Archive for the Uncategorized Category


Posted in Uncategorized with tags , on February 26, 2017 by johnewordslinger





























-… …-

Life by thousands of qualifications
When I say ‘God’
I use every source of amplifications
Pick up the word, and use it
Use your humanity talk, though fuse it
Be free with a dynamic personality
Inrageous contagious soul seizure
Ethics use to be adventures
This is no puff or a short lived fickle
Nor a cash value, I’m a Poet with a faithful sickle
My life is not exaggerated
I see the worlds’ blindness
It is so constipated
I roll n rock the modern clock
I’ll be held in all coming ages
To you all this must be a shock!
Godma- a word like that
I ‘am a miracle that was spat
I ‘am smiling to you from this side of the beyond
Pull the vine, chime too, by WordSlinger John
Look up the word blik
& then look at how you got here
Like a secret camera-less porn flick
Bamm magik!
So shut your mouth
And take this as truth
This is an historical event
For all of the non-cognitive
Who is all hypo-bent
I ‘m from the supernatural
So be cross, it’s your upper loss
Get to know the names
& all of their language games
Faith transcends and shatters
All straight jackets of ideologies
Me, an intellectual rebel you don’t see
This gives me a wider range to sling
Ya ya baby, you’re slowly getting to know me
ya ya th’C inside th’Circle John E. WordSlinger
a poem from a new book ‘To Fetch My Tennis Racket For Wasps’ ha

CHAPTER 7 Sugar Poet Trade: Skull Branding, Smashing, and Teeth Gathering: Mozambique 20th February 2017

Posted in Uncategorized on February 19, 2017 by johnewordslinger




Sugar Poet Trade: Skull Branding, Smashing, and Teeth Gathering: Mozambique 20th February 2017

Where is your license around your neck?” Asked the Poet Jose Pedro da Silva Campos e Oliveira who was peacefully fishing.

What do you mean? Red replied with a question. I didn’t mean to startled you or interrupt you.

Did you escape from the trunker?” Jose asked.

These are things I have never heard before, Red proclaimed.

It’s a slave prison,” Jose replied, “Were you deported? You are an escapee aren’t you?

No imported, Red replied laughing. Poetry escorted.

Oh you are the American, everyone has been talking about, and you finally made it here.” said Jose, “We are going to have to make you a wig, there’s no way you will pass for a native here, and you need some kind of burn mark from iron branding too.”

You are in the pink zone, you are red(Red) but not pink

Pun intended so I hope you are not defended

If you like sugar you better come with me,

And every time you add sugar to your food

Think of all of these slaves here you see

The Arabs will look you over,

And exam how healthy you be

They will argue not over your soul

But by what your stamina is and your tole

Jose looked at Scratch, smiled and said, “How interesting, a beautiful American Lion.”

Scratch was right beside Red, and they both engaged alert on high, because this was the time, and the land of slave hunting. To be not detected Red knew he had to be sly, sly from becoming an apple of a masters eye. They smelled in Indian ocean for the first time. Fleets of ships were out at sea.

Red knows the past is alive with us. Here in Mozambique Red remembered all things of light on these journeys. He and Andy always knew this life was race-less but every race has let the D family rule, Doom, Dread, and Danger, the heirs of Destruction. Red started to breathe heavy in his sleep, because something here was of conflict, a war of language, and a war of skin, and Red looked east, and the sun began to rise higher. Red was also slowly catching a cold, from change.

Red has so much on his mind too. The brain, the Poets brain, and the fireworks of memories all of the time mixed with making memories, and recording new ones, and everyone too, with their own display of life and brilliance. Red also knew, here Danger was, allowing Red, and Andy to sense her, furthermore spies, in all centuries. Because they too were nostalgic for a place they have never been.

We are going to have to go to my house.” said Jose, “Poets are hunted here. They want our teeth, they are worth a lot of money.”

What are you talking about? Red asked.

Why do you think I am the only Poet in this country left alive?” Jose asked.

You mean to tell me, Red proclaimed as he was yanked from behind to the ground. There were four Arabs, Basrians from Iraq looking at Red. Red looked at one. He wore his shumagh on his head and scarf around his mouth. He had scars on his cheeks and nose. You could see true evil in his eyes. Red was blind folded, chained and made to walk behind them on their camels. Red was very suspicious of this man.

Reds’ blind fold was removed, and he found himself with others in a court yard of a port, an open market for human beings on sale. Arab soldiers from this secret caravan walked around them with a rifle strapped to their shoulders, and they wore bullet vests. Some had a look in their eyes, and some laughed. This was a party to them and Red found this to be insane. Red asked another slave about the children, and the reply was the children were children of prostitutes, and they have been trained to be commercially traded. The Lei Aurea, aka the Golden Law was not yet enforced here.

Merchants came, everyone was examined, the price of humans were being raised. Flagellation was about begin to check everyones endurance, and only the strongest could survive. The iron hoop and chain irritated Red.

Lash after lash, and every animal around, Camel, and Horse slightly jumped by each sound and scream. This expedition was different, this one was more evil, they wanted Poets, their skulls, to crush them, and it was the teeth, they were treasure, very much a value, so that’s why there were no Poets but Jose Red thought. Poets were a nuisance like Elephants, and their teeth worth as much as ivory. This was a day the Elite called paradise, and they believed these deeds gave them more wisdom than Poets.

The man who captured Red walked up to Red and said, “I want this Zanj.” meaning African slave. “He would be good for mining. I captured him myself.” He looked at Red and said, “The Redemptress, Princess Dona Isabel can not save you!” The man then laughed. Red could not smile like the others, and how could most of them ignore the pain? Red thought.

Camels and Arabs merchants were everywhere. Many checked Reds’ skull and teeth.

“Castrate him now.” said the Arab who captured Red.

Jose Pedro da Silva Campos e Oliveira finally made it past the crowds with Scratch to where Red was and his captor, and he spoke with anger, “Look at him. He has no Angel eyes. No holy expressions. He’s not good. Look at his dark face, he’s full of hatred. Look at his back, no scars. That’s how bad he is. He’s mine. I need this bad man with me. To be my henchman. We are willing to fight and kill to keep the Poet trade going. If he gives me trouble I’ll personally contact you, and inform you, and we both can bury him under the road. My oath to you. I need him to help me with my postal work.”

The Basra Arab spoke, “Cut out his tongue now!”

We can’t, we need him to talk, to help me destroy our enemies.” Jose demanded. “Look I’ll give you his k9 teeth, a deal?”

The Basra Arab signal a soldier to unchain Red, and Red stunk of his own dung.

Lets go, lets go!” Jose demanded.

Thank you, said Red.

Thank poetry and your cat, Scratch, he found you here.” Jose proclaimed. “I saved you from their slavery net.”

Jose spoke with a quickness, “Wash up in the water as I get my boat ready. I’ll take you to my home on the island. I have something to show you Red. Call me Campos, I know my name is to long. You look at me and think don’t you? Yes I ‘am a mixed breed. Of what and who, well, let us leave it a mystery. I am happy you came, I have been low, thinking of Elvira. What man doesn’t think of love?”

I ‘am in complete awe Campos, and awakening from shock too, Red proclaimed and feeling Campos generosity and wisdom as they sailed to Mozambique Island over the beautiful turquoise waters. Red could see the Portuguese influence on the building structures as they approached to land.

“Red, you know stereotypes are no good, but at least we are in stereo, and not mono like most,” said Campos with slight laughter, finally the Poet was relaxed, home must be doing this to him. Campos tied off the boat as Scratch played in the shallow water. Red wanted to help but he felt best to stand back in admiration.

“What I was getting at is, I found the Poetry by the Brazilian Poet, Tomás Antônio Gonzaga, and he wrote under the pen name Dirceu. He is lucky, and we are lucky. I found him, and his work, and you found me, and mine. Blessed is what it is. You two look alike, high foreheads, deep set eyes, and long hair. Come, feel comfortable. I want you to read his Poetry.”

Red has not seen a tropical paradise on these journeys so the awe was deepening. His inside was high and deep too, and he knew what longing for love was.

The handwritten poems of Dirceu was handed to Red, and the Poem ‘To Mozambique, here now, I’ve come deported’ was read, while Campos fed Scratch.’

You are a good man Campos, thank you for outstretching your hand to me, Red said sincerely. You know I ‘am sure that hand written poems is where it’s at, print is fine, but these are good, gems, better than gold.

Speaking of gold,” Campos stated with an odd look to Red, because about print, “Brazilain Poets are! Dirceu was accused of being in a mining conspiracy, and sent to prison in Ilha das Cobras, Rio de Janeiro. He spent three years in there, when he was given the sentence of an exile here on this Island. He died of a lethal tropical disease.”

Red looked up from reading at Campos and spoke, At least it wasn’t racism.

Great point Red,” Campos proclaimed, “I can’t find Dirceus’ daughters Ana and Alexandre. They left no new address at my work. I am going to publish his works in the supplement of the Novo Almanach de Lembranças Luso-Brasileiro. Speaking of I have much to do, many deliveries, people fear the war. Led by Fredrick General Carrington. He and his horse of war.Campos looked at Red and saw a kind man, a kind too that was hard to find, and he felt Red was from another time. Red felt it, and looked at him with respect. Many sheep passed by outside. Red smiled and thought Poets and Sheep, and the times in similarities to where personages could not express their voices, and Poets had to create characters and pseudonyms.

Campos was reading the local newspaper and said, “Everyday it has been railroaders slandering each other over contracts of construction.”

Red laughed and said, Maybe they like Poets need to use pseudonyms or ask Poets with pseudonyms to write poems for them.

Campos laughed and said, “Not a bad idea. The Boers are holding up the trains, and raid train stations. They remove the rails, and hide them. Reading here they open fire on the engineer, and when the train stopped they let out the British horses. I am sure Railroad chief Henry Theodore van Laun is at the telegraph office, so I must be going soon. Them Boers better not sabotage the Gaza trains, because I love my cashew nuts” Campo opened a bag for he and Red, and asked, “Do you cashew?”

Red laughed and replied, Yes I do.

There is palm wine too on the table, help yourself,” said Campos.

A Steamboat on the ocean began to sing its arrival in the bay, and they went out to see, and steam train engines could be seen on deck. Campos reached for his Zeiss binoculars to get a closer look. “The crowd on board are here for the goldfields, and to boost their imperialistic agenda. Portuguese officers are gathering to meet them. Wait, oh I see others, they must be the amaThonga, and come from Ghost Mountain. King Gungunhama and his White Queen versus the old scar of the Portuguese.”

Scratch was sleeping by the empty fire pit, and a blue headed agama was observing the cat. The last poem Red read by Tomás Antônio Gonzaga came back to him as looked at this lizard look at him, and this all threw him into a waking daze,

Friend Doroteu, dear friend,
Open your eyes, yawn, stretch your arms
And clean, from the loaded eyelashes,
The sticky humor, which sleep gathers.
Critilo, your Critilo is who calls you;
Raise the head of the starched pillowcase
Wake up, if you hear, you want some weird stuff.

Red awoke, and felt for all of his teeth.

CHAPTER 6 The 6th Season of Shiny Throats, In Search of the maSwati Epic Poem In The Valley Of Reads Swaziland 10th January 2017

Posted in Uncategorized on January 15, 2017 by johnewordslinger


The 6th Season of Shiny Throats, In Search of the maSwati Epic Poem In The Valley Of Reads


10th January 2017

The valley of the Reeds had a feeling that came with the place, and being on high alert was necessary. A stray dog was running in the opposite way Red, Andy and Scratch were walking, and they heard a older person whistling and calling out “Hector, Hector” come here boy, we must go home, but the man could not be seen. The bugs were louder than they ever heard anywhere, the southern states in the U.S.A. have no amplification like these insect singers here is Swaziland. The land smelled of blood. Crocodile tracks were everywhere along with ant hills. Red and Andy and Scratch were tired, but they had to move on and bad vibes were felt. They have not felt this vibe in along time. Andy knew what it was too, white racism. Andy knew it anywhere. They were in the land where they say, there is an old woman with long teeth, and eats white men. There was no wonder as to why, it was about to be evident. The Rietvlei River was beautiful but staying clear of it became mutual intuition between them, but something caught their attention ahead of them. There were three children making clay toys. One white boy, a black boy and white girl, and they were getting a long fine. Red looked at Andy and smiled, because they were innocent and not a sight of racism was between them. They moved on to not disturb the kids. This was a beautiful thing to witness. The path ahead was not good, thorn trees were everywhere, but there was a cut path, so they walked on it, it was the only way to move onward and forward. The thickness of thorn trees kept out the light. Scratch walked ahead of them, and stopped, ghostly orbs moved through the trees, and it seemed to be a ghost horse and rider walking ahead of them. Andy whispered, We must follow the horse and rider. This was cool they thought, ghosts, finally they seen one, and a ghost horse too.

They came to an opening and it was not a pretty sight, dead bodies were everywhere, women and children and the elderly. Their wagons were destroyed too, looted through it looked like. This was a massacre. This was a terrible thing they both thought, and decided to pick up their pace to find a safe place. They came upon a empty sawmill in this well wooded area, and this was not a place to be or rest so they moved through the woods. They heard the horse but could not see them. Scratch lead the way, his instincts were better because shock was upon Red and Andy from the carnage they just seen. This was a ferocious campaign, and buzzards could be heard in a nearby cave, and they thought where people hid, and never made it back out alive. They both cried, and Scratch rubbed his body against Red and Andys’ legs. Scratch too was sad about this. What a shame they tele-thought.

Scratch picked up on a path that seemed to be army tracks, but what army, the Boers or the British Union Jacks. The tracks were not tribal, they would be invisible they thought. They came upon block houses. They heard life, men working, they were building the Komatipoort Railway Bridge, and it seemed to be patrolled by policemen. Not to far away men were building a hotel too. The bad vibe increased so they went back through the woods, hoping not to see the ghosts again even though it was a magnificent sight. They looked back again to see if they were seen, they noticed men dancing, and drinking tawala, kaffer beer, so it must have been break time for these railroad workers. One person yelled out, ‘Before we blow up more of the ground, and move ore to Japan, that’s the life of us men, the mans’ tole for coal, and complete control.’

A mile or so of walking they heard birds but these were not birds they were the calls of the Dlamini clan. Beautiful and powerful whistles. Red and Andy and Scratch were surrounded by them. They had scars on their foreheads, and this meant how many men they killed, even the women warriors had them too. Their tribal marks were a scary impression. They all wore leopard skinned cloaks, and carried a assegai, a spear, and some had rifles, and they aimed them at Scratch. They made Andy and Red strip naked to see if they had weapons. They kept saying Muzungu, meaning white man. Andy and Red kept their hands up. The King Buno was with them, and spoke, “You may get dressed, and we have un-registered guns” and the King laughed, and so did the clan. “It is a good thing Theophilus ‘Offy’ Shepstone, and his right hand man Rider Haggard, a Union Jack did not find you two. They would have taken you to Robben Island at the Cape, and that is a prison. Old John told us you were coming this way, he is a friend of ours, about the only white man we could trust. Queen Labotisbeni wants to meet you, so lets go to the palace and have a celebration. Relax you are safe with us. Can you interperate the sounds of war and peace? You will have to here. I do wish you two brought some dynamite but I know you are men of peace and poetry.” The King laughs.

Thank you, your majesty the King, said Red, and they both bowed to the King Buno.

“Nkoos” said King Buno, “Nkoos.”

Andy finally spoke, “Zeni mini andine bandeen, you are the grandest Chief I’ve seen.”

“Thank you Andy,” King Buno replied. “Take the rifles off of the cat. The cat Scratch is the muse, and he’s such a beautiful Mountain Lion. I’ am glad you brought the muse.” The King looks at Red as they begin to walk to the royal home and says, “Red it is great Andy has never thrown you to the wolves, like white men do here, and they would throw us in blood river if they could. It is also a good thing the old woman with the long teeth did not find you too, you’d be dung in a day or two.”

Red and Andy looked at each other, and swallowed their spit.

King Buno looked at them and said, “Never be alone, never. This way you can fight together, and have a witness, without a witness the white men will take all they can from you, even your soul.”

You do what you can with a kind heart, said Red, You get a liar, a damn liar and the whole train is on fire.

“Humdrum sort of life on the farms after the live wire,” said the King laughing, “Trying poetry, not to bad. I like it, I like it. When we get there you must drink our miraculous water it will cleanse you of the fever. You don’t want the fever.” The King looks at Andy and Red and said, “In case you are wondering, and I ‘am sure red-boned Red can see the differences but you Andy may not know, but we do have features that tell us apart from each other.”

The clan walked with them, but boxed them as they walked, this was to protect them from Danger, Doom and Dreads sister, and Whitemen. This type of marching told them why wild animals do not do harm, because no one was alone.

The King spoke as they walked. Tutsis tend to be tall, and thin. They have long noses, high pitch voices, and relatively clear skin. Hutu tend to be short, strong and have relatively broader features. They have big noses, and low pitch voices. Tutsis and Hutus have been living together for many years. Although some families don’t like it, there has been many inter-ethnic marriages. Some are known, others are not. None of the differences justifies mass killing or discrimination of either group or another. The conflicts are mainly due to the pursuit of political power through propaganda. Although they have slight cultural differences, I can tell you that morally speaking no ethnic group is better than the other. I say this because someone once told me that Hutus are killers and Tutsis liars. Don’t buy into that. So Andy we have issues too within our race like white-men. Cultures are the only differences we have.”

The village was huge, and many people looked at them as they made their way to the palace. This was epic Red and Andy thought. Queen Labotisbeni was amazing, tall and her smile was beautiful. Her spirit was very powerful. She looked at Red and Andy and Scratch and said, “Your throats shine!”

King Buno laughs and says “You two never let society or critics stand in your way. You are the Renegades of Poetry.”

“Red and Andy you are not cowards,” said the Queen, “You two have not abandoned poetry with all that you two have been through over the last six years, and being here signifies this. The battle fields of poetry and the royal courts need you.”

Thank you your majesty said Red and Andy, and bowed.

Red spoke, The words ‘upsurge, and eschewing,’ are shackling the art of poetry here too, and the turf of poetry. The maSwati & siSwati, ‘Tibongo’ heroic poetry and ‘Temdzabu’ traditional literature is important to us.

King Buno spoke, “Let us celebrate in full costume with a great fire and a great feast. We will speak with you about our mother tongue, and folk tales. The lore of the land and our people, wisdom, and animals. Our Impi. Ways of the Rhino.”

Andy and Red awoke and Andy came to Red and said, “We forgot to chant, sing a Imbongi to the King and Queen,” and Red laughed, and said, I can barely remember but I do remember some.

Andy laughed and spoke “Here is what’s up. Even though we already knew this. Red, Children, the children of Poets, need to know what is our own, their own, meaning Poets that do not sugar coat their lives or their Poetry, their Poetic culture for the status quo, the street or the academics, and the Poets who fight for Poetry and the Poetry audience. Poets of all lands, including Swaziland Poets need to break the vicious circle, and create their own culture based Poetry, new forms and all, regardless of some market or assume to be market for Poetry. Educators can’t do diddly squat if the world is brain washed, sleep walking in some form or the other. Ink and Paper, Ink and Paper. What kind of Poetry is in demand? No one knows, because it is assumed it has all been done before, why is that? Because they are following leaders from the past, and can’t get a grip on their own beat and tune. Poetic forms, Critics, Panels, Want-A-Bes, Annalists, all that bla bla bla. Poets must become snake charmers with words, they will freaking love it. Blend languages, create a new language, to be a no fear pioneer.”

Red laughed and said, Alright I ‘am just waking up. Where’s Boet?

“Oh ya, he’s in the dinning car, where else would he be. He is like us you know,” Andy replied. “He left us a letter, saying Mathias left us high and dry.”

I sort of figured that, when he mentioned unity can’t be done, said Red, Hey I found a visionary Poet named Teddy Fikre and he’s in the states, and he’s originally from Ethiopia.

Andy laughed, “We had fun at the palace… Ha ha ha ha, come on Red. We have to catch a train soon, and some mambas, ha ha ha ha. This is getting good Red.”

Alright wait until you read Teddy Fikres Poetry and story, Red proclaimed, You will love it, and he’s helping.

Boet and the waitress were talking about the crocodile clan, and mamba snakes, black or blue, they are all the same, and the drought is bringing them out and about, furthermore electric snakes too forcing globalization.

Good Morning fellas, said Boet as Andy and Red sat down, and he had much to tell them. “I received a phone call from the Ministers of Tourism. They have made an unreserved apology about matters and has informed me that the policemen have been identified and action will be taken. He also mentioned starting a campaign to stamp out this behavior out, and educate officials and locals alike on the value of tourism.”

“The world is haunted by ghosts, because of murder and war. The police, good lawmen anyway are stuck in the middle, or proclaim to be.” said Andy. “Animals too, and all the slaughter. Why are people suffering from the disease of hate and racism and not the outcasts? Why are we the Poets outcasts? It’s getting on my nerves.”

“Maybe because love is out numbered right now, and the scorn is at large.” Boet proclaimed. “I was watching a show on the history channel and news in the U.S.A. and racism from all sides has gotten bad there.”

Andy and Red shook their heads, and tele-thought we tried to help, but what can we do, when people choose to lose that way, so Red began to read Enongene Mirabeau Sones’ Swazi Oral Literature Studies essay. Red and Andy knew how important birds are, to be of signals from the afterlife, and the invisible realm, and they tele-thought people suffering from these issues look at humans as not important as birds, life not regarded, and it’s all there too, the birds appear, and sing and migrate for reasons. Buzzards, and vultures love the remains of scorn too.

“The big drum is going to roll one day, and down by the deep river, the good of the world is going to make the bad come out, and play.” said Andy.

Red laughed and said, You mean the 99% is finally going to take back true life against this so called 1%?

“Hopefully in our lifetime,” Andy proclaimed.

“And all the birds will sing, and be merry more once again,” said Boet.

Animals too, along with seven hundred plus species of birds facing extinction, said Red. I was talking to my cousin the other night and he’s mad too about animals being vulnerable to extinction because of humanity. Take for instance the Giraffes now, and guess what, they call it the red-list!

“I hear that Red, disgusting is what it is,” said Andy. “Lust, porn must be killed! Something wired and evil is happening like Human Okapi or some shit. Unbelievable man, unbelievable, the sad kind of unbelievable. There’s way to many chicken shits in this world. We all need to fight, and put a stop to this. And who cares what societies think, seems to me they don’t think!”

Boet was feeling the same as they did, but he was already scoping out Poets and their wisdom from the place, Swaziland, to go over the days work.

Poets need to stop being like Zebras and come out, and stop being difficult to count, Red proclaimed, When we get to Tanzania we need to find wildlife biologist Tim Caro, and meet him, and this way the Poetic audience can eat Poets alive like flies do other animals, and Red laughed, It’s a great analogy.

Red got to thinking about his past, when he was a teenager in Chicago, but Boet interrupted his train of thought.

“You two are affiliated with correct?” Boet asked.

“Yes,” Andy replied, and memories came back to him when him and McMurty were there and they were treated with royalty, back in 2003, then in 2014 Andy felt a cold presence, like the world had changed there, but the place was going through renovations in Nashville, Tennessee, U.S.A.

Andy, Red and Boet ordered coffee and peach pie, and thought and spoke about “The whole Poetry pie online spectrum, in how all Poets are getting screwed outside the Poet Igloo. Poet fees are missing completely.” Andy then laughed and spoke, “The bars and clubs that bands play cover songs, and they are getting away with it too.” Andy and Red always thought about this, and brought this to the passengers attention, and it’s been there but promoting these Poets has been more important. “Mechanical Society needs in place for the Poets society,” Andy proclaimed, “The Poets Jukebox and Igloo. It is their trade, their passion not a hobby, so get off your asses and lobby, bobby. What about Bob alright! Ge whiz fizz, it’s a word biz.”

Many people have, and are leaving their Poetry futures up to chance, Red proclaimed.

Boet spoke, “Something and one has to be made with power about this and technology is there, as you all proved.”

It’s finding the right people with time to work, said Red. Most Poets like literary grouping orgies Boet. They are scared so they get in where they fit in, and most get rejected. Red laughs, Then there are ones you spend weeks and months preparing their work for free because you believe in them, and they leave you hanging. It makes you wonder what they are up to, and it forces other Poets to just think and do things for themselves, this is what causes Poets not to unite. Chicken heads, and history will repeat itself for the Poets not yet born.

“The Poets Igloo is alive!” said Boet.

“Skippy, yep, true that” said Andy.

“So who are the top 40 Poets of this planet, does anyone know?” Boet asked.

Red and Andy laughed, and Red said, We have an idea, and they use the train and bail out and give no thoughts to the Poetry passengers, the audience or the Poets just below their status.

Andy and Red thought about Geo Thompson, the Great Poet from Canada, and every time they hear ‘Jump’ by Van Halen, the Canadian journey will come to mind. Still waiting for the world to awake, and shake to Poetry Jukebox. Geo passed away from cancer, he was a great support during the Poetry Train Canada journey.

Andy spoke, “The mission of all Poets, of color or faith is to love one another, as the great Poet Jesus spoke, and to show the world how beautiful we all can be, and the only way to do this is to stop all sorts of evil in its tracks, furthermore teach people ways to stop and recognize scorn, and for Gods LOVE, stop killing animals. We are at war for no reason amongst ourselves. Stop dethroning one another. Respect one anothers skills and inclinations, and there is no I in the word Team, or even he or me, can people get that through their thick skull bone? Death is nothing to be afraid of so stop antagonizing people with death and scorn. Decade after decade of this non-sense! Look real good at the past, as stop repeating it all.”

The waitress returned with coffee and peach pie, and spoke, “I believe cooperative peace can be.”

What is your name? Red asked.

“Swanda,” She replied.

Thank you, Red replied, and introduced her to some of the Poetry Train Team.

Swanda spoke, “I read Poetry and from everywhere too, and every Poet writes about Peace, and Peace is only in Poetry, but not in the world, so Peace is there. Poets need to be magicians maybe, but not bad ones or cheesy ones. They need to show the world how beautiful it can be. Maybe they don’t know how. Who does, and that’s why politicians get away with things. Money and media are the problems. We don’t need it. We need to go back to farming and horse and buggy.”

Andy smiled.

Red replied, Poets need to touch the world wide conscious of this world, we call it the realm that should be.

“Yes,” Swanda replied. “The world is frightening for no reason, because miracles are everywhere. Suffering is un-called for. People of the past allowed this to fall on our laps! Poets must remind the world of so many things, and implant a new world of beauty, not this new world order death machine. Poetry is not bankrupted, because it never had a bank and currency, never.”

“Who is one of your favorite Poets?” Andy asked.

“Jacob Glatstein, a Yiddish Poet.” Swanda replied. “He knew oppression and what kind of tongue a Poet should have in these contemporary times, and they must move forward and unfortunately look backwards. Not because of accomplishments and competition, but to find the safe paths. As he said, Poets have a frightening career and work to do, frightening.”

“Found one!” Boet spoke loudly, “The Poet Bernard Fonlon and hear ye! As Noam Chomsky wrote, “The responsibility of the intellectual as a moral agent,” I add the Poet’ is to try to reveal the truth to interlocutors who are able to intervene. Fonlon symbolized what Fabien Eboussi calls ‘exotic intellectual’ in a universe where ventriloquists triumph. Also I found Poet Stephen Neba-Fuh.”

“I will return soon with more coffee,” said Swanda, “Remember Poets should never surrender their intellectual domination to the world, never!”

Boet looks at Red and Andy and seen the great cost they have given themselves to the Poetry Train.

They were indeed true friends of Poetry and Poets world-wide, past, present and future. Boet also knew that they could not stand flattering and flatterers, it was not necessary. They were masters of Poetry Faith & Patriotism, powerful as water.

Andy started laughing, and said, “We have rope, the longest rope in this globalization world, ya ya.”

Great for traveling for sure, Red replied laughing. We do have a spare too. Giants toes or their shoulders did and do not matter. We are going to rope Danger!

Andy looked out the window, and watched people get on the train. They all looked fierce, or what they wanted people to believe anyway. The train wasn’t moving until loads of bananas, and other fruits were loaded onto the train.

Swanda returned with coffee but gave them each a bottle of Menjunga, red wine, and assured them, everything was fine. “This is for you, you three are genuine Poetologists. True wisdom collectors through time.”

Swanda spoke as she walked away, “He who fights and runs away, May live to fight another day, But he who is in battle slain, May never rise to fight again. By Oliver Goldsmith.”

Andy laughed, “Poetologists, also maybe Poetry Specialists Boet. We also love Railroad folklore galore. The E-Train wants some more. So European predecessors made errors with Poets and Poetry here on the continent they call Africa too along with all the other crap inc.. Into which Scipio Africanus fought Hannible during the Punic wars and defeated him, the Romans subdued the continent and renamed it Africa, and tell Teddy Fikre thanks Red.”

You are welcome, I will, Red replies and he says, the whole continent was called…. ETHIOPIA!

And everyone on train yelled out YA YA!

“Red I told you,” Andy replied, “ It all comes down to those Romans, how many times have I told people through the years. Romans, I see the Judas kiss too. A double mindset world killing machine.”

Andy thought about all his wasted time over love with nearly two handful of people in the U.S.A. In his life time, not divine love, but human love, and how precious time was, and is, and the new iz. He always felt his heart and intellectual mind was smothered, and thought stick to the guns, another day is coming, so it was unique in synchronicity with Swanda, and Red knew too, and as Charlie told them in Poetry Train America, silence. Home to them was Poetry and the Poetry E Train. And Freedom was from God and the Angels not some un-hand cuffing motion notion.

Red thought and his thinking had to come out. He thought about his youth in Chicago and what is still happening in Chicago with his kinfolk and people there. My father left me, us. My mother had to have a new man, who knows why. He had to be the center of attention, and he hated the truth no matter what she said and done or me, he could not stand the truth of it all. Home was no place for me so what is left, the streets. I was beat up many times. See this scar on my ear? Grown men robbed me, and tried to kill me, but I ran away. The police at the hospital asked me if they tried to cut my ear off. I said no, but they did not believe me. They thought I was lying because I was scared for my life and I was, but it was because I ran away, and fell into debris in the alley I ran down to the hospital. That life went on for years. Until I found writing and Poetry. A white man in jail told me to keep writing, so I have since, and I collect Poetry books, and I do this for many reasons but the main one is for my grandchildren. I want them to hold and see how beautiful and genuine through time these books at home I have are. It has been and is a struggle to keep them safe for them to own one day, and say, Grandpa fought forPoets, Poetry and these books.

“Red we shall prevail, even though Red we are going to need some Poets big as Elephants here,” Andy proclaimed.

We are going to have to be like comets again too Andy, Red replied.

Boet felt the pain Red has been hiding all this time.

Andy thought about the previous Rising Realms on these e-railways!

“Red man, Red-bone, Red blood, Red-List, Red-dress, and Rediscover,” said Boet as he read about historian Eric Rosenthal. “You two, Red and Andy are not two thumb sucks but two thumbs up, never forget this!” Boet read to Red, “Rosenthal was too clever and too successful for his own good or for the good of his legacy as a writer, so think about all the failure to build your Odyssey gentlemen, with a capital O’.”

Andy laughed, and thought about the the law of the straw up by Poetry and Divine law!

Red, Andy and Boet were learning new things about Poetry Here, with a capital H.

Andy says, “As in the beginning and so it shall be in the end, Poetry will out live Sciences, because it was and always will be the breath of humanity.”

The Train was ready to move, and a postal man brought Red, Andy and Boet, all of Olive Schrieners books they ordered from It took awhile.

“May the Great Spirit bless you, and we all thank you,” Andy told the man, “You are appreciated and we are charm’d.” Andy looked at Boet and said, “Yes, I know we should have sent them home, and we will, but we had to see these books with our own eyes. All of the hard work, and brilliant heart it took to create them.”

Boet smiled.

Red proclaimed, Andy and Boet lets spend this day and the next on the wisdom of Djelloul Marbrook, and the body language of Poetry, Cursive Writing, Signatures, furthermore Banking Technology online.

“Also the fear of why people are afraid to buy things online,” said Boet.

The Train was moving again, and the conductor spoke like an American, trying to be funny, using Railroad slang from the U.S.A. and Swanda gave them a note saying the Mambas are watching and listening, and the Poetry Train Crew looked at her, and she knew they already knew.

Boet spoke, “Welcome to globalization, the whole world is a spy, can we have some more peach pie please.”

Andy spoke, “To gesticulate in poetry or gesticulation in poetry. I can’t recall to many poets we have read and listened to in Poetry from USA or Canada. Spoken Word Artists do, but not sure what to say about it, other then, deriving from rap and hard-rock metal and &c. This study is based from Djelloul Marbrook: The Body Language of Poetry: I do recall us telling Charlie in Poetry Train America how important this is in Poetry and historical writing so we studied the ying and yang out of it. They say Presidents are taught to learn the art of body language too. Break dancing is still the bomb, and yes this is the school of traveling Poetry, the one and only Poetry E Train. I love the aggressive Toxic Waltz song by Exodus. Mr. Smooth Fred Astaire, he says he has a dance patch, love that, and some of his body language is a finger snap, and pull forward the ear.”

In break dancing you have to define the dance, with no fronting, said Red, In negative times do positive things. Sad. The movement got no love in breaking down the beat by clapping your hands and stomping your feet. The lock n pop, every move has a definition, and they say break dancing was created by God. B-Boy, B-Girl and oh ya, on the Windmill dance move there were only eight penny moves done the most. That is where you grab your groin during the windmill move, and how many turns or flips you can do with no hands.

“As I ‘am looking online as if I was starting out to find essential information about ‘How to Design a Poetry Book” I am finding great comments, and I have to mention these for those who would need Poetry back up.” And Boets laughs, “I have to, because I ‘am sure Poets have naysayers around them.”

Poetry is very important and will always be.

The issues I’ve encountered are lack-of-knowledge and quitting because of that.

“How good do you want it, if you want it good then you’ll take the time to create a good book of poetry,” says Andy.

Boet we like to buy old books of Poetry from Poets we admire from all over the world for this reason, and use the ‘Look Inside’ feature on, Red explained. Like anything else Boet, trial and error, and lots of feedback. We use “Open Office” great tools once you get use out of them.

“Matching interior and exterior is important I gather, along with eye catching but readable font.” said Boet.

“Themes, and sections are important too Boet, says Andy, Think about Poem arrangement too, like your favorite music albums. Why is song order and placement important?”

“To keep the listener interested.” Boet replied. “I like this, seems so relaxing.”

Andy laughed and says, “Yes, said that before, and it’s fun too. The designer of a book is like the unseen band member, and that would be the recording engineer, who captures and brings out the best of the art-song. Same principles. Charlie helped us too, so we know how important it can be for Poets.”

“Mathias says you all have a knack for this, and I have to agree.” said Boet.

Andy and Red smiled and thought about the future.

Andy spoke, “How well is the dancing industry? Musicals are slim these days, except for VHS tapes of musicals, they still sell, regardless of times that change. Yes, like in Poetry keep it smooth, like dancing, Poetry with your feet, maybe a spotlight on you where it’s shown, and no one dares to compete. People in America when it deals with Poets. They can make them, and break them but they sure can’t take them! Ya ya!”

Boet was taking notes, and he was improving in handwriting. Red and Andy noticed this and spoke about it.

Red spoke, The decline of handwriting, is it proof of the decline of civilization, my answer is, only to those who let it. Handwriting, forming letters, engages the mind, helps children pay attention to written language, and so much more we know it helps children with neurological benefits, ha ha ya ya.

To develop cognitive skills. Engages the person to creativity, and has done so much more in testing in schools. They say.

Andy laughed and asked, ha ha “Who’s they?”

Red laughed and replied, Children were asked to come up with ideas for a composition, the ones with better handwriting exhibited greater neural activation in areas associated with working memory, and increased overall activation in the reading, and writing networks. Imagine that?

Andy laughed, “Cursive writing identifies you as your physical features do. In other words, spoken or written, our script reveals something unique and ineluctable about our inner being. Handwriting is a link to identity, maintaining focused attention, memory, tradition, draftsmanship, design, and fine-art. To learn to read more quickly when they first learn to write by hand, but they also remain better able to generate ideas and retain information. In other words, it’s not just what we write that matters, but how.

“What about reading skills, don’t they go hand to hand, mind to mind with handwriting?” Boet asked.

Andy spoke, “You got it Boet, you are seeing and reading the straw. People are School damaged, Politics damaged, Rich damaged, Prejudice damaged, Internet damaged, Love and Hate damaged, Damage everywhere! Damaged worldlexia.”

Andy took a breath and shook his head and yelled, “IT WILL NOT BE OKAY if no one knows how to do hand writing. What is written is FELT! What is typed is typed. Click click. You have to have soul! Tyranny of text cursors and no webmaster wants to create the best text editor, they can’t get this through their skulls, th, th thick ick, because maybe they do not do handwriting, an essential skill taught for the survival of humanity! Wake up, folks! With the high school graduating class of 2021, you will see dramatic shifts in student cognition, then you will feel it. If the last pencil factory in the world was destroyed could we build another? Worse yet what if Papermate was no more? Flair saves Poetry. Flair is painless, ask John E. WordSlinger he knows all about it!”

Boet smiled and spoke, “The legal power and value of a unique, written signature is high. Legal assistants need handwriting. What is your signature worth?”

Red spoke, Pharmacist’s says that good handwriting saves lives. Because most Doctors have sloppy hand writing.

“Imagine that, Rampart 2021.” Andy proclaimed. “If schools stop teaching it, teach your kids how to write both print and cursive, furthermore read, read and read. Did I ever mention when I was nine years of age, I wanted to be a pen salesman, yes I did. On my terms, like a rolling hotdog stand.”

The Train Conductor came to them and says, “I ‘am going to have to ask you to keep your voices to a orderly tone. The conduct is disorderly.”

Andy looked at him and thought you mean, disturbing the peace, and he said, “The peace of knowing everyone is going through some sort of psychological warfare that was put on them by forces of mind control. There is peace but no one wants it, Dave Mustaine wrote about that, with a song called “Peaces Sells But Who’s Buying.”

The Train Conductor gave Andy a look, and walked away. Andy thought it was a look for back up, it must be nice to have that kind of authority. Make sure you make a note of it Andy thought too, just to get everything working wrong, the left fusiform gyrus, the inferior frontal gyrus and the posterior parietal cortex. Andy spoke about the studies, “See I told you all, Poets need their own air and sea forces. Ask any Handwriting Scholar. These professionals start by looking for differences between samples, although non-professionals tend to base their conclusions on similarities.”

“Fingerprint analysis,” said Boet. “Legible. Digital fingerprint analysis.”

“Uniformity. Please indicate whether you are a forensic document examiner,” says Andy and starts laughing. “Pop quiz time? No-one goes to prison on the basis of a badly argued academic article. Poets should expect more rigorous demands. But there’s Scilens’ aka silence. It is reasonable to accept ‘cautiously’ a scholarly identification of handwriting which depends on a balance of probability.

Rapid writing,” and Andy laughs and says, “Poetry is not chicken scratch. Handwriting is subliminal power.”

Boet starts to free style Poetry,

“Where and when and what, how-wow and why

Is the hand quicker then or than the eye?

Beautiful or ugly

Identification personality

As they teach, you can take this to the bank

Graphology or Handwriting Analysis

You are never ever, to the ever blank

When I ‘am signing for Poetry I’m like signing

like I’m signing for meds,

oh ya ya there’s so much Poetry in Poets’ heads”

Boet takes a drinks of water and says, “The loops on the O’s seems weird, I do loops on my O’s

like a pseudoscience zeros. Extroverts slant to the right while introverts slant left or vertical.”

“Lets attend or start a handwriting study group with Edgar Allan Poe, the instinctive gesture.” says Andy laughing, “Skills, we got skills. Now we are forensic document examiners, six years like that, trained as an apprentice under the supervision of a recognized forensic document expert, named Poetry,” Andy laughs again, “Poetry Train America, Canada, and Africa aka Ethiopia. History of writing is memory Red, memory, Rediscovery.”

They were in between embryonic writing and proto-writing through time in Swaziland. What’s going on in the worlds’ upstairs, heads, caves, and on paper, furthermore books? Word grain from the human brain.

“Ink on modern day receipts fades away, so what are fading taxes today. Ink of Poets never fades away, never. Mind your P’s and Q’s too, because all of the alphabet is gunning down to pen and pencil dude.”

Boet sharpened his pencil and wrote again.

Andy and Red posted a nice note to passengers about their autographs and the importance of a persons signature. So many reasons why, so many. Plus they were Poetry fans.

Boet signature was beautiful, no strike through, no camouflage, no trace back, an average size with no scribble.

“So that’s who you are Boet,” Andys says, “A beautiful person with values and honor codes as a professional Poet. Your signature shows knowledge, approval, acceptance, or obligation.”

I agree with Andy, said Red, Your artist’s signature is super, you can do whatever you want, because you are great.

By posting and asking for Poets autographs shown the Poetry Train Team meaningful things, how some are skeptical, and that’s because of online Poetry tainting, furthermore the public arena and forgers maybe at large, but the Poet Gabriella Duncan got the main reason, Poets protection, and identity, extremely for safe Poetry Site’ verifications and how important it is for every Poet, and the Poet Igloo.

“Look at these autographs, they are beautiful, just like the Poets who posted them,” said Andy. “Thank you Poets, you are our favorite thing, wisdom for sure.”

Autographs and signatures say a lot, and so does dotted lines, said Red.

Andy and Red knew about the Rhyne Sandberg disease, and that is a case of megalomania. When Andy was a boy he, and his brother went to a Cubs game early to get autographs from the team, they got them all but Rhyne Sandbergs, he swiftly entered the stadium quickly to avoid the kids, and he was talked about bad right there in front of them by his team mates. He was an I in the odd spelled word Team.

Andy read aloud some of Lao-tzu, Tao-te ching “The Book of the Way and Its Power”

Fame or integrity: which is more important?

Money or happiness: which is more valuable?

Success or failure: which is more destructive?

If you look to others for fulfillment,

you will never truly be fulfilled.

If your happiness depends on money,

You will never be happy with yourself.

Be content with what you have;

rejoice in the way things are.

When you realize there is nothing lacking,

the whole world belongs to you

The Knights Templar come through time, and created banking, and just bail out with no trace, sounds so familiar Andy, says Red.

Andy spoke “Trickery, plain freaking evil. I want to hear “Blood on the Plow,” by John Cougar. Farm aid days. I was young at that time, but I remember how important it was, is, iz. The farmers have more power than any. Joseph dreampt this way back in the day. Boet play some “Blood on the Plow,” regardless of truth pollution. They’ll dig it,” Andy laughs and adds, “They are all on their cell phones and ear pieces anyway on this train.”

Red laughs and says, One song Boet, then we have studies to do: the United States.

Andy added while the Electric Owl spoke via wifi on the rough bumpy train ride. “When I look at the photo of Sarah Gertrude Millin I see the true heart of a person who sees how powerful racism is, and there are so many forms of it nowadays. When you look back through time, and you have this distinct person, persona that knows how much racism should be extinct. That is the instinct I see, and feel here. I ‘am so glad to be alive you all to even see and hear about this person. There is not much to read, but these books are listed. You have to love the word stir or its force stirring. Mingles. Such a beautiful life you all.”

All I can find are dust jackets Andy and Boet, very interesting, says Red, That’s why books are important. So one has her books and soon we will.

Boet laughs and says, “I just thought of something. How many bridges do you two think you have traveled over since Chicago? It has to be a flourishing number.”

Red and Andy laugh, and Red replies, More then moons, that is for sure. Makes me think Mad Bear.

Andy looked at Red and that meant something. Andy never gave him this look. A decade of this was about to be, and a bigger gap was coming. The dreams were coming true. Andy looked at Sarah Gertrude Millins’ photo, she looked concerned, full of life but sad, and it looked like she was on a train, looking out the window, and people began to live, because that is what this is the beginning over and over again. Andy smiled.

Boet found wisdom and spoke, “Sandile ‘Nkondlo’ Nxumalo says the Poet industry in Swaziland does not exist. Poetry is not something taken seriously in the country as Poets continue to struggle. Poets have no way to showcase their talent, and they do not get enough support. It is all up to Poets to work this up because they are the ones feeling the pinch. He also says aspiring Poets should dig down into their dreams and imaginations. They must follow their hearts and should know that they have to be inspired one way or the other.”

“Nice,” said Andy I found a massive of list of names of Railroaders who have built on this continent. This is going to be grand. Queen Wilhelmina where ever you are please give us a new coach.” Andy read the names Johannes Rienk Burg, Dan Margadant, Pierre Cuypers, Al van Gendt, Wim de Zwaan

Jacob Klinkhamer, J van Cittert, WJ De Zwaan, LM Geers, HT Gradon, JJ Kesting, JF Klinkhamer, I like that last name, roofing, and Andy laughs, “MEH Bruening, ME de Wildt, C Groll, RAI Snethlage, WI Steinmetz, C van der Made, A van Lennep, W Werweij, and A Westernberg.”

Boet spoke, “I like that new coach idea, cozy, suitable accommodation, and mobile housing. I have a Poem happening,” and Boet laughs.




Wagons, wagons, 6m wagons


Lets build the railroads and bridges

The Crocodile River Bridge

Joes Luck Bridge

Wiles River Bridge

Kaaprivier Bridge

Komati River Bridge

Grootspruit Bridge

Apies River Bridge


Fish belly, fish belly

Roll in position

Assemble on site

We have Poets to meet and read

Everyday and night

The Fig Tree Creek Bridge

Olifants River Bridge

Fish Belly, fish belly

Roll in position

Assemble on site

“I like that Boet, well done, fish belly is classic,” said Andy.

The Poet Majaha Nkonyane from Swaziland came to the dining car and asked them to help with his Poetry manuscript. They looked it over, and agreed to help, for free, no strings or chains attached.

“Swanda, please can you get, Majaha Nkonyane anything he likes for breakfast,” Andy asked. “See you all, this is what it’s about, helping with all wisdom known. There’s is no I, me, or he, or she in this team. We smooth like that, ya ya smooth! Intuition skills.”

Very powerful Poetry Majaha Nkonyane, Red proclaimed, Blessings are in many disguises, do not tell anyone. The reasons why is because some tend to have a desire to become a rain cloud and come to your parade, it’s best to let the sunshine on.

Boet spoke, “Dzelisile Mdlulis’ poem “Where Is The Train That Moves Me Through Time?” is grand, so this is what kind of synchronicity you two have been explaining about. I love it!”

Red was reading aloud from online, Karen Zamberia says, ‘That some Literature teachers are afraid of the new exams because poetry is compulsory and they hate poetry. Zamberia has long been aware that many literature teachers run away from teaching poetry and that their fear of poems is passed onto their pupils, and the schools who love poetry are the ones that usually do well.’ Imagine that, the fear of Poetry is passed on, and that is so sad. So Those who fear poetry, do not let this fear be passed on to the next generation.

“I found a croc!” Boet proclaimed.

Andy looked at Red with a confused look, a crock pot, a croc of shit?

Boet laughed and said, “You and your lingo brains, Cro E Moses, a Poet, a crocodile Poet. His slipnet interview is amazing, and so is this video,” and Boet played his ‘What do you say to those who say poetry doesn’t sell? And Cro E Moses the trick is, how it is presented, either way commercial or not, poetry will always be there.”

Andy and Red smiled.

Lets go see Pitika Ntuli sculptors, Red suggested.

“This is the land of peaking…” Andy proclaimed. “This country too is grand and wise.”

You too read this article by Seth Barnes, Red added, If you find a poet whose work is real artistry, then you want to hitch him to a bunch of engineers and you’ll change the world.