That song I cannot sing

Hello and welcome to my Blog.

After my break to celebrate 25 years of marriage, I’m continuing this week the Reggae / Blues flavour with lyrics and poems taken from my 2011 collection “Reggae Riddeema”. Poem of the week on the homepage, “Love as”, is aspects of love.

Pulse

Threads tracked along old calendar pages,

Crossed off and discarded.

Weak or firm the flow and beat continue.

Streaming on into weirs and terraces

Where the cooling water foams fresh

To be aerated into life for Salmon in the pool.

History one could say has no over-arching evil or blessed intent;

Solely events interpreted by moralists and priests.

Yet some law unwritten, yet lodged within our hearts dictates,

The larger meaning and view on all events.

Co-incident with the urge to control, to make a change,

Reposes too the duty on the unseen mover to be

In feelings moved and judging, desiring the outcome good,

Wisdom lying in pre-knowledge of how things should.

That Song I Cannot Sing

Listening to Burning Spear

Do I remember the days of slavery?

Got this thought in my mind coming clear.

That song I cannot sing from my heart

With no history, no remembered fear.

Since all I could offer

Is working for the Man

In some satanic mill.

Hating the boss and that job

Escaping when and if you can.

Seems a meagre slim connection

For its not from the heart deep I could truly bring.

Not really the thing,

No.

So that song I cannot sing.

That song of burning

I cannot sing.

Listening to Burning Spear

Do I remember the days of slavery?

I’m closing my eyes, better visualise.

We’s in a deep dark well

Looking up to freedom skies.

Clouds passing free,

Unlike we.

Here at the bottom

Walls pressing in,

Trapped with no hope

Of getting out.

But this is only my imagined shout.

Not really the thing,

No.

So that song I cannot sing.

That song of burning

I cannot sing.

This is my white boy slavery song,

I can only imagine the suffer and wrong.

Not really the thing,

No.

So that song I cannot sing.

That song of burning

I cannot sing.

Some Sweet Comfort for My Soul

It was a long time coming

But for Daddy and me, the changes never came.

So we just kept passing down the ember

Of hope in our hearts

While we worked in the mud and the rain.

Just mud and rain

With some rest at night

Just enough to get up, so we could do it again.

I didn’t notice the years rolling

With my work and family, time has slipped on by.

Now I sit on the porch hearing young folks

Singing my old time blues.

Just happy they got an easier try.

Young folks, brightness and joy.

Just their brightness and joy.

Gives me some sweet comfort for my soul.

Young folks, brightness and joy.

Young folks, brightness and joy.

Just their brightness and joy.

Gives me some sweet comfort for my soul.

Young folks, brightness and joy.

The Accuser’s Answers:

Song of the Grumblebellies

Ecclesiastes and Job

The bellyachers confront, accusing:

“Show your face! Come here!

Why us and unrightness?”

Complaints and whiners met with silence

Not even presence to grapple with like Jacob.

Simply, simply, deep silence.

They look and wind moves leaves in trees

On sunlit leaves

Breezes around your faces and heads

Dust grains felt across toes of sandaled feet.

Simply, simply, wait.

He will answer yet perhaps

Through others, not today

In a different way expected or not foreseen.

When the crops of plans are failed

He’ll drop the forward growing seed.

Our causes plead, the accusers leave.

Still the gulf unbridged, paths and ways still blocked.

We will return to speak, though hurt yet

We will not abandon Him.

Simply, simply, believe.

I Was a Prisoner of Myself

I was a prisoner of myself,

Keys lost to the map of my mind.

Sunk there’s no trace;

But turn the corner four times

Any direction from where you start

The remedy to find again, regain,

Your thoughts, your place.

I was the prisoner of myself,

Unable to float serene,

Without hope’s corks plugging.

We sink aboard our ship of schemes

Defeated in our mind we splash and paddle,

While, in the distance, lies our land of dreams.

You simply have to keep on bailing and slugging.

I was the prisoner released,

From naysayers and various doubts.

With one resolve I slipped the chains,

And now see fortune’s grace blow free,

The fighter prevails in the end,

After several bouts.

Original poem (from: “Sharing a Soft Small Star”) The original poem and a reggae poem lyric version – who says you can’t re-mix poems like music?

Ebony Sweet

Against the fluted pillar she leans,

Classical and beauty meet and meld.

Her skin so black.

I see her eyes; she smiles,

Twin rows of pearls me greet.

Ebony girl so sweet.

“Riddim” version:-

Ebony Sweet

Ebony sweet, each day mi greet

So fine.

Ebony sweet, mek mi so complete

So fine.

Ebony sweet, in mi dreams your lips

‘Gainst mine.

’Gainst the pillar of the restaurant she lean,

Her beauty meet and meld,

wit the world, supreme.

Her skin so smooth an black.

Gimme heart attack.

I lost, I see her eyes;

She smiles,

Twin rows of pearls mi greet,

I know my heart’s complete,

Ebony girl so sweet,

So sweet.

Ebony sweet, each day mi greet

So fine.

Ebony sweet, mek mi so complete

So fine.

Ebony sweet, in mi dreams your lips

‘gainst mine.

Fickles fo tha Rhymin Man - a Warnin!

Sayin Reggaeliscious,

Rub a dubliscious,

Say I’s alway bit suspicious,

Of yo labels.

Cryin from tha left field no predicted,

I pleads total genius as indicted.

No rest from rhyming fo the wicked,

Flowin from tha mind,

Steeds of mi power,

Chargin from tha stables.

So rhymin man be bold,

See alls’ll turn to Gold.

Fortune beckon you in from tha cold.

Sit an eat all dem good tings,

From groaning tables.

Fickles fo tha Rhymin Man - a Warnin!

Folks changing wit tha breez,

Opinions on talent concernin.

Fickles fo tha Rhymin Man - a Warnin!

Big up riding on the high,

He’s no worry.

But dem easy change dem minds,

Tomorrow he be sorry!

Sayin Reggaeliscious,

Rub a dubliscious,

Say I’s alway bit suspicious,

Of yo labels.

Until my next Blog, as always have a good week and take care.

Best wishes,

Louis

This Blog and all contents, copyright Louis J. Casson 2017. All poems taken from the collection “Reggae Riddeema”, 2011

© Louis J. Casson 2017 all rights reserved.

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