I have lived a good life
With two sons and a wife
At a few times I was very lucky
Saved by some unknown entity
An Angel? I don't know what it is
But it's surely not something amiss
And I'm not complaining
But it's a strange happening
Not feeling well to me was nothing new
My family doctor thought I had the flu
I stayed home catching up on my reading
And even did some chores and gardening
But my cousin says get another opinion
My boil looked like a bad swollen bunion
So I went in a hospital for a hard boil infection
Then for 32 days dying from a wrong injection
Given by a specialist, hmm… a real quack doctor
But glad to be alive for he admitted his error
They had to drain out all my poisoned blood
My relatives came to bury me in 6 feet sod
So just simply like that I nearly died
Déjà vu to once when I had typhoid
Then one day I went fishing
It was cloudy and was raining
I thought I was on Hiway Number 33
With some fat bass fighting to be free
I tried to negotiate a hairpin turn
The tires squelched and burned
Into a dry bush failing to goad
And my car skidded off the road
My seat belt pinned me upside down
The turn signals was the only sound
With my four wheels in the air in a dry bank
Movies flashed by with the leaking gas-tank
My God! Ready any minute to explode
Am I going to die on this lonely road?
How the seat belt opened I have no clue
But it happened suddenly out of the blue
I crawled out through the half-open window
Phew! That was near! My heart all aglow
Since then I thank the stars above
Try to do the right thing, to love
Help the downtrodden and poor
And live a healthy life for sure
I was told my Angel saved me
I believed this in all sincerity
To me life is too precious
Everyday is marvelous
Not to waste it on mumbo-jumbo
But in the Almighty not Voodoo
I have no time for people who are lazy
Who depend on other folks for charity
Who always want free rides
And I stay away from suicides
Drug addicts and boozers
To me they are born losers
Anyone born here and have just some wits
To me they are failures a case of miss-fits
How come the immigrants who came with nothing
No English, no jobs and yet can become something
Baby makers who can't mind them
Castration can solve this problem
Deadbeat dads should be hog-tied
Send to jail and let the law abide
Or maybe left on some anthills
Not using women to get their fills
Full of bull, khorhee and strife
They have wasted a whole life
When folks showing no responsibilities
To me they are all just human apologies
Killing themselves with drugs overdose
I have no sympathy for them, case close!
I consider this a tragic waste
Coming from a civilized race
Yea, life is too short
I'm not ready to abort
I do love people and my kindred
And want to live to be a hundred.
– Naraine Datt
Toronto
Dinan Haws was a famous logger
And a cattle farmer eke was he
Of a highway town called Soesdyke
Upon the brown Demerara so shiny.
“Phillip,” said he unto his son,
“You must see that my will is done.
Mighty trees have I felled full many
As good an axeman, or better than any.
“In my days up in the Sand Hills
And in the bend at San Souci
I was as powerful a woodsman
And farmer as my father Bandi.
“I have divided my property
Equally amongst my progeny.
I am going to take it easy
Now. I just want to be free.
“My son, I don't have to tell you
That this terrible curse is on me
I carry the mark of the logger
Something that none should see.”
“Some people know that you
Get swollen now and then
But none dare laugh at you.
For sons you have full ten.
It behooves this community
To be extra nice to you
Because we employ them all
You know this to be true.”
So it worked out, poor villagers
They made not a single sound
They respected the old boss, and
Never mentioned his mound.
Dinan Haws lived in ease and
Contentment for many a year
But as Fate would have it he
Fell into a self-made snare.
Now Dinan loved nature
And was a man of the soil
He was ever close to nature
Whether in rest or toil.
He loved the trees that
He used to fell and haul
The water, waves, and sky
Much he loved them all.
Upon one moonlit evening
Dinan took a stroll by the wall.
He was gazing at the new moon
When suddenly he got a call.
So squatting down over the
Water he let his bullets flow
And when nature was satisfied
He attempted to get up and go.
O vile misfortune! Pure bad luck!
Poor old Dinan! He was stuck!
Unable to rise, and unable to go
He tried for ten minutes or so.
Now strange tales came to his mind
Of mermaids basking in moonshine
And combing out long golden hair
Sitting on the warm sea walls bare.
Maybe because of glazed sight
From staring at the golden light
He sat upon her hair this night
All would agree, a terrible slight.
And now in an almighty surge
She possessed herself of his orb
And every time he felt the urge
To rise, the mermaid gave him curb.
Shouts could be heard from the road
And extremely loud they echoed
Dinan screamed in such a mode
That the mermaid released his load.
– E.R. Singh
NYC, 2009
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