Here are the words of the new poem. Just as you will hear it on the inky I-talk podcast. The poem was first published in the book called, Church Laundry. However, the script was sort of, unrefined, and unsophisticated, more or less like the author himself. but, it has gone through some rewrite and refining, therefore, this final cut will look and feel somewhat different from that one as it appears in the book. but one will not have any difficulty in deciding that, it is, in fact, the same poem.
Here is the poem: Grandfather's hand. I see the years logged in colors, rich Calypso paint in dynamic shades. Which marks the timeline there on the building blocks, of how houses were then made. With the hammer in his right hand, bring out the shovel and bring out the spade. Where grandpa works to build his own house, and farms the delta lands, out on the glade. He gathered and brought the money home, never gave his to the bank then go ask for a loan. T'was grandpa's hand that had laid the foundation, he even hews the cornerstones. Grandfather was mighty with the hammer, cuts the wood and plowed the ground, a marvel of a man was my grandfather, greenness of youth yet set in his bones. Grandma makes babies then, and the family prospered and grow. Year after year they came along, so grandpa added yet, other rows. Rows of blocks that is, they mount up high just like a stair, he bought them as the money comes available, and stores them in the backyard out there. He adds the rooms as we would have the need for them, a room for Marty, one for Jack, and another for Ben. One more room added as each child appear, one for each of them, and then for those children of theirs. In the sixth generation, the ceiling was set, grandpa is still here, he has not moved on yet. Fifty years after and the picket fence is now up, grandpa downs the morning with a satisfied sup. Satisfied in knowing he'd got it all wrapped up, as he drinks the coffee out of his favorite cup. Screaming whispers are so loud now, that one can scarcely even see, the way how things are turning out, from the way how they used to be. Marty’s home which he has just bought in town, is yet to cover over his sleep, makes my grandfather wants to hallo, makes him surely want to weep. It's hardly any bigger than one of these rooms, grandpa was to lament, at the little mushrooms on which his son, had so much good money spent. But Marty is content, said small is the way now to go, and since the Dinosaurs are already gone, big is surely not cool anymore. Grandpa laments this too, and shake his weary head, it's their world now he consoles himself, my time is over, I'm almost dead. But what ways are these for a man to live? …I'd much rather to up and go, than to live and work all my life, just to pay back debts I owe. I must go and lie down now, I've got to go and take my rest, I've had some great living in my time, I have done for them my very best. But if I have it all again to do, which of these lives would I even choose? I'd build my own house all over again, and I'd just as gladly grow my own food. By E Lloyd Kelly.
Remember now, don't you ever hug a black brother, you already know that it is wrong. Who said so, t'was the man, that’s who. And don't you ever forget to trust and obey him always, yes, that man, and fully. Don't you ever say those silly things to the black brother. Things like, brother I love you, that's the wrongest of things that you could ever do, now, go to church and go pray for the remission of your sin. Or else, or else what? You most definitely will not be going, you know, to that place called, heaven. Just saying. That’s it, but. Make it a habit to hop on over and check us out, and subscribe, it’s good for you, you'll see. And don’t keep it to yourself, tell a friend, or a foe. I am E K, the writing elk, and I'm out.