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Wade' Dennis
Gaining Independence
What mysteries abound me as I enter this new world
A world with airplanes, treasures and pretty white girls
In spite of anticipation, I step with hesitation
For my memory won't forget the bonds of negation
That stunted my brother's favorite relation
In this land, In this land, where the eagle roams free
And the buffalo's first master lies on plains of Missouri
Lived an apple tree cutter and the inventor of light
Both whose passions engaged my great grandmother's plight
See she was like me, a girl of wise wonder
A child who believed the world was asunder
A virgin, a maid, a spawn of the slave
She struggled to control her yearnings to rage
Who wouldn't want to be a master of the south
Plantations full of men to listen while I shout
Sipping tea, riding strong, whipping pages, dead wrong
The glory of the power of my son in white sarongs
So observed the distant travelers
that had crosses the ancient seas
So they waited for the time they would get their own reprieve
Salvation came eventually like a button dropped off a sleeve
Slightly missed, never forgotten
yet not thrown out like the leaves
But preserved with one last hope
that just their absence gave Sam new rope
not to hang himself but to capture more
and retain them with lore
that they would one day lead the land of milk
so the outside son was sent to build himself a house
with not a dime to buy or sell brick stone of souse
as a congregation they praised their lord for deliverance
as a population they survived by their own resilience
yet naught a century later their own poor sodden seeds
were being chucked out like shells of a sunflower
for they had followed the example of the enlightened men
and created a scale that justified their sin
treating their neighbor as a foe not a friend
subjecting and raping and stealing their hens
the egg that broke soon quickly turned sour
as the forgotten chick learned of her mother's devour
One bites back raw when the breast is broken
One starts a war when treated as a token
The struggled became one of the phoenix
To be burned and exhumed and then redeemeth
The travelers of the sea, to their own sad disgrace
Went sent to roam the world for a place to hide their face
Paraded as an example of what happened to the exalted race
Who had forgotten their own struggle
in the hand of old British lace.
The Last Day of Class
Yaw yaw, yaw!
My people oh, my people
The town crier called
Yaw want to know something
I just heard in the hall
What happened oh, what happened?
All the children wanted to know
They say the rebels coming oh
And its time for us to go
To go? Go where? I na going nowhere
That you alone stupid, said another,
I going with my mother
She already packed and got visa for my brother
Me two, me three, the rest of the children said
I getting on a plane,
No body coming kill me because of my name
Well, me myself, I will stay here and fight
Liberia is my home even if I die the first night
You know, he's right, why should we go?
We got here first and built the whole show
We should take up arms and make them go
But what about school?
The school will close
But don't worry we will meet again by the seashore
Okay just don't forget to give me back my jumping rope.
The Coup
The caramel colored presiding at last
Disregarding Mr. chocolate's precedence and past
Steal their land, they have no education
Simply savages made to build a nation
Working the land patiently waiting their turn
To vote, to rule, a chance to learn
A constitution written that gave no choice
They have eyes you know
These people that sow
As you rise they see their demise
You say they are devilish with their traditional ways
Not qualified to sit among your O-fays
They sambo smile and imitate your style
Secretly practicing their bows yet all the while
Counting down to the day
He dreamed of a nation, developed and secure
With civilized people attending operas and reading scores
High speed trains and hundred mile highways
Connecting plains producing pastured grains
Little did he know that as champagne coasted around the table
The minstrels ran around constructing a fable
Before his glass tilted, windows began to shake
The green ants stormed, tying the kings to the stake
When the tide broke and the ocean hit the sand
The country had fallen into the devil's hand
Revolution is sudden in the lands of the rains
No conflict ever stalled where the people did not reign
A cultural revolution had evolved
With groves of Interiorities
emerging from the forest like a flood
Washing into the city turning water into blood
Retribution, restitution or even to appease
Never occurs to the first army that seizes
Power and greed take over the soul
Scrambling ants steal and then cower in their holes
An eye for an eye is the motto that reigns
Never quite knowing who to blame
Don’t Cry My African Child
Don’t cry my African child
I see your bloated stomach and teary eyes
the absence of love and hope to survive
the long gone lost pride that use to effuse
you as the other village children played
the hand slapping, foot clapping, beat rhyming
ancient timing love songs
Love for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness
Love for your land, rich and plentiful green and brown
with valleys and grounds unseen and unknown
but to your grandmama’s minds
Love for the crystal and diamond mines
the ore that used to adorn the chief wife’s children
now sits in Hollywood cases to be mingled and caressed
by the wiry blue and red, white hands
or shall I say the red, white, and blue bands
of armed stone men that came to capture and reform
yet only brought out our violent nature
and created tumultuous seas that ravaged
our pleasant abyss in rain dropped weather
lying beside mango trees, fishing in prawn infested lagoons.
Don’t cry my African Child
I see your other side
the fear, the pain, the disillusionment
as you sit at 2 in the morn watching the blond haired blue eyed Babriella,
tell her tales of pity and woe for the poor
African child with no hope to ever sow a seed
in the land that her ancestors strode and rode for
fought and drove precious cows and antelopes for
As you sit miles away distanced by time and tears, wipe your weary heart
and turn your face away for you know the power of your land and people
Don’t cry my African Child
Make them understand that we are not the running ants
that flee at the crack of dawn when invaders break a newly discovered peace
And we are not the blind savages that jump through trees
who enjoy monkey apple seeds and watching fly fish breathe
But we are also not the idealized queen of the slave
or the mother of all Jamaicans, Haitians, and O’fays
We are simply marms and babes surrounded by long since crashed waves
with covered heads of plantain bread and watermelon juice
carried in coconut shells under the arms of our returned fugue patients
Don’t cry my African Child
For peace will come as the night expected yet slow delayed
by the fires of a distant burning ball of rage
blindly fighting the color of white and light
yet inadvertently destroying itself and diffusing its own might
Rolling in as storms do, calming the years and
bringing new and peaceful pleasures
that recognize your inherent needs and desires
but destroys your apparent greed and hires
your everlasting wisdom and strength
to bring back your wayward seeds long lost in the wind
but like bees return as the call of the queen
sounds in the meadows of war and dreams.
Copyright © Wade' Dennis
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