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Democracy
Roland Bankole Marke
Florida, USA
bankole@mindspring.com
Friday,
September 14, 2007
Music
in democracy’s soothing as it is healing,
And it involuntarily moves my mouth to salivate.
Harmonious chorus jumpstarts awe, inspiration:
Christiana, the lead musician, serves the need.
She goads guilded soloists to save the harmony,
And to herald unification's fountain of equality:
Songs of Mendes, Creoles, Themnes, Limbas --
A mélange of melodies that might save the world.
Late Siaka Stevens said: other people see us as
Sierra Leoneans, not chucks of tribal divisions.
Strangers, often say, I like your romantic accent.
Many think Africa's just a country, no continent.
I dance to democracy's stride, in Sierra Leone.
A chord of music that melts as it merges hearts.
Birth pains: symptoms of an emerging democracy.
To replay our dire history, only invites the emetic.
The People’s power's a semblance of superstructure.
With a renewed passion, I too dream my own songs:
A prescription sealed above for enduring peace; and
Flavor, of a legacy carefully tailored to shine forever.
Alone
I
sat pondering: Oh! these terrible times:
Seized by many reminiscences of papa----
Ageless truths, wisdom staid my mind.
“My boy, stand tall,” he would often warn,
Time and again: but, only five feet tall,
How could I stand tall? Too petit, I was
Underneath the average height, I tip-toed
In a crowd; I tried to gaze evenly into every
One's eyes. I felt helpless being too small.
What papa was conveying was that I should
Emulate Truth! be heroic, a moral compass.
Though, today, it chills me as death does
When giants on pedestals betray my sacred
Sense of trust, seeming specious: we endure
Terrible times, as people or places in-time
Are replaced. Would we ever salvage our
Society from a weary, decadent predicament:
Standing tall means by stance, not stature----
Such lends one hope, the courage to endure.
Redemption Song
He
was the struggling nine-year old,
Yet, conscripted into insane
warfare
Apparently haggard as brainwashed,
AK 47 drags, with heartbeat trauma,
He’s bush-bred deprived of
schooling:
Viewed Rambo movies like his peers
To perfect crafty business of
violence:
Blurred speech like irrational
mind,
A product of hallucinogen makeover:
Fantasy of warfare: extinct life
itself
Made to kill and rape blood or
alien,
Homegrown and detested criminal:
He endured evaporated mental fiber:
Our potent arsonist a minor
terrorist
Childhood dreams constantly ruined.
Peace treaty paved pathway to
peace.
Roved the world as peace
ambassador,
Education could liberate abused
mind.
Entered college to earn a first
degree:
Published memoir “A long Way Gone,”
Made best seller list.
Opportunity’s
Therapeutic, Ishmael says. Book
talks
Attracts huge crowds who applaud
him:
Redemption song heralds Africa’s
cry.
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Roland Bankole Marke © 2007
Roland Bankole Marke’s deep root
germinated in Sierra Leone, West Africa. He lives in Jacksonville, Florida. And
has published 2 collections of poetry: Teardrops Keep Falling and Silver Rain
and Blizzard. His most recent book -Harvest of Hate: Stories and Essays, was
published in 2006. Marke's work has appeared in several journals and magazines
including World press, Kwenu.com, Florida Times Union and Pambazuka Press.
Visit his website:
www.RolandMarke.com
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