Sunday, December 1, 2019



When I Speak Of History

When I speak of history I speak well;
I leave behind the past where broken bones
Lay scattered on blistering sands to tell
Of atrocities that are mostly groans.

While you may feel the pain lurking inside
With hurt failing any impunity;
And browse pages upon pages to ride
This feeling of guilt, remorse or pity,

It was Columbus sailing the great tides
Out discovering many a new world;
And Sir Francis Drake loved the battle cries -
Chicanery as a new age unfurled.

The mind finds revelations in the past,
So meaningful and useful to the last.

Here Is Our Playground

Here is our playground
bigger and better than any golf course
or football stadium
where pebbles of our minds are crested
with opinions and beliefs
some confessional, some consummate
each heart in tandem with another heart
or delighting in some differences
yet we will not falter
as we present our pot-luck
to nourish our ambient souls
fragrance of pious spices
wafting like aroma in a buffet
our round- table larger than a globe
our seats unmarked, to each his own
yet we will not falter
as we partake with love
encrypted in understanding
in this delightful game of life.

How I Wish
To Sing You A Song

How I wish to sing you a song

to let you know my love for you

is greater than all the world;

How I wish to hold you tight

and embrace your coastland:

your rich mud-banks,

golden rice fields swaying in the wind,

sweet sugar-cane burning in the fields,

punts slowly drifting in the canals,

bauxite mining and gold diggers panning;

How I long to watch buck-crabs marching

and jumping shrimps in dragging seines

where the Atlantic greets the sandy shores;

How I wish to see little boys

riding donkeys on red clay-brick streets,

some playing marble games in their back-yards,

mothers crouched on their knees

spreading cow-dung beneath stilted houses;

How I wish to drink sweet coconut water

sitting by the black-sage bush

or under a canopy of towering coconut trees

swaying like giants reaching for the blue skies;

How I wish to call my country

my home

not wanting to be a refugee:

fleeing from the wrath

of demon-like men who want all

not even listening

if you’re begging for some.


LEONARD DABYDEEN, Lives in Brampton, Ontario, Canada. Guyanese-Canadian poet and member of The Society of Classical Poets (USA); Life Member of MetVerse Muse (India); member of Muse India Journal; member of Muse-Pie Press (Shot Glass Journal and Fib Review), contributor to Gandhi Way Newsletter (UK),, SETU bilingual literary journal (USA); OUR POETRY ARCHIVE monthly journal; my blog: Free-lance writer and book reviewer; author of Watching You, A Collection of Tetractys Poems (2012), and Searching For You, A Collection of Tetractys and Fibonacci Poems (2015).

1 comment :

  1. Thank you, Dear Editor & Friend, NilavroNill ji, for posting my submission for this December 2019 OPA Issue. Season's Greetings! God Bless!!
    Leonard Dabydeen