And our Republic

Still awaiting a constitution

Almost three years in the making

Since its coronation.

 

 

I was not present

But I saw it on television:

The inauguration of our President

Dame Sandra Mason.

 

Rihanna was presented

For National Hero honours,

Barbados having received from her

Timely financial favours.

 

The eleventh recipient

Of this honour thus far

With Rihanna Drive also an honour

To this international star.

 

 

Weathering COVID-19

That horrible pandemic

That sucked our country’s blood

Leaving it anemic.

 

Yet navigating it

Better than most

While to several tourist liners

Being a merciful host.

 

Some stranded Trinis

Were given safe refuge here

When their own national authorities

Refused them there.

 

 

Such were the suspicions

Of relentless COVID-19

That held no regard for commoners

Or the Queen.

 

COVID-19 was a leveler

Of the rich and the poor

Many of whom lost that battle

And are seen no more.

 

 

So, as we approach

Our fifty-eighth birthday,

Let us give Almighty God thanks

For yet another year.

 

And as we map a course

For the Nation’s future

Let us be particularly mindful

To put God in the picture.

 

For righteousness

Still exalts a nation

And God is forever deserving

Of our adoration.

 

Stewart Russell © November 27, 2024

 

Francine and Gercine 2

 

 

Picture two next door neighbours

With no paling in beween

And whose names make music:

Francine and Gercine.

 

Picture two fowl-cocks

To service the hens

And suddenly one disappeared

Causing big problems.

 

Picture an early morning

When only one fowl-cock crowed

And de neighbours had a bassa-bassa;

Now fuh de show!

 

“Francine! Francine!

Yuh got to come out here,

I en never see nutting like this

In all me born days.

 

Francine! Francine!

You still in dey sleeping

Or you frighten sumpting gine happen

And you in dey peeping?

 

Try and come outside

It en nutting suh serious,

Stop peeping and come outside

And see why de fuss.”

 

“Chile, uh was dreaming

When uh hear yuh call out,

Uh ask muhself, whuh loud mout

Out dey bawling out bout?”

 

 

Dat fowl-cock right dey!

Dah’s yours or mine?”

“Chile, dah’s my fowl-cock;

It was so all de time.

 

And besides, it in my yard,

It en over at you,

Why you wud come asking me

When you know so too?”

 

I asking you cause dey was two

And one disappear

And dat wun at you got my sign

Pun he tail.

 

If I seeing right

That wun wud have to be mine.

Dah’s my fowl-cock

And it was so all de time?”

 

“Well, you cahn be seeing right

So get yuh eyes fix

And doan come round me dis morning

Wid nuh bigfoot tricks.

 

 

 

You cahn be serious!

De fowl-cock over at me

And yesterday it tread one my hens

And did look real happy.

 

If he did yours

He wud be ova at you,

Like me, you got hens ova dey

And you know dah’s de trute.”

 

“Eva since

I tell dat wussless wun,

Gordon, put up some paling

And he wun get it done.

 

Rather than listen to me

And get de paling done,

All de wusslessman bizness wid

Is he Cockspur Rum.

 

If he did put up de paling

When I tell he,

I wun be out hey wid you

Facing dis calamity.”

 

“Gercine, I feel sorry fuh you

But dat fowl-cock is mine

And dat is so despite you tellin me

He tail got on a sign.

 

 

I feed he from chicken stage

Till he become a fowl-cock

And as much as you saying he is you wun,

I know he is not.

 

I maintain, if he did yours

He wud be ovah at you

And dough you drop out in first form

You know dat too.”

 

“Dat is my fowl-cock

And I gine tek whuh’s mine,

You en getting way wid nuh tricks,

No, not dis time!

 

So how you gine tek he?

You gine come ovah hey?

Dat wud be over my dead body!

Girl, not today!”

 

“Before I get myself in trouble

I gine call Gordon out hey.”

Awright, you call Gordon, I’ll call George

And let de men have duh say.”

 

“Whuh wrong wid de two o’ wunna?

Wunna cahn live in peace?”

“George, Gercine trying to tell me

Dat I’s a thief.

 

She cahn find she fowl-cock

And want to tek way mine,

I tell she dat dat fowl-cock right dey

Was we wun all de time.

 

She telling me

Bout some sign pun de fowl-cock tail,

I want you to tell she whuheva she try,

She is bound to fail.”

 

“Wait! Gordon,

You en talk to Gercine?

You promise dat you wud tell you wife

Bout you little scheme.”

 

Gordon, whuh scheme is dat?

Whuh George talkin’ bout?”

“Look a woman, doan confuse me,

I got to go out.”

 

“You en gine nuh way

Till you tell me whuh I want to know.”

“Woman, you cahn be serious,

I suh I have to go.

 

Tek yuh hands off o’ me, woman,

You igronant or whuh?

I tell you that I have to leave,

You en understand whuh I suh?

 

And besides, leh tell me you,

You en want to hear bout that fowl-cock

Cause when you hear

It gine only mek you drop.”

 

“I doan care if I drop,

I want to hear

So before you leff bout dis yard

Leh me hear whuh you got to say.”

 

“Awright, I gine tell you,

Remember, you ask fuh dis,

I hope yuh ole heart cud tek it;

Um is you risk.

 

I did feeling thirsty

An I en had one red cent

So de money I get fuh de fowl-cock,

It awready shpent.

 

I en check fun nuh sign,

I shee fowl-cock and I ketch fowl-cock

And I done shpen de money

I get fuh Francine fowl-cock.”

 

“Whuh you spen de money pun?

Tell me, Gordon!”

“I tell yuh I did thirsty

So whuh you tink uh spen um pun?

 

I shpen um pun rum

And now uh echplain muhshelf, uh leffin

And dey en neffin you nor nobody cud do,

Neffin!”

 

 

“So, wait! He sell my fowl-cock

To get he Cockspur Rum

And now you want to suh dis fowl-cock

Is you wun?

 

Well, de devil is liar

Cause see dat fowlcock dey wid de sign?

Yuh could cry from now till Jesus come,

Dat fowl-cock is mine.”

 

“Francine, I is real sorry

Fuh accusing you

But dat man is embarrass me all de time

And I en know whuh to do.

 

I promise to divorce he

But tell de trute, I en got de heart

And plus, he din always so;

At least, not when we start.

 

 

I tell he many, many times

He should go to Alcoholics Anonymous

But de foolish man suh people widout a name

Nobody shun trust.

 

He’s tell me when I get duh names

I cud leh he know

And if he feel comfortable wid dem,

He might decide to go.

 

But I know he en gine nuh way,

Dah is jest he excuse

Cause when Gordon see Cockspur Rum,

He jest cahn refuse.

 

Gordon sold Francine’s fowl-cock

To buy a bottle of Cockspur,

I guess he saw a relationship;

Wouldn’t you concur?

 

Francine and Gercine

Are still very good friends

But they do need a second fowl-cock

To deal with those hens.

 

Stewart Russell © November 24, 2024

 

More on Moron

 

 

Moron by name

Moron by nature,

When it comes to being silly

Moron is a fixture.

 

 

Moron is married

To Mrs. Moron of course

And all the trying they do

They can’t get divorce.

 

They don’t get along

But can’t get away

And they have been like this

For many a year.

 

Incident after incident

Frequent and weird,

Here is another one of them;

Don’t be scared.

 

They were all alone,

No one else was around,

They had retired to their beds

And were lying down.

 

Mr. Moron snores

But Mrs. Moron does not,

She has never heard herself;

He thinks it’s rot.

 

She set out to prove

That she does not snore,

She’s been listening attentively

More and more.

 

 

“No evidence,” she says,

“I’ve been listening a lot,

I haven’t heard a single snore

While sleeping on my cot.”

 

 

“You can’t hear well,”

Mr. Moron countered,

“So, your no evidence tells me

You’re off your rocker."

 

So, this night in question

They were both asleep,

They were so dead to the world

They couldn’t hear a peep.

 

Quietly she awoke

As not to disturb him

And there lay with her eyes open

Taking in the night’s din.

 

She checked the clock

It was half-past two,

She slept not another wink

Convinced of her view.

 

“I know I don’t snore,”

She convinced herself,

“It’s he that has the problem

Of poor mental health.”

 

The clocked alarmed

On the dot of six

And she woke up Mr. Moron

With some cuffs and kicks.

 

He slept strongly

And didn’t like to wake

So, rousing him from deep sleep

Was no cake.

 

She finally woke him

After quite a chore

And she excitedly blurted out,

“I tell you I don’t snore.”

 

 

“How did you find out?”

He sleepily responded,

“I was up all night listening,”

She angrily rebounded.

 

 

“From half-past two

I was up until six

And the only snoring I heard,

Came from your lips.”

 

  

“I know I snore,

I have no argument there

And though I’ve never heard,

I really don’t care.

 

As for you

You could not snore all you like

But please don’t wake me up

In the middle of the night.”

 

 

Mrs. Moron was annoyed

At this stupid man

And right there and then

She came up with a plan.

 

She had to convince him

That she didn’t snore

And she made a determination

He would sleep no more.

 

At least, until he admitted

That she didn’t snore

Her poor moronic husband

Would sleep no more.

 

 

Every night thereafter

He had to be awake

And she couldn’t sleep either

Until it was too late.

 

 

And since neither slept

Neither could snore

So, Mr. Moron agreed she didn’t

And they fought no more.

 

See how easy that was?

Morons are smart,

With Mr. and Mrs. Moron

It was so from the start.

 

Here is the question:

Who made the more sense?

This would be Mr. Moron of course

Ladies, take no offense.

 

Stewart Russell © July 2, 2024

 

Desperate for A Grave

 

 

He was sitting on my grave

And I was desperate to get back in,

I had been out all night

And the dawn was coming.

 

I had not been dead long

So I had not been used to this,

I had been so intent on roaming

That I didn’t consider the risk.

 

I could go and come as I please

But must be back before dawn,

Only one single rule to keep

And I had been forewarned.

 

The night that was in question

I had returned to my recent haunts,

I had no special mission in mind;

I just went for a casual jaunt.

 

I was already missing the place

And I stayed a little too long

But on returning to my grave

Everything was going wrong.

 

I had lost my vocal chords

And I knew he could not hear me,

And since I could see him clearly

I felt he could also see.

 

Don’t forget, I was not long dead

And I was not yet used to this

So I had returned to my old district

Quite unaware of the risk.

 

We were never to be seen

When we went on our nightly roam

Hence, long before the dawn,

We were to be back home.

 

 

I sat on a grave nearby

And enquired from the resident within,

Meanwhile the dawn was quickly approaching

And I needed to get back in.

 

I asked if it had happened to him

And what did he actually do,

He said never in a hundred years

And I don’t know what to tell you.

 

Meanwhile he sat on my grave

With me trying to get back in

Smoking cigarette after cigarette

And got my grave like a bin.

 

By this time the smoke was killing me;

I could hardly breathe

Which reminds me when I broke the habit

I had been quite relieved.

 

I could see he had some problems

For he was talking to himself,

And for a man who was not yet dead

He was really in poor health.

 

By the way it had been raining

And he was soaked through to the bone,

All the more reason why he should leave

So I could get back in my home.

 

Nor even suicide could help me

Since I was already dead,

And I could not even have a headache

For in my grave I had left my head.

 

And my body for that matter

So I had no physical pain

But this mental anguish I was experiencing

I would never leave my grave again.

 

Whereupon I heard my neighbour,

“That is why it’s never happened to me.

I’ve been quite content to stay in my grave;

I am free from roaming free.

 

 

Many have sat on my grave

But they have never troubled me,

I had had enough of life out there

And there is no more for me to see.

 

“Can I share your grave with you?”

I asked rather pleadingly.

“Sure you can, my young deceased friend,

As long as you bring your body.”

 

“But my body is in my grave

And for right now I cannot get back in,

And I must confess I can’t deal with smoke

The man is on my grave smoking.

 

“You are newly dead, I have perceived.”

“But how did you know that?”

Because your body is still intact;

Isn’t that a fact?

 

It is quite obvious to me

You have not accepted your death

And that is the very reason

That you got up and left.

 

And now you are afraid

That the dawn will catch you outside,

I bet that you have even considered

Committing suicide.”

 

“But how can you know this?

I have never spoken with you

You are spot on my aged friend

Now tell me what to do.”

 

“I’ve been around a long time

And I know what not to do,

I stay in my grave

And you should have done that too.

 

As to what you should do

I haven’t a clue,

Find somebody older and wiser

And get another view.

 

 

This conversation is now ended

So, please get up off my grave,

The living can sit there upon

But of the dead I am terribly afraid.”

  

So, here I am

With the dawn approaching

And this man is sitting on my grave

And unsuspectingly smoking.

 

I would give anything

Just to change places with him

I am desperate for my grave

And I just want to get in.

 

If only I could get back in my grave

I would never leave again,

Given this anguish I am experiencing

I would rather have pain.

 

I was restless in life

Now I am restless in death,

My body lies in my grave

And I have nothing left.

 

Desperate for a grave

The living has taken mine,

Now it appears I must roam

For the rest of time.

 

Stewart Russell © August 25, 2020