An Errant Poet Paints an Andy Warhol
piece.
It started
with a painting at auction
reaching
ninety five million dollars
The
artist passed away in 1988
the
same year another artist, my mother
passed
away, though her works command
a striking
free fee, such a giving lady she was.
Warhol
on the other hand, Green Cars Crashing
sucks
a load of cash out of some suspecting buyer,
generally
a mish mash of paint and papier mache
the
likes of school aged kids splattering with love.
The
times when he held a can of Campbell’s Soup
up as
art, cracked my funny bone, I have a gift then
as I
dabble freehand with pastels and watercolours,
One
senses his pop culture versus my kiwi culture
far
outweigh the latter. I search my room
for
a masterpiece, something worthy of millions
and
spy a decrepit translation of the Maori in me,
I had
displayed and received reverence and accord.
What
would a dead artist do with ninety five million?
What
would you do with that amount? Swing from
the
rafters and do bally hoop with chickens
in the
foul house of life, cluck cluck, what the fuck?
I measure
my next attempt at Art, raise the hands
above
the keyboard, and………The End, signed me.
The Shawshank Redemption
The
real story is a good read
the
movie a tribute to King
but
this is a story far deeper
deeper
than anything I know.
He's
a sporting type, built like a rhino on heat,
plays
lacrosse with his buddies down Wessex-way,
the
fact he runs an ice-cream parlour is pointless
the
fact he runs it well, necessary, illuminate.
Bob,
(yes Bob or Robert according to his mother)
drives
an F100 with an old time radio installed
picking
up channels of old time rock and roll,
and
the commentaries of Jocks on sport and sex,
the
lady on his left last nights lust on her way home
his
redemption for not using a condom, itchiness,
maybe
a dose of the crabs or silenced gonorrhea,
the
need to fulfill animal lusts when the shop closes.
Shawshanks
Ice Cream parlour dotted on the store
and
emblazoned in White/Blue on the side of the truck
his
redemption now, get well, get better, get clean
before
opening the shop on the corner of 12th and 9th.
The
sundial in the square (more round really -plaza)
shines
in his eyes as he contemplates his life, no love
then
born without love tends to have that effect on you,
the
time squarely (or roundly) defecates late afternoon.
He cruises
to the corner of 12th and 12th, one gross
police
cruiser standing alone checking empty meters,
the
town not ostensibly busy this late in the day,
Bob
throws Bill (strange in England they're
call the old Bill)
a salute
from past war passages, when both were Marines,
fighting
for an Ice-cream Parlour and empty parking lots,
fighting
for the lusty ladies that create itches in society
create
problems for wayward loners and their mates,
they
shake hands (eeeewwwww) and walk into Ray's Electrical,
he doubles
as the voodoo doctor as well, evil spirits
and
unwanted ruminations, unwanted love bombs and
sexual
innuendoes, the time closing when he passed
a scarred
hand to Ray and was offered a shake in return,
all
now facing Loretta’s Redemption, passed Shawshanks,
the
time when stories find themselves getting uncontrolled,
the
time disease eats into all stories and shocks aplenty.
Space – the fiscal frontier
Sitting
in my rocking chair
on a
veranda swathed in scrimshaw
the
lights of Hacienda Thane
darkened
to save energy
to not
blot out the view from the horizon
through
to just above my head, obscurity.
Space,
the final evolution
the
revolution of stars and planets
around
my own personal planetarium
the
delicacy of shapes astrologically speaking
scattering
of Angeplanus this and plasmacoated that
I reach
for my formations folder
photographs
of night sky
taken
with my trusty Nikon
and
amplified through my Ziess spyglass,
colourful
plays of dots and polkas
the
sound on the stereo that of featured Star Trek
backing
tracks, Klingon’s vs. The Borg
Captain
James T and Bones
Scotty
(now passed God bless his soul)
Lieutenant
Ahuru and Sulu
out
there somewhere in a our imaginations
in our
own personal Heaven Sent maps
in our
minds that travel fantasy and fact-
one
day we’ll be flying those realms
in little
baby suits and gaga tunes
with
the salt of tears the only water
to be
shared amongst star travellers.
I wipe
away a tear trying to map Sagittarius,
instead
settle on the familiar Southern Cross
and
Andromeda, Alpha Centauri, and Jupiter
low
in the night sky on it’s way to other places
where
the likes of me replicate to view ours
always
ours, unless you have a visitor over
but
alas none too many share your hope,
your
scope, your vision, your reality, yours
and
only yours, each pass across the sky
as different
from any that have scanned before
sadly
I close the book and go place it away
for
another night perhaps when time isn’t a burden.
The Free Man
You
could be anyone
sitting
in a summery field
feet
bare and tickled by barley grasses
you
could be Alexander the Great
planning
to take over the known world
planning
to make yourself God of all you purvey
no,
you sit and feel Mother Earth
thrum
her heartbeat of life, surety
through
your arse bared to defecate
on the
minions that don’t understand your stature
the
size of your brevity the loneliness of timelessness
the
right to be king of the field, queen of nothing,
such
is life as a court jester that unfolds mischief
and
pranksterism upon the masses, to fool not berate
the
lifelessness of knees folded for too long
under
that bare-arsed attempt to dream of realms
and
possibilities, the thoughts juxtaposed
with
sexual kingdoms and how size rules
you
play the Ace and nature cries Snap –
a branch
topples to the ground behind you
worn
out from years of dangling, swaying
in breezes
that blow at such a rate to kill and maim
if anyone
unsuspecting wanders below.
That’s
beside the point, royalty is never
assassinated
just
always in the wrong place at the wrong time
much
like a hedgehog on a road busy with
hedgehog
flattening tyres driving by, none though
in your
field of Dreams and Hopes after all
at forty
eight you should know better, should know
that
family should amount to the sum of your daily
life,
stripped off you by wild circumstance
now
free to live dreams, live reality, write stories
that
enthrall people, from when you started
seven
years ago, until now, several short stories and hundreds of poems, nay thousands, whatever
now
removed from that field and placed in a secure
chamber
of computer, bed, wall hangings
a date
with destiny fast approaching
no more
Alexander the Great, little alone Thane
The
Free Man.
Love Orchids
Love
Orchids
put
them high
high
for the eye
higher
for buyers
pictures
a fresh outlook
their
beauty to behold now
the
swirls of colours pervade air
the
care to grow, plant them cautious
then
place them in a canister for sale.
Bite
To use
teeth voraciously
in a
motion up and down
to sever
with vigour
chew
with relish
to gnaw
with grinding health
to swallow
with a gulp of pleasure.
Feathers
The
light downy vapour trail
in an
azure baked sky-
the
feathers of planes passing at altitude,
crisscrossing
the sky
in patterns
of quills-
set
to writing poems patterns.
the
feathers of a dancing Fantail
to warn
me of a dying spirit-
the
family will be losing someone soon.
The bend on the Avon River where the Body was found.
It’s
a picturesque spot,
laid
out like an English Country garden
a meandering
brook, with high sloping banks
willow
trees dangling their tickle branches
a punt,
and steersman (in Vaudeville topper),
a young
couple sipping champagne aboard
taking
in the sights as they love-
maybe
not.
Walking
along between Haskell and Tuem streets
follow
the weave of the bank
a body
naked
bruised
blue
gray
dead!
I pass
it by, the police well in control
measure
my pace
between
Tuem Street and MacDonald’s Pass,
pull
a hipflask of whiskey from my pocket,
take
a sip and wish the body’s family well,
see
the young lovers a wee bit down stream
see
the look of horror, no time for love
they
must have seen, I assume
forgive
me, my footsteps turn
a quick
gallop across Mayfair’s Bridge
to an
Ice Cream stand,
so much
better after a nip of the hard stuff.
Pop Culture – Warning - Cars going fast
Dunno
about you folks dere,
the
V8’s roaring down drag strips
souped
up Jappa cars
loud
stereos pumping the vibe
the
Doctor on the corner
attends
a birth for free.
There’s
the roar of Jet Cars
on the
salt tarmac of Bonneville
ripped
apart by an Indian
motorbike
that
broke 200 miles per hour
with
a 60 year old pilot onboard,
the
local diary owner isn’t Indian.
The
purr of a NASCAR as it rounds
the
Brickyard at two twenty six miles per hour
rubber
shredding at millimeters per revolution
just
to hold another speed demon on track,
the
babies in Ward twenty three were mixed
mothers
in a quandary as what to do.
I see
a mint condition Nineteen Eighty Five
Ford
Laser cruise by underpowered
at ninety
eight kilometres per hour,
the
tasty two occupants more than a mouthful,
they
dream of being naughty nurses
in magazines
meant to entice and hold men.
The
seventh car crashed on the home turn
the
driver burnt but safe, holds hand high
the
acknowledgement to the fans, they enjoy
a good
burn up and close racing,
The
track doctor passes fit all the drivers
but
is dubious about No. 7’s pit crew, hung-over.
Clouds
The
shapes enthrall
tall
and kingly, thunderheads
low
and wispy, queen reigns,
fast
and daunting
like
there is no tomorrow
Then
at night – red
turn
in with the thought
things
will be ok.
Morning
pink
the
day ahead a beauty
if only
for the morning hue.
Lead
me to water and I will drink
lead
me to a cloud filled sky
and
I will think.
Beyond the known path
A journey
starts with one foot moving
eyes
attuned to what’s ahead
ears
ready to inwardly digest
the
sweet taste of Newness
the
feeling of blood through veins and arteries.
the
sideways looks at visions of green
the
sea of grasses
blowing
the
staunch mountains of trees
the
rock solidness of grey asphalt
the
morbid signposts hailing destinations.
The
luminescence of Sun shining
a sign
that day moves on
the
longer the shadow stands
the
taller the journeyman’s stature
guns
on a jet overhead hot from combat.
Day’s
end, rest neath the moon and stars
delectable fare for a wanderer
susceptible
to motion sickness
incorrigible
to the scant core,
the
moss of the Oak roots a bed for a weary head.
In the
morn, birds chirrup the morning call,
the
journey once again one foot after another,
a gentleman’s
gait, a woman’s vision
a goats
chewing motion across and down
the
voice of a child’s delight at a new toy,
Babies
in the maternity ward take his name,
he has
that affect on people, President,
a man
of honour and fortitude
to do
the right thing, to lead by example
to rub
shoulders with the rich and infamous.
One
step back reverses the process innately
but
doubles the journey, experiences
maybe
all for the good, never a bad scene.
The Ballet of Ducks Swimming
You’ve
seen it before
the
weed covered pond
with
little duckie poo trails
tail
feathers pointed skyward
eating
– weeds of course
the
wheels of someone’s bike – floating
The
tossed salad of Mum’s Barbecue
the
talking point amongst mourners
how
she managed to provide in death.
a quickie
I hear you say, ok fine!
Ice Aged
The
ice freezes time
captures
eons of matter
holds
onto it ‘til Global Warming
comes
again…..
Professor
Tubowitz studies under rimmed glasses, the finer details of carbon emission from fifteen millennia ago, pastes another slide
in a petrie dish….
The
slowness of time
the
inherent death of things telling
a story
ring barked in trees too
the
growth measured by the fires
by the
heat waves
by the
shrinking water passages
The
team at University of Cambridge
study the sudden onset of Man. The trees seem to tell a tale and there’s a three thousand year old giant redwood that says an axe
fell here
The
slime in the pond oozes oil
the
time of man, diesel
the
time of trains, planes and dirty old cars
the
time when people walked
to save
the planet from itself,
Norsewood
Grove unearths a skeleton
neither
man nor beast,
but
Meast - Man Beast,
The
slides under electron microscope
divulge
species
relevant
to survival
but
where be they now?
A cub
Reporter sees the article in the dumpster, seventy nine pages on why Nuclear fission is dangerous to the planet, the lasting
inequality of life, the very much repressive news of non existence, as if an asteroid had hit the mark.
The
dinosaurs didn’t die
they
were killed in large numbers
man
was too small for that to happen
so maybe
it was an asteroid, strongest of the fittest,
John
MacDiarmid studied nuclear fission
tried
to understand how megatons
was
required to dust the Earth enough to blot light.
A saddened
poet writes about the intervention that can and can’t be stopped.
Precipitation
aka Rain
Rain
.......Rain
..............Rain
Dropping
like a wet cloak
squishy
toes
damp
nose
sings
a song on a bicycle spoke
Drip
.......Drip
..............Drip
fills
a drain very deep
slippery
fingers
wet
that lingers
the
slip on the bank steep
Splash
.......Splash
..............Splash
Children
dance barefoot fancy
hair
soaking
no smoking
the
fingers massage a pansy.
Timeless Classics
The
Bentley with the lady flaring
the
caress of an F15 on landing
the
heads of states disagreeing
the
minds of children daring
the
milk of goats disappearing
the
bristle of a brush fluffing
the
mouths of babes staring
the
times for age concern nearing
the
beast in the backyard blaring
the
truck through the fence searing
the
days when gayism foreboding
the
nights awake illuminating
the
sigh of sun, sharing
the
death of moon fearing
the
time on the alarm clock alarming
the
barn doors ajar, swinging
the
songs of the choirs singing
the
salt of long tears stinging
the
children on the path skipping
the
ships on the ocean shipping
the
sounds of footfall stepping
the
money in the wrong account debiting
the
wings of the cargo jet sidestepping
the
fines in court, distending
the
poem you write, never-ending
the
play of words franking
the
words of plays clapping
the
claps of plays wording
the
plays of claps changing
the
days when night roars, snoozing
the
night when man roars, snoring
the
night without noise, boring
the
fire in the hearth roaring
the
flick of a switch, ending.
Goodnight.
The Gamechnoid Trilogy – Part I - The Eibe
Dragons
fire
breaths
death – life – rebirth
the
small knight
in a
fight
his
plight
tarnished
his
domain weakened
a princess
in a tower
hair
flowing silver blonde
sends
a love spell dove mail
to her
brave warrior.
Dayna
the freelance jester
steps
on the dragons tail
for
effect,
quick
reflexes
tail
lashes
a cart
smashes
the
donkey honks goose calls
calls
The Gamechnoid
the
slayer of dragons
the
wizard of Etheron
the
wise man of Sagerious.
An eagle,
Fradickon
swoops
to the call
changes
shape to giant man
strides
south
noose
in mouth
where
else
the
River Eibe shallows
where
a huge foot leaps
the
shadow cast on little animals
running
helter skelter.
The
death of a dragon ensured
when
man and giant battle
side
by side, the hiss of steam
the
drowning of smoke in a frigid River Eibe
a Princess
sings, dove mail returned.
The Gamechnoid Trilogy – Part II – Pansture Castle
A lady in red
lays in bed
as if she was wed
the
Prince of Ewermore saddles Actuute,
ready
for the long ride home
Sathmore
the Peregrine Falcon swoops
another
small rodent for cat food
a brittle
ice covers the Glade of Hericles
women
wash clothes through holes
hacked
with sturdy Whippet Poles
the
lace of masters and mistresses
laid
in a drying winter sun,
the
passing of an entourage noticed
A giant
eagle floats above the group
it’s
wise eyes and knowing head
searching
ahead for vagabonds and thieves
anything
that can interrupt love.
The
castle flexes it’s bulk,
ramparts
strengthened and garnished
dust
and dirt thrown off
the
ladies and gentlemen warned
Death
stalks every second.
The Gamechnoid Trilogy – Part III Harmenquast
Union
The
horns of invisible trumpeters ring out
the
billowing blossom of fluffy white clouds
the
majestic wave of long green grasses
the
raising of Hell’s Gate at the south end
the
direction from which the travellers come.
Gate
Post seven on the edge of Glockmere
the
old petrified forest of Etheron, now the great
raise
the banner proclaiming the passing
of the
retinue, The Prince of Ewermore
a jester,
and falcon, eagle wizard overhead
a princess
now looks from her seventh tower window.
The
fanfare grows louder the closer they approach
then
an Eagle swoops and becomes a man
the
prince disappears into a jester
an eagle
leaps around as a frog
and
the whole menagerie turn away from the castle
and
find a place in a passing circus.
Femme Desert
She
bespoke she
a dry
kiss
neath
yellow daubed sky,
a snake
from the Bible
tut
tuts near no trees,
the
living carcass
on bended
Knees.
The
salad bowl of desert brown
the
dark of cloud
about
to hit the ground
the
shapes of essence
perhaps
a dream in obscurity.
The Finite difference between Green and Red
Orange
of traffic lights
the
separation between stop and go
a caress
between cheeks - meant to tickle
Society
Ladies titillate
male
opera singers ululate
the
little boys in dad’s room – ventilate.
Yellow
suns, Red suns, lost sons
a war
rumoured to offer hope
a gun
shot wound away from a wheelchair.
Sarah
at 59 Rawene Road
plays
piano Dixie Style
the
postman nods and smiles.
The
fart in the observation room
loud
and practiced, no owner hands up
the
smell forcing humanity to cower.
Roger
in the corner chemist
vends
peoples gaiety, photo’s for pleasure
the
shop assistant captures each image in hope.
The Foxglove Conspiracy.
So you
brought me Foxglove for my birthday
I gave
you a kiss of supplication, sweet
to remember
the passage of time we shared,
you
sang me a song from Grace Slick’s album
your
favourite, eaten by moth ears and dust
your
voice gravelly, the kiss a flowing disguise,
I gave
you a song of doubt, doubt sown with dread
the
last days of my life not spent in your bed, here
in a
hospice for the yellow skins, the cancerites
my voice
devoid of it’s resonant bass, baritone
when
I tweak my balls down a touch, and squeeze
the
upper range garbled with gravel too, we sing
a moon
relieves itself on my window pain, spooky
the
glass shatters the light into a million possibilities,
mine
are all chewed up, spat out, regurgitated, dying
We sit
nervously, you fondle your silver blonde hair,
with
one hand, with the other you brush my beard
still
grey and red after all these years, a tribute to you,
a nurse
knocks - enters, administers adjustment meds,
the
stuff that keeps me alive from the pain, what pain?
the
pain is in your song, your longing look, your slouch
Touch
me my darling, touch the heart that beats for you
the
heart that carried your cross-beat, your love, kudos
you
smile and the pain dies, I smile ready to die.
Respite Moon
Spanish
Moon, quiet yet filled with Latin love
French
Moon – succulent and daring
English
Moon – staunch and true
American
Moon – the ladies full of swoon
African
moon – the sound of lions roaring
Russian
Moon – Vodka and Tavorivich comrade
Asian
Moon – dainty Geisha Girls paint lust
Pacific
Moon – on a ship beneath, like no other
Indian
Moon – Krishna dances and Mumbai mass
Middle
East Moon – the moon of Islamic faithful,
Atlantic
Moon – the sage green/grey of Sargasso Sea.
Kiwi
Moon – The maniacs roar
The Ultra Man
Bigger
than ten giants,
stouter
than the Empire State Building
faster
than the TRV in France
more
thoughtful than Rodin’s Thinker,
louder
than the Scream
childlike
like little Robbie in grade school.
Blue
the colour of his flowing hair,
red
the colour of his nails
green
the stretch of leg and arm exposed
the
boots Purple – the flier
Yellow
– eyes of the wolf
black,
the soot that footfalls make in passing
Lemon
– the squeezer on a balding head
carries
more weight than Santa Claus
on a
busy day.
No women
in this world for him,
lonely
as if love killed,
hopeless
as a backless man,
shapeless
when falling in sobs,
relentless
his appetite to run,
to chase
a way off the planet,
to find
an Amazon for life.
Then
I awake from my nightly soiree,
sweat
beading down, check the arms and legs
no green,
no blue hair, no yellow eyes,
just
a dream about what could have been.
Piccalilli
You
could bend and piccalilli
not
that pickle’s that nice,
OH!
Pick a Lilly
that
lovely blue flower in the pond out back,
why
ruin it’s beauty by removing it?
You
could stand and eyeball the moon,
not
that a moon is a healthy action,
OH!
the Moon on high,
that
roving maker of poems and stories,
kids
nursery rhymes about spoons and cows.
You
could write a poem about love
meant
to make women swoon
OH!
Love, the lady down aisle three serving,
she’s
packaging moonbeams
placing
piccalilli on shelves for many to share.
The Castle of Timelessness
There
is a grace in a four year old digging sandcastles
the
preciseness of innocence, the calm of an adult,
the
need to finish the task no matter how much water,
The
action of placing shells for windows, scallops
a precision
of placement - twigs for bridges or fences,
day
draws on as the tide rises, hurriedly builds a moat,
Little
girls run and giggle, try to capture his gaze,
but
he’s riveted on his domain, king of his castle,
no dragons
going to breath fire over this mammoth,
His
mum wanders over, slips him a drink, Coca Cola,
reward
for a man working hard - without interference,
without
knowledge, just a desire to be an engineer.
Little
Billy, his two year old brother, on unsteady feet
staggers
to the left, then right, his aim to see his brother,
his
unintended toddlerish target the castle, oops
“Mummy,
Mummy, Jared ruined my castle, wah wah
the
beach goes quiet, all enthralled at the boys feat,
al now
watching how a little man handles disaster.
Dosshouse.
There’s
this doss house
downtown
anywhere
that
panders for the wants and needs
of men
and women life failed to smile on,
there’s
ten years of poison
in a
drinking vial in this house
the
patrons dying as life passes them by
the
relics of antiquity don’t sign their name,
porous
metal reeks of cash
the
gold leeching society
making
for penniless merchants and loves
the
doctor singing the forms accused, malpractice
salient
ladies wipe dead spots
of carpets
where fights mark
the
stench of faeces, the daily urine in the corner
the
sick from reactions to illegal drugs consuming.
There’s
a house in the middle
stands
testament to societies success
attained
the upper ladder, crossed no boundaries
recognised
the death in a doss house continuum,
She
epitomizes greatness
rewarded
by life, status
working
daily in food stamp’s and soup kitchens
the
prize for onerous yet rewarding duties to life,
Place
a dish on a roof,
beam
in life, sky news
the
vagabond on the street outside, bent double
searching
for a stray cigarette, or can of drink.
They
burnt the house down
12 Edward
Street, thirty rooms
the
law stated the rooms weren’t fit for humans
the
residents relocated to other towns, displaced.
The
law arrests them for being vagrant
why
aren’t families charged for not caring.
Allentown.
I’m
driving around Allentown,
dusty
summers day
where
winds are wafting,
children
stick figures
on a
pavement sweating.
Broomsticks
walk behind the kids
carrying
shopping bags
the
pedestrian crossing
wheelbarrows
carrying
the
days produce.
I see
the black sandbox
of a
Police Cruiser keeping the peace,
the
vagabonds disguised as trees
in the
park resounding to a stereo
supplanted
in a clock tower.
The
Tonka toy of my Mercedes Benz
cruises
middle Lifelessness Avenue
skirting
sideshows
clowns
on stilts laughing
the
dinner sets on the post boxes, glowing.
Arthur
the Butcher, shop open
stands
like an overgrown Sausage
selling
his wares, and his ways
dreaming
of surfboard days
the
tarseal melting under summer sun.
Moody
Ladies of the Seventh Day Adventist
pass
out words of wisdom
pass
out in the heat
pamper
each other with Lovey Dovey cloths,
Reverend
Greengauge passes, discerning.
Stick
figures of humanity, walking
wandering,
stagnant
the
day set to the tune of the clock rock
the
chime of the Eleventh Hour
as old
soldiers bow their heads in remembrance.
Time Journey II – The Slave Traders
I sniff
history,
dabble
into Wikipedia,
read
the history of the time
the
good, the bad, the indifferent,
The
Greeks under Alexander the Great took slaves, Persians, Egyptians, and others, for
the betterment of Greek Society, to make the likes of Homer and Aristotle have easier lives,
An African
American behind me
points
out the African scene
when
Muslim invaders captured
those
that couldn’t defend themselves,
took
them back to the Arab states,
to works
as slaves of the wealthy,
I read
somewhere the slave trade
(out
of Africa by ship)
started
with the British needing manual labour
for
the Industrial revolution
to stop
using children in mines and mills
the
Islands of the Caribbean were the first slave traders port of call for American slaves in the seventeen hundreds, the likes
of Uncle Sam’s royalty picking cotton with a humanity beaten down by sea journeys and whips,
the
streets of Brixton in London
spilt
blood of years of repression
dates
etched on the freed’ calendars
the
time when racial intolerance boiled over
much
like Birmingham, Alabama when a brave lady sat with impunity, to challenge eons of inaction, to stand up for her brothers
and sisters, to sing about the day in church for years to come,
Midas
was a God of the Old Age,
everything
he touched
turned
to gold
the
white man and Arabs
turned
everything to shit
for
a lot of Africans.
Is the
balance restored, parity, unity
all
for the good of the world
some
say though there are countries
in the
Asian world that pay slave rates,
keep
certain populaces underprivileged,
even
in America you hear the likes
of Hispanics
and Asians used for slave labour,
sweat
shops and the likes, construction gangs,
pickers
of fruit and vege, the time is nigh.
Marshall
George Washington III - a proud man, an author, a wannabee, stares proudly at the certificate he has from Harvard, clear in
the knowledge his forebears were behind him in his endeavours. He can trace his
heritage back to Jamaica, but then not sure if he’s from Nigeria or Sierra Leone.
It doesn’t matter now, the flow back is starting, the knowledge and wealth back to where it began, before the
Arab masters arrived.
