__The disaster between us  

Increasingly I have been able to find words
For the disaster between us
I have found ways
Of describing
What might have happened to us
And our minds and our souls
As they are conditioned
By the disaster
This grand and ugly disaster between us  
With this enquiry
I have found others, many others
Who have previously given descriptions
And explanations
And complaints
About what precisely happened
And how and why whatever happened, happened
Between us
Whatever it was that led
To the disaster
And the division between us
Who and how many of us
May be to blame
For having done something
Disastrously wrong
Incomprehensibly wrong  
The disaster
The slave trade
That’s what I mean
The transatlantic slave trade
Between us
Which divides us
And rules us  
But if you enquire why
The rule of this law
Will fade away
To some extent
And whatever does not
Fade away Represents the work
That needs to be done.                                                                                            

© Ursula Troche, 2.2011<IBEJI>   
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Peace and Love  

Constant conversation
Continuing communication
On-going dialogue
The cadences of communion
For our unity, our union, our
State of desired harmony  
State of desire:
Our desire is to aspire
To deep liberation
Cadence of consciousness
Deepest liberation  
As deep as possible
As complete as possible
Completely Free and connected
To each of us
To the spirit of peace
And love
Peace And love forever.                                                                                                        

© Ursula Troche, 2.2011<IBEJI> 
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_'DREAMS'

Dreams swell
nurturing through the night
as do they now
Crescent moons smiling down
while women wear masks of
snuffed out candle wax
and smoky spirals.
Domino people
in black and white, parade
the shell of cracked vinyl
hidden faces against the wind
asking to be taught to kiss.
to laugh to cry; as they
ponder why?
It makes no difference
if its sweet or hot
or melting to a murky brown
or fascinating silvery blue.
Warm streams of light
as balled up fists
reflect the night
A thousand screams,
a thousand pains,
listlessly plotting cause
to strike a match,
in acrid air, acrid rain
For deep within, rage is fear.
Oblivion pervades
the shadows of each
And a microwave pings
the destiny bowl's
first outpourings
Kicking legs up in the air
out to lunch, out to flight
on lonely night.
Getting an itch for life
feeling my toes dancing
to a longer winter
woodland rain invigorating me
I pucker up and bluff more craven
I’m right, you’re right, no need to fight!
just seeking inner sight
and souls that reveal
how lucky we are
to be here, now.
--------------------------------------------
Poetry and Artwork by Rev.Bola A <IBEJI>
(copyright: 1Dec11 - ARR)
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_'TESTIMONY OF DELIVERANCE'

I told a million answers to their biting questions to silence them.

The mists grew heavy.  When I stretched my arm out I could not see past my hand, but it did not matter.  When I closed my eyes my feet moved along with the rhythm of the mountain and its soils. Faster and faster I could almost feel myself fly.

A foreigner stopped me on my rise toward the mountaintop.  He had one eye and loose skin that folded around his body like paper cloth.  Laid before him was a set of coloured tablets and sticks.  "Stay for a game," he said to me.  "After you win your game with me I'll let you go on your way."

When he placed his hand upon me he let out a great cry and then vanished into the earth.

Without hesitance I lifted my skirt legs, began to dance in father's leather bottomed shoes.  The soles breezed across the ground, cutting the mist with rhythmic motions.  I then turned the ring on my finger and watched my father rise, soil shedding from his skin.  His shaved face and clean hands stood against the paling crowd. This impressed the people who stood before me, as did the fact that my tongue did not bleed from the needle it held.

"My daughter!" Mother cried out to me, tears of gratitude streaming from her eyes. ''You are home at last''.

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Story and Artwork by Rev.Bola <IBEJI>
(19.12.11 -ARR)

'Weeping Memories' 

With the dying of time poets echo,
In the streets of discord memories weep,
Under the cover of the mind the soul doth speak,
In the stillness of harmony where memories leap.

In the moonless dark, the old ones seek, 
Dis- establishment of guilt to defend the weak
Yet nought, was so valuable, throughout
As the cool-aid stains, which never came out
Or the hope, they could somehow, hide their doubt

Of green paper things, they've had their fill
My pocket and yours, adds much to the till
We like it or not, must contribute our share
To shaking that snow, right out of our hair

Like the object, of any desire
Let the blistering smoke inspire
Unlike the knife, that loves to cut
It won't make a puncture, in your gut

This web-like lust, would be no crime
Were it, but a mote, in the eye of time
Like Latin, is language, but passed away
With magic, the words,  all gone astray
Where to, for what, to find one day

Whether Wallet, Mallet, Mallard,
Or Walloon, Balloon, Bollard?
Life's ghastly problems, can be stubborn and hard
As the tide of time, flows relentlessly onward

Bronze face reveals little, of  the one within
Who sits alone with, green recycle bin
Quietly brewing, an escape from sin
Mouth wide open, singing and sipping
As notes hit the ceiling, bloody and dripping

'With the dying of time,  poets echo,
In the streets of discord, memories weep,
Under the cover of the mind, the soul doth speak,
In the stillness of harmony where memories leap.'
 ---------------------------------------------------------
 Poetry by Rev.Bola A. <IBEJI>
(copyright: 9.12.11 -ARR)
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