O Me! O Life!

O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless–of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself,
(for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light–of the objects mean–of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all–of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest–with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring–What good amid these, O me, O life?

[Answer]

That you are here–that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

~ by Walt Whitman ~

 

Morning After The Night Before

“The morning after the night before
when I was rich and you were poor
we stripped ourselves of all obscene
and washed away our deeds unseen.”

© DjA “Crowmanic”

 

Spirit Gone

Spirit gone she sadly wailed,
all torn and used and child-like frail.
Spirit gone she madly painted,
while she sobbed forlorn, cried and ranted,
her image now stained and tainted.

Spirit gone in the empty faces of the masses
moving within their darkened spaces.
Spirit gone from within this our land,
watch the rich, moist soil turn into barren sand.

Spirit gone she whispers softly
as I reach-out and gently touch her hand;
she dries her tears encouraged to face mounting fears.

Spirit gone for many it may seem, yet for her,
a young woman born of ancient Law and Ancestral Dream,
“The Spirit” is in the very air that she breathes,
and is blessed whenever she remembers to take a calming breath.

And as I soothe young ‘Haley’ still again,
she says the “Aunties” have left her side.
I remain to remind her child-like self—my young charge—
that it is us that wander in disregard,
and leave the place of our sanctuary.

That is we too quick forget where we’re from—
choosing to live too human lives—not to take charge—
not to be where we remain safe and strong.

Your Spirit’s not gone
I respond to her rage,
your ‘spirit” is still here,
beyond your conditioned fears.

For the “Aunts” and the Land,
are a part of your spiritual being,
and such true love remains
the only constant in a changing world
of tidal waves and shifting sand.

Now breathe quietly again my child,
do not be crushed by your mind’s trap.
Rest gentle awhile— calm your insides—
be kind to yourself, desist from your own
or any other’s destructive crap.

And in the closing of this prose,
as hidden tears of pain and joy,
and anguish fall within my chest,
I see her image before my eyes,
one of the many children of the lost,
forgotten,disregarded Dreaming;
and my rage is full, yet silent,
against such forces that brought her
to age too soon.

And then “Spirit” again soothes me,
as ‘Haley’ is only one amongst too many,
who deserve to be re-Earthed, to be safe;
to experience the joy of her life reviewed.

So I silently pray for this young ‘child’ of ours;
that she may recall these words this night,
whenever caught under her shroud of misery
that smothers her peace and hinders her bliss.
Then hope enlivened may clear her clouded soul,
revive her troubled life, and joy again for the while
can fill the space not so long ago a troubled,
shadowed bowl.

© Djubba Akbar

Written 26/12/1997 & 2/1/1998

[Afterthought: And in 'Haley' living a full and joyous life under the Southern Sky, may young Ricky's spirit live on. No, dear 'Haley', like the boomerang that returns, neither the Spirit, the Dreaming nor the Aunts have gone.]

Please Note: ‘Haley’ is a pseudonym to protect the identity of the person whom this is about. “Ricky” is a young lad, whom I knew well, who took his life. This story/poem is based on real, direct experience.

 

Who’s Sin

What force, what power, who’s god,
in the midnight hour,
drove the hand that drove the knife
deep into my Cousin’s flesh — took his life.

What force, what power, what God do we follow,
as we wallow in subjugation under the hand of
the man with a church in one and the fear of the gun.

What law, what force, who’s sacred ways were wrong,
what right does the white become right in the night,
and turned my Cousins ways, his very life into a crime.

What law, who’s words, who’s hymns are the true songs
to the gods, and the spirits of the land that we once belonged.

Who’s rules prevailed, who’s life assailed,
who drove the knife into my dear Cousin’s flesh,
when nought was done except a night of young fun.

What force, what power, who’s god was to blame,
to see such a crime go unpunished, not repaid.
What god permits such hypocrites to rule another man.

What force, what power, what twisted beliefs
spilled — nay wasted the life-blood of my Cousin
on the pavement, in the midnight hour,
who’s right, who’s power, who’s sin has it been.

© Djubba Akbar