Paul Andrew Bourne

Rookie - 74 Points (December 5,1968 / Kingston, Jmaica)

A Tainted Democracy - Poem by Paul Andrew Bourne

Poverty, freedom of movement
crippled not by conflicts of
pre-1962 Jamaica
but by political tribalism,
black disintegration, ‘donmanship',
"Saddamization" and
fatherless confused children
scrimmaging through debris streets
to unearth affection in a starved
community represents Vietnamese

Those sporadic volcanic
uprisings among a people of the
same earthly pigmentation -
tarnish that peace needed to
unfold like the lilies in an equal world.

The confusion of this bloodless people
erupt oftentimes on playfields over tackles,
goals, ‘bad mouthing' and over nothingness.
They - a few goblins have spread their deeds
on the harmless masses without empathy
like Hitler they swallow the innocent without
remorse. I see quilted minds with years of
struggles and history separate like a volcano.
It's the party loyalty, the silliness called
profiteerism and years of peculiarity that has
fueled this war, injustice that stands between
the same ones.

In my land
the fear of God withers first,
then falls the love of parents
follows by the respect of family
to the detriment of all
and finally the regard of life.
Where lies the joy of being or
the craft of a being?

In our neighbourhood the socialization of
Nationality is forgotten in the curriculum.
Our streets are laid with plaques of lost youth
and silence earmarks the price for stay.
We hide in the nights with a warrior's alertness
looking for the next twist
though we fight not aliens.
Our corners are void of flowers, filled with
the dew of grace that falls a far off and our
children play with retaliations -
and this is a reward for years of illiteracy.

Where is our sacred motto,
the teachings of Marcus and
the visions of Christianity?
Confusion, pains, fears, rejection
mar our psyche -
the years of shackles have paid dividends:
For brutality needs no explanation.
Even with much, we're offered less
while we see our Masters - same race
in furs of Europe, drunken in the
fine wines and luxuries of the First World.
Why do they see us not nor see they the scandals
Is an X our only talent!

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, February 26, 2012

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