Song of the Jamaican Banana Man

AH! A poem to tell of hard work and the satisfaction of enjoying what you love. A prelude to my idiotic ramblings.

The song of the Banana Man:

It is by my Jamaican compatriot, Evan Jones:

Tourist, white man, wiping his face

met me in Golden Grove marketplace

he looked at mi old clothes brown with stain

and soak right thru with the Portland rain

He cast his eye, turn up his nose, he says...

"you're a beggar man, I suppose"

He says " boy get some occupation, be of some value to your nation"

I said, "by God and this big right hand, u must recognize a 'banana man'

Up in the hills where the streams are cool, and mullet and janga swim in the pool

I have ten acres of mountainside, and a dainty foot donkey that I ride

four gros michels and four lacatans, some coconut trees and some hills of yam

and I pasture on that very same land five she goats and a big black ram

That, by God and this big right hand...Is the property of a banana man!

I leave me yard early morning time, and set me foot to the mountain climb

I bend me back to the hot sun toil, and mi cutlass (machete) rings on the stony soil

Ploughing and weeding, digging and planting till massa sun drop back o'er John Crow mountain

then home again in the cool evening time

perhaps whistling this cool little rhyme

Praise God and mi big right hand, I will live and die a 'Banana Man'.

Banana day is my special day, I cut mi stems and I am on mi way

load up the donkey, leave the land, head down the hill to the banana stand

When the truck comes round, I take a ride, all the way down to the harbour side

That is the night when you, tourist man, would change your place wid a banana man

Yes! By God and mi big right hand, I will live and die a banana man!

The day is calm, and moon is bright, the hills look black for the sky is light

Down at the dock is an English ship, resting after she ocean trip

While on the pier is a monstrous hustle, tallymen carriers all in a bustle

With stems on their heads and a long black snake, some singing the songs that banana men make

Like, praise God and mi big right hand, I will live and die a banana man!

Then the payment comes and we have some fun, me, Zekeiel, Bredda and Duppy Son

Down at the bar near United Wharf, we knock back a white rum and bust a laugh

Fill the empty bag for further toil, with salt fish, breadfruit, coconut oil

Then head back home to the yard to sleep, a proper sleep that is long and deep

Yes, by God and mi big right hand, I will live and die a banana man

So when you see these old clothes brown with stain, and soak right through with the Portland rain

Don't cast u eye, nor turn u nose

Don't judge a man by his patchy clothes

I am a strong man. A proud man, and I am FREE

Free as these mountains, free as the sea

I know meself and I know mi ways, and will sing with pride to the end of mi days

PRAISE GOD AND MI BIG RIGHT HAND. I WILL LIVE AND DIE A BANANA MAN!

My Dear Hannah

This beautiful tree you see before you, adorned with chunks and slices of enticing fruits represent the metaphor for the fragmented thoughts that occur within my mind. It is sweet and it is tart, it is colorful and it is alluring, temptingly it beckons you to partake.

Draw nigh to the tree at your own risk, for the fruit, as mouth-watering as it seems, may be poisoned with boredom, ennui, lethargy and writer's block, among other malapropisms, interlocutions, interpolations and all other types of isms.

so much to write

Hannah wants me to write her a story

Belle has a prompt somewhere

Vocal has the Summer Solstice challenge...which I have no idea about how to approach such an ominous sounding undertaking...and I need to find a candidate for whom to write another Talented creator story

I sit poised with fidgety fingers, other challenges are calling...but

There are no takers...wait...nope...ideas are jumbled in my head, they are jostling each other to be written, I try to coerce a single coherent thought, it travels from brain to neck, neck to shoulder, shoulder to arm...and stops............my fingers are itching to cooperate with brain and begin writing SOMETHING........

Yet....NOTHING!

Writer's block has set in, it seems to be completely contagious and transmissible, and everyone seems to possess it.

Writer's block seems to have no qualms about me writing about writer's block. It seems to be the only thing that my brain can compute.

I read a few stories, grab a bite to eat, shove some clothes in the washer and tidy up my Saturday hair (it's a mess).

Here I am back at the writing place and I am admiring this lovely tree of fruits which is my cover picture.

I pick some fruits, mmmm! delicious. Bananas, oranges, apples, grapes and plums. Sigh...still nary a sentence...I think that I am stressed.

Excuse me, but I think that I will go play some solitaire! BRB...and Save!!!

Strawberries, pears, tangerines and another banana later and I compose a silly story/poem of AI dominating the world.

Still, I am scratching my head as I finally decide to call it a day and go play some music, watch a movie or just relax my brain.

THEY DON'T REALLY CARE ABOUT US

Aaaaaaaaah Oooooooooh Skin head Dead head Everybody Gone bad Situation Aggravation Everybody Allegation In the suite On the news Everybody Dog food Bang bang Shot dead Everybody's Gone mad All I wanna say is that They don't really care about us All I wanna say is that They don't really care about us Beat me, hate me You can never break me Will me, thrill me You can never kill me Beat me, bash me You can never trash me Hit me, kick me You can never get me All I wanna say is that they don't really care about us...

Thanks a lot Michael, you have said it better than I ever could. How are you doing my brother, I hope you are keeping everybody in Heaven doing the Moonwalk.

This is not at all what Hannah had in mind, but it is what my brain spat out, writing about my idiosyncrasies is for the birds and they do not stay around long enough to narrate it.

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Hannah's challenge