Lamentations: Isle and Main

There may be no reconciliation forthcoming for the wandering likes of me,
Born into one world, bred in the other, impressionable stepchild of the sons of Cain
Soldiered, beaten, molded and caressed into posture, lilting speech and obeisance.

There may be no one religion left to flourish in the sullied souls of those like me
My father once asked, Without God, the Son, and the Holy Spirit who are you indeed?
God is beyond recognition, premeditated fleecing of the masses by mortal man His name beyond the vain what, who am I to believe?

There may be no salving redemption to be summoned up in the likes of me,
The Generation of the Damned raining refusals to respect, to repent, to pay a daily fast
Sacrileges of the consecrated, skeptic of my forefathers take on the Dawn of   Enlightenment, revised... revised... revised yet again, a barely scribed past!

Mothers wept past hope of consolation, months rippled into decades for the likes of me
Years past since that hasty fleeing from its verdant hills, without benefit of a second glance
Memories left behind, lying in wait 6 x 2 unmarked graves on muddied banks of wayward arrogance.

There are no standing ovations, no parents to behold, no ticker-tape for the likes of me
For I will not bend over to lodge or espouse the insecurities of my foreign/natural born fathers
I will not be martyred, prostituted, or silenced by the versed and rhymed   hiccupped and recanted by News at Nine political charters.

There is no sanctioned validation for this mind, this distinct Samoanesque she of my haunting shadows,
This is the way of my generation, lives sans the burden of historically-butchered ancestors
Liberties no longer anchored in homes safe havens leagues below deep harbors.

Schizophrenic, this existence I live, this life keeling, impressed between lanes of Isle and Main.
Harsh chill bites marrow, I am a woman not of my fathers recollection of prosaic oral histories
Winter born tempests, I turn to the south with my heart aching for the telling idiosyncrasies.

(The cries of lamentations canted in remorse, in time-worn longing... )

There is no reconciliation,
              no religion,
                      no redemption,
                                  no ovation
                      no validation,
              no consolation
     
              For the likes of me.

(With palms splayed, eyes slightly turned towards a waning winters sun along a darkening horizon, shoulders bowed)

  (Whispered... )

All that I have - have sought - have accomplished, mean so little for the likes of me
For I yearn for the chanted cadences of home flung across the miles, the vastness, the summer's burnings upon Gods Bay of Peace
A Samoan father's daughter, yes I am, homeward bound by the love of the cantor's arms, the binding thread of my tranquility.


- LAPorter, (c) 2005.