(For The Punch – Issue 5 January 2009)
“Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me;
Let there be peace on earth, the peace that was meant to be,
With God as our father, brothers all are we,
Let me live with my brother in perfect harmony”
– – –
When will we learn that nationhood involves both you and me;
that love must be the anchor here from sea to shining sea;
that brotherhood and nationhood are pretty much the same;
that searching ’round for scapegoats is the coward’s kind of game?
Two thousand eight was perilous at every twist and turn,
We needed much togetherness, but some refuse to learn
from Lincoln that a house divided simply will not stand;
that nearly killed America and threatens our fair land.
Too many still refuse to put election blues to rest;
And some who harbour grudges are the brightest and the best
of all the sons and daughters who make up the nation’s store;
They fight and lose one battle then they still look ’round for more.
When will we learn to practice peace, give peace a fighting chance?
When we leave the battlefield and turn to sweet romance?
When will the leaders lead along a path of compromise?
When will Bahamians disbelieve ’tis folly to be wise?
Yes, when, O, when will politicians think before they speak;
When will they learn ’tis wise sometimes to turn the other cheek?
Yes, when, O, when will straight folk greet the gays with warm embrace?
And when will gay folks keep their business out of straight folks’ face?
There’s simply too much “us” and “them”, my side your bloody side;
Too many a simple spat that turns into a crimson tide;
Too many fellows vying for the same alluring lass,
And no one wants to stand aside and let the winner pass.
O, no, that’s when the macho man will stand aside for none,
When no one cares about the life of someone else’s son,
When few involved will stop to think the whole thing is so silly,
To see that was the stupid reason Stagger Lee shot Billy.
O, yes, statistics prove when blows are flying left and right,
You check and find a woman’s in the middle of that fight;
And then one dies, the other guilty of a murderous crime,
The lady, briefly mourning, soon is back on romance time.
When will the child molesters pick on those who can fight back?
In fact when will the parents find the vigilance they lack?
Indeed when will those parents check agenda of each child
And keep the teenage daughters from the path of running wild?
Indeed when will our babies not have babies of their own?
When will the deadbeat daddies not be listed as “unknown”?
When, once again, will marriage be the custom of the day,
And men respect their ladies in that grand old-fashioned way?
When will the reverend gentlemen be faithful to their vow;
When will their bishop bosses say, “turn in your collar, now”?
Of course the lingering problem is the bishops, too, are sinning,
And smiling through it all is Satan – he’s the one who’s winning.
Meanwhile downtown straw vendors frown and whisper, when, O, Lord?
Some feel they are the victims of political discord.
Now market on, now market off, new market yet again,
And well they have a right to plead, please tell us when, O, when?
So many whens are uttered here and there across the land;
Successive governments try their best to make folks understand
That when you vote take careful note and activate the nerve
To face the fact a people get the regime their deserve.
Meanwhile the warrior C.B. Moss continues in his fight
For his beloved Bain Town to be spared the gangsters’ might.
What manner of a man is this to push with such insistence?
He holds his Bible high and trusts in Christian folks’ assistance.
The murderers – what can be done to make their going tough;
To make them feel the people’s zeal – enough is just enough;
That zero tolerance is now the watchword of the nation;
They do the crime, then do the time, then swift gallows damnation.
Yet oft death comes in other forms, swiftly and uninvited –
Domestic confrontations, love too often unrequited.
Most painful is the death of holders of tomorrow –
Mere boys, mere girls, mere children gone and leaving so much sorrow.
Yet came the huddled masses seeking freedom on our shore –
Undocumented immigrants, the destitute, the poor.
Self preservation must remain our land’s necessity;
And when he turn them back, send them with Christian charity
And so this year the people still cry out, whom shall we send?
As in the cry of Bible times, who’s mighty to defend?
Truth is, the bold, the angry of the land must surely be
Prepared to go and face the foe, and bravely say, “Send me!”
Send me, I am like Rosa Parks, just tired of the test
Of whether I am qualified to sit beside the rest;
Send me, I am like, L.O., Randol, made of sturdy stuff;
Send me, a simple citizen who had too damned enough.
Two thousand nine is surely time to end the desecration
Of noble ideals, taught, maintained by champions of this nation.
The time is now to seal the vow that all which now alarm us
Will vanish in the dust if we are true to ONE BAHAMAS.
A prideful nation knitted in respect for one another,
A God-filled people, black and white, where each man is my brother;
Let Church and State negotiate to banish hate and spite,
And let the world observe our long-time darkness turned to light.
The woes of old two thousand eight will linger for a while,
And still it will be hard for us behind the pain to smile;
Yet from that pain we still can gain an inner peace divine,
That conquers strife and brings fresh life in new two thousand nine.
P. Anthony White... online 