Poetry Train Africa: Ethiopia

All Rights Reserved ©

CHAPTER 8 Tales of the Dead, No War No Ghosts & Pyrates of Suicyde Madagascar 3rd June 2017

WE CALL POLITICIANS PYRATES OF LANGUAGE and all through time the seas were red with it and howling, howling with sea wolves, floating packs with fangs of terror, ravaging, and resorting on all people love, nature and companionship with fellow humanity and animals. These orders were from land wolves, pack leaders hired by the sheeple who couldn’t think for themselves. Poets don’t sell death and deliriums; they wish to sell books, but most of all, show the beauty of life itself.

All Poets stirred with beauty and love but they never became a floating republic, a grand democracy, most knew the way with their spiritual intuition as their cross staff; and their music of words, their lead lines, but gold, silver, gems, and money aka the earthly killer were not of the spirit. They never regarded these things so the balance of humanity went off course.

These Pyrates of Language also took up the cutlass, pistol and ball, but not Redd, Andy, and I Boet, we became hungrier for Poetry, and Poets unity that we ate our leathery belts on the ocean when we ran out of food. We knew speed was survival, and we had two speeds, fast and faster, and we knew too, rest, and what it brought. We kept east and kept in being for Poetry, the real breath and language of humanity, and storms were all around, so it was easy to be lost at sea, or for the battle to get twisted, and us captured. We knew the execution dock could be the final destination for us, where large crowds would gather on the shore and in boats, but maybe then would our notorious adventures and lives be noticed, our confessions and writings published. Regardless, we now were sailor Poets, who flew the Poetry flag, and would live and die under it, threatening rule with Poetry.

Andy was our needle of a compass, and he also knew the magical vibration of our Poetry voyage, but he and Redd made bedwards hours back, and they were snug in the Land of Deep Nod. With my note of a tune, I was tired, very tired and being snug too was something I had to do. The serf seemed at ease in these forbidden seas so I needed to rest because I knew we were headed close to barbarous coasts. I wished we brought a harpoon, because we were out of food, and the longer we didn’t eat, it seemed our beltless pants, and us for sure would fall down, twine came to mind but that did not matter it was us, we had none.

The splendor of Nod took me too, and if anyone knew me, Boet, would know I always keep my alertness, stay up on watch, and never fallen asleep, but there’s that first time. Not only that, propelling, and punting these canoes wore me out.

She had red hair, and red bones, I would not see her lower body from the water she was in. Her smile was amazing, and as she came closer, her smile became for sure, luring. She was proud of something, and she swayed her right shoulder as she paddled forward, and I saw it, her rainbow tattoo, it looked new. I call it that not because it was the beauty of the traditional rainbow after a good rain, but of colorful stars before a good rain, her tattoo was a star rainbow I can say, circling her shoulder and it was beautiful. She loved it, and I did too.

The night sky was in Venus, and it made it all a boosting dimension.

How could I resist? I looked at my sea-padres and I said to myself, they need more sleep. I looked at her knowing I must swim with her. Plunged I did, and the water seemed not as strong as I imagined. I noticed she was sitting on a swing in the blue blast, hung by light, and it was, an amazing sight. She motioned for me to sit next to her, again how could I resist? The swing made the water sing a different way as the water moved around it, so I sat down, and still, I could not see her legs. She made noises, more the less talking in a different manner. I did not know her native tongue, but I sensed this was going to be good. Hoisted we went, slowly up, the water again grabbed my attention. I looked down the tinkles of the dripping water sounded sweet, as her legs were now revealed, her being, her red tail and fins. Very impressive, and I was about to learn the words’ true meaning, and it all enclosed me, pressed. We swung, and the universe got smaller.

“I am Randa. I am from the sacred hill, and we are no longer abundant because of iron spearheads. We are their main sampy, and that is because they attribute we have magical powers, sampy, and we do. We are a spiritual item for them, because we know animal language, and we are united. We are the Odys Ikopa now, which means personal talismans.”

I could finally understand her. I looked down and seen so many ships on fire. I heard cannons, and saw smoke go as fast as it came. The winds were moved too.

“Would you like to go below, and see all of the drowned souls?” Randa asked. “All over greed, and deception tactics.”

No way had I thought, I was swinging in a swing above the ocean with a mermaid of beautiful red, and her tattoo to me seemed like she had firefly blood, because the tat glowed, and the stars also changed colors.

Randa looked at Boet with a sad smile, and said, “They are coming up with laws and rewards to apprehend Poets to convict them, and kill them. I will take you to the palace, with views of the twelve sacred hills. I may let you ring the aqua bell.”

“God save the Poets!” Boet replied and thought ‘My God what is wrong with people in power, Poetry, Reading & Writing being lifesaving. Poetry can help people with PTSD, but no, don’t treat those that fight for freedom, and what’s right. These folk should be ashamed of their brain washing might.’

With all of the bewildering beauty Boet never thought of hunger. Boet slept on, swinging in a celestial swing with a gorgeous mermaid. While dreaming, the waters foam was gaining height, and finding its way into the sailing double pirogue, two wooden dugout canoes attached to each other, and could sail.

Andy, Redd and Boet scratched their facial hair. Andy was getting a tropical sea-man tan as he slept. Redd began to talk in his sleep, and Scratch was the one making them itch by licking their ocean grown beards. Trying to wake them up because a grappling hook was pulling them in from a ship, and the canoes came to it with quick speed.

“Those two are Virginians I am sure of it.” A pyrate with long red hair said. “They are not Portuguese, or Spaniards.” She was Anne Bonny.

“They are rum less, with a wild beast.” The other pyrate with long dark hair said. She was Mary Reed.

Deck hands fastened the canoe, and raised them up to the lower deck of this stolen Woman-o-War ship.

“The white man is Irish.” Anne Rackam said as she pulled out her pistol.

“Check them for fire pots.” Ticklishly Mary Reed demanded as she held tight to her cutlass.

Standing up was not going to happen for them three, their knees were aftermath, and the length of them at sea without food, was subtraction. The Pyrate crew checked their territory.

“Roll around, loosen up, don’t be weak,” Mary demanded. “This is Cape Lopez!”

Anne looked like Jimmy New Orleans. Andy thought.

Sweet as Vanilla too, Anne thought.

What Redd? Andy thought but figured it out.

Like a ship saw, they questioned them. What are your crimes? Do you have honor? And where did you bury your treasure?

Andy replied with vengeance. “In our hearts!”

“Then your hearts will be cut out of your treasure chests...” Mary declared.

“Oh for Louisiana sake.” spoke Anne.

Anne keeps looking at my nose, and I am looking at hers, and why are they bare boot? Andy pondered, and it was tele-thought.

“Will you hang for your friends?” Anne asked. “Why are you so solemn?”

“Yes,” Andy replied, “Because we are important and serious!!”

“Do you know the sword of England?” Mary asked.


“Racks of meat please?” Andy asked.

Anne pointed her pistol and spoke, “We knew you four were coming? Anything goes... We are potrabelly, and there is no onslaught slaughter rule.”

Redd was thinking, Work as a team or we die.

Scratch roared.

Mary skillfully shown her cutlass and spoke, “Sugar, you are beautiful. Evidence you have never been killed, and most are looking for jolly death, so where is this poetry train?”

We have Poets, Poetry, e-Railroaders and a e-Train, musical mates. Redd said.

“We have pen and paper too.” Andy said.

“Quit looking under the table.” Anne said, and Mary giggled, and spit saying, “John Lawrence England, John Lawrence England.”

Andy spoke, “Would you let our bodies be put on display?”

Anne looked at Andy and said, “I was named Andy, maybe your dead ones!”

Similar to you all, we roll out the jolly Poetry flag, and live and die under it, threatening rule with Poetry. Redd declared.

“Wake your mate.” Anne demanded. “He must be drunk.”

Boet was waking up and he spoke, “Politicians do that to intellectual property! They would love to call Poetry a festive disease, with listeners and readers infected.”

“Musicians play some music we have guests.” Anne ordered. “Racks of meat, and check them for silver and gold. We hope you like turtle.”

Redd frowned, but kept real, and said, I’d be treated as an equal. He thought and tried not to, but if all Poets died, then maybe they’d be exciting as dead Pyrates. What in life’s creation is going on? Redd laughed.

“Ya ya, you’d blend in with the bloody red sea.” Andy replied. “You’d look good with earrings mate. West lie the Pirates too, and we must be a floating rolling republic, ha ha ha ha. Rome the original place of thieves and outlaws, metamorphisized. What’s that Redd, this I should say, a history repeating itself, mud puddle?”

“They can work the chain pump.” Mary said.

“Let me think about that, maybe best on masthead.” Anne suggested. “They made it this far.”

“They maybe spies.” Mary said.

“That’s why I’m thinking and suggesting.” Anne said. “What’s coming is coming. We are moving onward and forward. All five of us will keep watch.”

Redd, Boet and Andy looked at each other, and smiled.

“Sweet,” Andy said, “When we find Poetry we will yell out; Poetry, Poetry!!”

Anne and Mary smiled.

Scratch is coming with us, or hold us prisoner. Redd declared.

“That beast can climb mountains, he should be the one looking for land.” Anne said then asked. “How well is your bond?”

More than you’d dream of, Redd answered.

“You two are on watch.” Anne declared.

Andy and Boet looked at each other.

“I have something to say.” Andy said, “Unlike man made things like this ship. Poetry is not fixed. Here is the deal, we have no infatuation with mankind. Our mountain Lion is faith to us, hope somewhat. Your intuition is keen, because Scratch and Redd, would never lead any being to destruction. Wood burns, and can be kicked, kick iron and see where it gets us.”

“Captain Robert Drury, are you hearing this?” Mary asked.

“Mary, they made it this far.” Captain Robert Drury replied. “I have a question, don’t make a big deal out of this, like you trifling blood make out of rum. It turns to piss, and I have only rescued one soul from piss and wind. I will bet gold on this, the cat they have if it could stir the helm, I’d let it.”

“They have nothing.” A ship leg said, “But a heart rock, and odd fabric wrapped around paper with poetry, and scribbles. Bottles of berry juice too.”

Anne smiled and said, “Bring me the berry juice.”

We all four can swim Captain. Redd said with deep looks into the Captians eyes.

“I recall death of many.” Captain Robert Drury replied. “I recall many saying ’Anything Can Save Our Lives. Poetry they are about. May this Poetry save our lives?”

Captain Robert Drury looked at each and every one of them and said, “There are tales of the dead, vanilla our not, vanilla it is. They are going nowhere, you have their backs and necks. Good call Anne. Shall they cause us grief, cut or shoot their poetry off!”

Everyone looked at each other and smiled.

Redd let Scratch lead the way to the head staff, and everyone else thought about the blues, dark waters, and death, furthermore the band from the U.S.A. Drop Dead Gorgeous, and their song. ‘Daniel Where’s The Boat’ We all represent colors.

History is a mud puddle, and they awoke.

To sail like this stirs the imagination, so with the last paddle strokes from all of the western and southern sectors of the shark roads of Madagascar they have arrived without sinking out of sight at Manakara.

“Screetch,” spoke the Sky as they looked up over the giant Madagasgar, and there was a Verreaux Eagle-Owl.

While holding his tongue Andy spoke, “I was born on a pirate ship.”

Ha ha Ha, love it, Redd laughed, Can you translate us some Pirate Poetry for us, and no booty poems, Ha ha Ha, love it.

“Do it again but say, I was born on an Island,” Boet asked.

Oh Andy did, and his engine arose the Jolly Roger, and set the rum free from its wooden barrel.

“Ha ha ha, Irish are ye, so what’s up with these crystals?” Boet asked with seriousness.

“First thing is first Boet, and do keep that smile, because the Great Spirit gives us friends who become family, and people never forget how you make them feel, so you make a life, Mother Doc Maya wisdom right there pal.” Andy proclaimed. “The Irish are dangerous when pushed, keep that in mind. One, we need a canteen of berry juice for ink, one for each of us okay. Two, Think about this, maybe Mungo Park did not drown in the Niger River, it is possible he came here, went east, and lived like we are, surely passed away without a trace but mayhaps, perhaps, too would be to think without crystals, and three, Can you ride a bicycle?”

“Ha ha ha ha, yes I can, wow, I am seeing, by listening Spearhead Andy.” Boet replied. “We will have to ask around Madagasgar about Mungo Park.”

Exactly, Redd replied. Hey we need not a speed boat, ha ha ha ha.

“Silver must be our back up currency.” Andy said. “Spearhead, you be silly. This may now be a gun powder train, so red alert. And for Poets sakes, stop looking at the moon, what have we learned?”

That we need body guards! Redd replied.

“Ha ha ha ha,” Boet replied, “We are becoming Shamans in the cave.”

Ya Ya!

Let’s bring our sailing pirogue somewhere out of the bay and begin. Redd said. Oh, we forgot, we didn’t dive for sea cucumbers.

“You are a sea cucumber,” Andy proclaimed.

Ha ha ya ya, Redd replied.

They looked back towards Africa in awe and the maritime adventure was impressive.

“I want to see the forest of lime stone, the Grand Tsingy,” Andy said.

“Me too, we are like Lemurs full of mystery.” Boet said. “We are going to need a Chinese ricksaw to carry any books we gather. They were brought here too long ago to work on the railway line.”

Andy laughed out loud and said, “Okay I guess you want us to sweat. I tell you what I have toted many roofing materials up ladders, and up roofs. I tell you, I have got to learn to balance luggage on my head. Seriously y’all I saw a woman carry twenty bricks on her head back there, eighteen balanced on two, and these bricks were larger than U.S.A. Bricks. Serious balancing, and posture happening.”

Ha ha, your brain is cramming again Andy, and I hear that. Redd said, Smuggling Poetry never ends. They say everyone gets along here, and listens to their elders. Even the spirits of elders stay and guide them. I did not see her carry bricks, and I hear ya.

Women were chatting, and putting on makeup as the Poetry Train crew walked through this village.

“Wow Redd, these women are beautiful like this land.” Andy proclaimed.

I’m seeing, I’m seeing, Redd said smiling. Look Andy, ha ha, look at that boy walk on homemade stilts.

“Wow, so cool, he’s operating the jester,” Andy said, “It’s time to ride through the jungle.”

As they walked they crossed paths with a Turtle, and he must be in love, because he carried a flower in his mouth. A beautiful Sitaka came up to them with its red and white fur, and Redd gave her some cashews. Collecting was about to begin because many people were into arts and crafts as village shops were everywhere. Hand crafted and painted toy Lemurs, Igaunas, Turtles and Zebras caught Andys’ attention, and he had to have one of each, and so did the vegetable food tables, so they bought plenty of apricots, bananas, carrots, garlic and onions for the journey ahead, something nutritious to munch on, cheeses for the day, and berry juice if needed.

“Oh man I have to have one of these, a toy ricksaw,” Andy proclaimed and purchased one.

“We are going to have to do laundry at the river sometime.” Boet said.

Redd laughed, We should, every bridge over water, ha ha, we see, we always think that.

Upon arriving at the train station of Manakara, many people were sitting down on the ground, and kids sitting on the rails. Once the train arrived it became a trading center, and many tourist were taking photographs. Mechanics looked over the train and its wheels. The body was rusty, and Andy thought, even here no one knew how to demolish rust, and put it out of business, metals’ cancer.

Redd put his head out the window to admire more of the river and bridge, thinking again another beautiful spot we pass up to do laundry. The conductor came up, and advised not to do that because ahead in route there were many tunnels, and that meant ahead took heads.

“Walking in the tunnels are even more dangerous than walking train trestles.” Andy said.

“Ha ha, you had to say all that in plurals didn’t you?” Boet asked.

“Ya ya, you know us.” Andy replied. “Oh man, look at this single blue train, looks like a bus-train, but the nose of it gives it an insect look, ha ha ha ha.”

Ha ha, it also sounds like a diesel car. Redd added.

“They are, they are Carel-et-Fouché ‘Micheline’ rail cars.” Boet proclaimed and laughed.

Station after station were more people smiling, trading and commencing, just like the Golden age of railroading in the U.S.A. Andy and Boet asked to sit on the open train car, a game of rummy was being held, and Andy joined in. He has saw in photos that the open train car is common here, but was a first time for them, and they got to see more of Madagascar and rode through in the open air. A waterfall played its music as they rode by. The valleys below were amazing, and dusk was upon them as so was a long and treacherous trek anywhere further from Fianarantso and the places of the Tananarive Cote Est Railway. Redd rode on the front bumper of the train engine, this was common too, but first for Redd. He contemplated the photograph & postcard store of Pierott Men in Fianarantso, as they got closer to the station.

“A ricksaw won’t do us any good on this terrain, perhaps a filanjana, and the Malagasy palaquin that was a raised chair hoisted on the shoulders of four to eight men with hard leathery soles.” Boet stated.

“Not a bad idea Boet, we could be hands free to write about nature to text.” Andy said.

I love this train station with its high ceilings but there has to be a better way to unclog the passenger congestion, but it’s only because people love riding the train, ha ha ha. Red proclaimed.

Andy randomly scoped and said, “Look what I found, a book of poetry, Four Comedies by William Shakespeare, and listen, it says this inside. ’This book belongs to Leonard Bratton, and in Bold- AND YOU better return IT INTO THE LOST AND FOUND.. Ha ha hha ha, this is good, funny, Leonard Bratton the Poetry Train is the lost and found of Poetry, ha ha ha ha! Again y’all we feel, we listen.”

“Andy they say you know some French, what do you think of the French influence here? Boet asked.

“Ha ha, let it soak in, and I will answer you soon enough Boet, ha ha ha ha.” Andy replied, “I will be gentle rather than sardonic. You have to love the world as it is to understand it well. We Poets have much sense not to be slaves to any fashion and times.” Andy contemplated ′Perhaps one needs to die to be found sincere,′ as K. Verbal aka Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo said. This was haunting and put some sadness on Andys’ nerves. Like K. Verbal they too were attracted to Poets and Writers who were outcasts in their own society.

Andy stopped in his walking tracks and spoke, “Holly smokes. What? Those children are playing with bugs.”

Boet laughed and replied. “Those are Madagascars’ hissing cockroaches.”

Redd said. Look, they have giant snails too, cool.

Boet smiled and educated them, “90% of wildlife here is found nowhere else on Earth, and so are the Poets. A new word for you two. Hainteny, translated as knowledge of words.”

“Dang it Redd, we are in Hawaii again,” Andy said looking around. “Well, you know.”

Boet laughed and continued explaining, “Hainteny are the breaths of the Merina people. Also proverbs and public discourse. In Malagasy folklore, the right to rule could even be determined by ones eloquence and skills in kabary, a highly stylized form of speech that had formed an important part of Malagasy culture for centuries. There is a master of the words. There is somebody who answers. It is the master of the words who rules the kingdom; as for the one who answers to the kabary, it is the public acknowledgment of his submission. And yes unfortunately it is and will be a man’s art. Women are asked to be more formal.

“Wow, I’m in awe by all of this.” Andy proclaimed.

I hear ya, Redd replied. Me too. Love the respect they have for words. Thanks Boet.

“You are welcome,” Boet replied, “It is actually a social game, where two players debate with each other but can never directly counter one another. For example, to counter someone, one might say: The dog’s bark: it isn’t might, but fright.”

Redd laughed, Indeed, like Hawaii, somewhat, but this is true respect, I like.

“What do you mean?” Boet asked.

Redd laughed and replied. Read the book Poetry Train America, the Hawaii chapter.

Boet laughed and replied, “Yes sir, I won’t counter. I have another word for you. Fihavanana, a Malagasy word encompassing the Malagay concept of kinship, friendship, goodwill between beings, both physical and spiritual. The Malagasy culture applies the concept in unique ways. Its origin is havana, meaning kin. Mayhaps best described by the proverb that the relationship is more important than the money.”

In sync Andy and Red replied, ‘NICE.’ We love that.” Andy and Redd looked at each other and felt something was about to get heavy. As they walked they were closer to getting surrounded by giants. Madagascars’ palm trees.

Andy got in a supersonic crazy beautiful mess. He saw a shovel, borrowed it for a dig, a Madagascar shin dig, and said, “Where is Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo? Because the Poetry Train is here!. So, it shall be an understanding with its ghosts. We need Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo to look out for the Poets, Railroaders and Poetry and Railroad history, furthermore Madagascar more and more. I’ll dig his grave by myself, and carry him to the Poetry Train. It’s time to dance and debate, and return the Poet Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo with a rebate. Fellas made it to Madagascar.”

Andy looked at Redd and had to say nothing, it was on.

Redd looked at Boet and smiled and said, Madagascar the Poetry Train is here.

“Let’s go with a Famadihana!” Andy said.

Boet looked at them both, and thought, Oh Heavens’ sake’ and laughed.

Here we go POETS, Redd proclaimed.

Andy held the shovel tight and sung- “I ’m With Stupid.” by Static X... and said, “Next y’all we are going to a pyrate cemetery. This I hope forever changes our view and other’s view of life with adoration and love.” Andy stopped walking and said, “Fellas, let’s look at the forest through Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo Poetry. Let’s sit right here before we do this, and read his works.”

“You are amazing Andy,” Boet stated, “Listen to this, “A young poet of the future who will come to know your books and who will raise his head and think that in the sky among the stars and winds your tomb is built.”

Andy laid on his back, placed his palms to the ground, and looked up into the sky.

We are looking at his tomb now, aren’t we? Redd suggested.

“Seems so.” Andy replied.

Boet read and was in awe, and thought to himself, could Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo have seen the future. It sure does seem like it. His ‘Three Birds’ poem and ‘Other Birth of the Day’ poem tells us he did.

“I think his message means do not get your hopes up with milky people,” Andy proclaimed, “I really do. Do you get the feeling of being damned?”

Somewhat, Redd replied. It is the nature of the voyage, I ’m sure.

“Hey, you two are effecting everyone, so be happy about that, you hear me.” Boet said.

“I think we should pitch camp here, eat and relax.” Andy said. “We have many Poets to listen to and read. We are damned if we do-do and damned if we don’t-don’t. Sounds like a drumbeat, doesn’t it?”

Boet laughed, “Yes, music is a sacred part of life here for the Malagasy, and believed to be the connection to an ancestor’s soul, and sometimes when the party gets hotter, rum is poured into the instruments as a show of respect for the dead.”

“North from here is the pirates cemetery, so let’s plan to go there too.” Andy said. “Hey, maybe there’s a franco-pay-phone around here.”

Ha ha Ha ha, Ol’ Redd.

“I ’m looking at these trees, and feeling tells me, for us to keep our eyes out for bark to write on with our berry juice.” Andy proclaimed.

Amazing, Redd replied. We need to look at the grid of these four formulas, the forms of the kabary, the hainteny, the antsa, and the angano.

“It’s going to rain, and we are about to be smooth as a wet rock.” Andy proclaimed. “It looks like there is a school over yonder.”

“How can you tell?” Boet asked.

“I hear my intuition bell.” Andy replied.

Boet we need some Madagascar company, not one of us, knows Malagasy or French. Redd said.

“I thought Andy did.” Boet replied.

Ha ha, he knows WordSlinger french, that Beautifire kind. Redd replied.

Boet laughed. Okay. Boet put his head down and thought of Swanda.

“Boet we can’t let the world place us into an empty well, let me tell you, they know nothing of, and what awaits us most is th’Rising. Poetry Boet is not a dead belief, but an alive relief, Poet to Poet, Chief to Chief. Fighting Danger, and her intended grief. You hear me, never let no one interfere with your loving intuition. Even if they do not understand. Who are they to judge? Eight fingers down, and two thumbs up!!”

Poetry Boet is true nakedness. Redd said, and explained. A nakedness that cannot be covered up with pretty or ugly blankets. At least in jails in the U.S.A. They encourage people to write poetry, but on the outside a majority of the masses do not. Fear trying to put compassion in a trick bag, or Andys’ empty well.

“Everyone is a sea shell Boet, and everyone needs to master the art of listening.” Andy said, “Like all things. Poetry is born every day. Some people don’t like it, or what’s born in our era, but maybe it is what it all is or not as all, or equal. But those people are the noise, and that noise forces Poets to Turtle up, and that causes them to enhance their art of listening, that is if they are true to themselves and the life of Poetry. Let us ponder this, Does God make an effort to become a God? Feel the wind upon your skin Boet. You are now feeling beauty from the realm, and with that gaze Boet, you can escape any well, or cell. Keep a homage to grace.”

Once we get to this school we need to ask about the Mitady ny very movement aka the search for lost values movement. Red proclaimed. Sparked by Sorajavona, name meaning colors of the clouds also known as Dox, from both the English ‘OX’ and from ’paradox. Birth name, Jean Verdi Salomon Razakandrainy, and so this is why it’s raining Boet. They are guiding us. It’s very beautiful.

“I ’m mind blown, and whatever that means.” Boet proclaimed in awe and smiling. “Why do I get the feeling we are also mind beauty farmers, planting seeds?”

“Why question yourself Boet.” Andy proclaimed. “Listen to what you just spoke. I ‘m going to send out electric smoke signals, ’We are looking for a Box of Dox... The little men with big erasers are at large... S.O.S. Redd, Andy & Boet.. June June day’.

Andy I ’m getting a signal here, same one. Redd declared.

“It’s the Benjamin Franklin connection with Madagascar, isn’t?” Andy asked. “Same hint I sent Munia Khan.”

It is Andy, Redd replied. We need to gear down but keep moving like American Train hoppers Wayne & Rob taught us. We need to get back on the train Andy. We have no guide here.

“Faith, one will come, hold our ground.” Andy stated.

We are going to have to wait until after dusk, to look at the starboard. Redd stated.

“For Verbal K to show us the way.” They all said in sync.

A gentle breeze came. With this the rains moved northwest.

Okay this Hungarian rebel writer named Maurice, Count de Benyovszky was declared King here by the tribes. It was he who was an acquaintance with Benjamin Franklin. He attempted to introduce a transcription of the Malagasy language using the Latin alphabet but intercepted by scorn and lack of support by France.

“I hope you two are good at chess.” Boet proclaimed.

“Back then they cried, do not risk alienating.” Andy said, “Now they cry the opposite. Time is a wacky railroad tracky.”

Brazil, rings the bells again. Redd said. Okay, let’s eat lunch, lately.

“Ol Benji sure was a smooth operator.” Andy said.

“History is repeating and it isn’t, for us any way.” Boet proclaimed.

“No fear Boet, stand our ground.” Andy said. “We are at another time straw. We are the Poet seekers similar to healing seekers.”

“The answer is in front of us.” Boet proclaimed.

Indeed. Redd replied laughing.

Leaf tailed geckos began to appear everywhere.

“I am tripping out.” Boet proclaimed. “How did you two know? We are at the stopping place of mornings. Read Esther Niranas’ poem ‘But Your Eyes.’

Redd laughed. We listen to the realm Boet. Understand her title, but is hesitation saying, listen with your eyes. As you mentioned, the answer is right in front of us. It always is. Unless there’s Danger.

“Yes.” Boet replied. “Doom and Dread” is no longer once one at a level, correct?”

Yes Boet. Redd replied.

“The breeze feels so good.” Boet proclaimed. “Wait, we need horses. We must look for a farmer, and a ranch. Andy tell me, why are most people seemingly angry all the time. I mean, well white folks. French to me, many words sounds angry, like many words sounds like they are saying ‘horse shit, and some bitch’ seriously, also French sounds Spanish?”

“The Tower of Babel is still falling down.” Andy replied. “Does speaking in tongues come to mind?”

“No,” Boet looked around. “Do you two have a castle in America?”

“No, look into our hearts.” Andy replied. “That is our home.”

“Poets’ saliva may what do?” Boet asked.

Redd and Andy looked at each other and smiled.

“Before daybreak we must find horses.” Andy proclaimed.

Boet laughed. “Andy it’s only afternoon.”

“Boet there is a sulphur spicket and its scent is in between the ears, and it takes years to nose it, blood too.” Andy proclaimed. “If you don’t know what you read, and eat, then you are made up of manmade stuff. I don’t care how great one is, was, will be, if you don’t take your time for others, it’s all wasted time, time will win, not the spirit.”

That’s why you weep at birth, and rejoice at passing. Redd added.

“So it’s a scaring?” Boet asked.

“Two kinds Boet,” Andy replied. “All in all this word, Ampansacabe, we must say it smoothly. Because this is an affectionate land.”

I think we should build a fire, and make live smoke signals. Redd said

Andy is calm and still looking at the shovel he borrowed and spoke, “Redd, make a fire, here is my last pencil. I shall return...”

Redd made a fire the old way, and knew what to do if he lost his fizzle spindle. Boet set up camp.

“Island of the moon, they call it, no freaking wonder things are up and out.” Andy said laughing as he came back. “You know that voice that told us in Canada ‘to be gentle in the wind,’ well it came back, but with a new wise breeze. Mildness is same but to explain to them their interests. Now how do we know that? How does one explain to a Poet about their true interests, with good conduct, virtue, and confidence?”

Where and the heavens did you go? Redd asked Andy, It’s been an hour and it seemed like more than a day.

“I listened around, and found a horse stable.” Andy replied. “I got sick, butt called many people, got taken care of, found pencils, found a giant bible, heard a harpsichord some dang where. Redd we may need to get off this Island, but I have a surprise.” Andy laughed, and Mathias showed up with four horses.

Mathias laughed and said. “The red horse is mine.”

And they all laughed.

Redd spoke, We will be riding four Poetry horses around the mountain when we come.

“Although, never being able to leave this Island maybe a good thing, talvez warez, but there is always that gap.” Andy said. “Around the mountain like it’s warming up and melting snow. We get better but also we get worse at the same time, like the balance of shall and if, and that although and but cliff.”

The answer again was right in front of our face again. Redd replied. True interests, with good conduct, virtue, and confidence. If we died what would they get?

“The wind also said we must release the electric owl to scout three rivers and the bay, but not sure where, so we must look for readers as well.” Andy looked at Mathias, “This place is healing. Welcome back. So what’s up with Count Beny, Ben Frank, and what do you know about the France and Hungarian relationship, any iron ore relationship? And, God Bless do you know Malagasy, or anyone who does, that can help us. Besides English?” Andy backed up the horses, laughed, and looked around.

“Lemurboys, we need to go west!” Boet declared. “The Chinese are here, and always have been. It will be winter again soon.”

“Fellas, we have a chess match happening.” Andy proclaimed. “We are going to win, show, shake hands, and ride on to our ship in the snow, then back to wars at seas. But please, please let’s go to the pirates’ cemetery, with vanilla on top.”

Boet looked at Redd and said, “Look around we are being surrounded.”

A man came up to them and said, “Before you leave Madagascar, you four will take the oath of blood.”

“Hell no, you are out of your bomba tree.” Andy proclaimed. “We know the Poets of Blood, and they have no oath but to love another. Look dude take us to your leader, you listening? Look dude if you have dark Poets and Poetry bust it out. You will not be scaring us. Break out some ghost flowers. Hoss we bleed for a cause.”

“Yeah, we want some Count Benyowski T-Shirts.” Boet proclaimed.

“Ya ya,” Andy laughed and said, “Redd, call out the great Poets, with the art of listening.” Andy looked at the man. “Boo.” And got into a Poet frequency lower than any other, all because of the realm, and the realm heard, and so did every herd! Andy looked at the man, and said, “I know it’s not your fault you are sleepwalking.”

Boet laughed, sung, and danced, “Harry Belafonte - Jump in the Line” and their army of troops danced.

Don’t look at the moon. Redd proclaimed.

And to their leader they went. They asked and received. Boet laughed his ears on... “We need to find these lyricists that’s what they would like.”

Redd looked at the man and said, We are circus agent clowns, and we came here to play checkers not chess, but truthfully for Poets and Poetry, and sweet sweet railroad history.

“Madagascar’s current political turmoil proceeds unchecked.” The man said.

God doesn’t want politics anywhere. Redd replied. Because we know the real losers are the people in Madagascar in poverty, suffering the unimaginable.

“It’s going to rain for sure this time.” Andy said and laughed. “These trees are amazing. I have to say something, emotions are emotions, let them be, as long as cold blooded murder doesn’t burst, and if one deserves a mouthful of ass chewing then so be it. Lies, scorn and all that jive needs to stop. Envy too. We are humans, not Gods, so there’s really no sense in trying to become a God. I say this because of megalomania and the envies.”

The man signaled to his platoon, all was okay, and they went their way. The man spoke, “My name is Raja, and my favorite Poet is Elie Rajaonarison, and people say we look similar. He says a society only has art it deserves. People need to dare to see the true reflection of themselves.”

“So you are saying it’s a good thing to be madmen?” Andy asked.

“Yes, but not bad men.” Raja replied.

“Cool, because all I have been seeing, well from America and it’s haters, chicken shits- wannabe’s, scorn masters, and the anger creating signals to loot the dead, and shit the living if they could. America is cursed, and a majority has allowed their leaders, and followers to stomp on other countries, for more sin and resources.” Andy said, “It’s not just America though, it’s many others, but let’s get back to the art of Poetry.”

“I call to tell you all are creators, daring, and you all believe in confidence and not luck.” Raja explained.

Yes, rehearsal is for the programming. Redd said. Although practice makes perfect, but perfect practice makes practice perfect. Raw is first law, and then sharpen by second draw, and of course two minds are better than one, in our case us four. Redd looked at Mathias, like it’s alright, we got each other.

Raja smiled and said, “ Elie Rajaonarison great poem is “Wake Up We Are All Dead.” and I love this too. History will judge, and history cannot wait for us, well you Poets to rise, from his poem, “History.”

They all looked at each other and smiled. They all walked with the horses to the school where prior Andy found from a distance before the rain came. Raja introduced them to the care taker of the school that was not in session, and either was a church session. This place was both. The care taker led them to an organ and said, “I play music influenced by Georges Andriamanantena aka Rados’ and his Poetry is displayed on the screen right over there.”

Andy asked for some Dox aka Jean Verdi Salomon Razakandrainy Poetry, and the keeper replied. “I do not think we do, but you can look through the schools small library.” Andy went to the library and found the book, ‘Over the Lip of the World: Among the Storytellers of Madagascar By Colleen J. McElroy.’ He sat down, and speed read through it, to find himself travelling back in his mind to his heart rock in his pocket, the moonlight never meant anything but trickery now, and their Poetry journeys were all still worth their lives. Andy thought about their new friends, and true old ones, and that eased the moment. He spotted a picture on the wall with a poem on it, ‘Fleur Folle’ by Henri Rahaingson. It was French but he deciphered the Poem. Andy thought about the rising realm, and blocked these emotions out, to let them be.

The others were in discussion about the people of the Anjanapara valley when Andy returned he said, “We have a Swazi wand- unlike a wiki wand more like a Poet bond, and laughed. “Where is this

Pastor Poet Ravelojaona, who declared “It is inappropriate for Christians to exalt love in their Poetry. BS ever read Wordslingers’ Beautifire, did you know WordSlinger makes nuns pee their pants, because of his satire, in a good way of course? Humans repeat history in all neighborhoods. We want a box of Dox!”

Shh, Redd said laughing.

“Thanks Raja but we must be riding west.” Andy proclaimed.

Can we have some salty soup first? Redd asked, We are starving and Andy here well, he’s on a trip.

He’s pissed because Poets and real teachers are left out like islands and other half parents over dumb bull shit. All in all, the last road no one knows is passable.

The caretaker spoke, “I will make you all some soup. Hunger is loud right now to me too. Then you all will be fed and well off to over lip the world.”

“Nice.” Boet replied. “Yes, and thanks, we’d love that.”

Do you know of anyone who speaks Malagasy and English? Redd asked.

Raja replied. “I do not sorry. Ask around for Bini Josoa and Gad Bensalem.”

“Nassuf Djailani too.” Boet said. “Munia Khan sent his name for us.”

“The rain is more powerful, and you all may wait, or stay the night here, and leave early in the morning.” Raja suggested.

They agreed to stay the evening before moving on.

Boet spoke as they all gather things from their horses. “You have to love what Poet Nassuf Djailani says, ’Writing is a planet I am trying to inhabit by creating a universe of full possibilities. One needs to be seriously mad to survive there. I find that rather fascinating. Also we have connected with Gad Bensalem.”

As they made rest for the following day Andy asked Mathias, “How did you get to Madagascar?” and laughed.

“After I had a light lunch I decided to escape some heavy hell so I jet ski’d across the sea, and I danced on the Grand Tsingy, the lemurs showed me the way, after I got my breath back.” Mathias replied and laughed. “Then I swayed through the twelve scared hills like a pin ball through the brain forest.”

Raja spoke, “Come here men, you all are not men-childs that’s what I call those who intimidate with looks, muscle built, tattoos, and treats. They are alive but not frown in the head. My Daddy was a fireman. See this ring on my finger. It was his, and every time he said, Son come here, he’d shake my hand, and kiss me on the cheek. I will tell you he smelt like fire. He cried one time, once, he did not save a black boy. I knew my father was hurting, believe that. There was not a drop of prejudice in his blood or stain of it on his soul. The man never showed hurt though, but I knew he was. He was a Firemans, Fireman, so be a Poets’ Poet. See this bag of ashes as I pull out of my pocket, they are my fathers ashes. Shake my hand.” Raja gave Redd an old school hand shake, with a pull in, and taps Redd on the shoulder, furthermore a keen look into Redds’ eyes. Raja released happy, and looked at the Poetry Train Crew and said, “I live across from a cemetery. I never go there. I am a sinner. I am in love with too many women, and the one who loves me is Irish, can you believe that, but I don’t tell her I love her.”

Anyways gentlemen, I have a platoon to guide, and my colonel, when I retire, I am, I will take out my gun and when I do, I will tell him to suck off, bet that. Last thing pay, attention to real smart ass journalists. I love the U.S.A. Mike Royko.”

Andy shook Rajas’ hand and spoke, “When I was nine I was taught this hand shake and was told this couplet, Ashes to Ashes and Dust to Dust and if it was not for bad asses the world would rust! Thank you Raja, love you.”

Boet gave Redd a look, and Redd thought ‘Times and place, no one needs to be and live through.’

Andy looked at them as Raja walked away, and spoke, “Please gather my things, and put them on my horse, please. I need go online and see what’s up and do something.”

The eagle returned, life droning above them.

“So Poets must create Poetry people can kill, digest, and wipe their asses with.” Andy said, “Similar to religion and politics. I think we should go in invisible mode on the web, on Facebook at least, but first start a fire. Why, because, well, let’s see who will jump off the train. We don’t need people who do not believe in us around, that’s why. We have been there for many, but not too many have been there for us. They do not understand, the poetry audience, they think jumping online is like going to a club to party, and free as humans can be, you know the naughty by nature deal. God Bless I can go on and on.”

Redd laughed and said, All I can think about is the scene from Indiana Jones where he hands Marion a torch and says, wave it at anything that slithers.

Andy winked at Redd.

“Same as shunning politics, and politicians.” Boet added.

“But English is no pacifier and either is Facebook, not for me.” Andy said, “The point is, some people are like Steve Bartman on purpose and they know it, disrupting what we do. These people do not realize we see their intentions right away, we are sly like that.”

“Are you talking about trolls?” Boet asked.

Andy looks at Redd and says, “Worse, people you personally know, and they become a troll. Snake like, people that use the web tools to do this there. The ones you gave your life to, and heart and soul. Some humans can be very nasty and tricky, furthermore smart enough to flip what they are doing to you or on you, and turn it around so it looks like you are or we are the cruel ones. A different kind of sickness.”

It’s a different kind of prejudice, envy with nitro and on steroids. Redd said. I understand your frustration Andy, so maybe throwing down the gloves, and yelling at some fans is necessary.

“That’s just it Redd, the trick bag.” Andy replied. “Fan impostors. We are on the field, not playing a game, but on the field.”

“Actually you two are like Ty Cobb without a racist heart.” Boet said. “Andy, be careful about negative energy.”

“Boet look.” Andy replied. “That’s all I am feeling from most, and why not return it. That’s what I meant about starting a fire. Poets will understand true people that are true. Do you see me living in sin? No, you may see me sometimes drinking and so what. At least I am not transferring drugs on my or our e-rails.”

You know what Geo would say if he was alive. Redd said. Don’t go to the ones who envy, to their level. For most it’s easier to disconnect or cause mischief, than to attempt to connect on deeper levels or open to the unknown or come out of pleasure zones. We are different, so don’t feel bad that most don’t see the vision or share the passion. Facebook is slowly desensitizing senses and minds. Hold dear the peculiar ones who do. The issue is that people have short attention spans as well and don’t want to read or listen, most of all learn. Most people don’t want to reflect on themselves, and that’s scary.

“Maybe you should start a Screenwriting train?” Boet suggested. “Keep believing gentlemen.”

And everyone laughed, except for Mathias.

AS THEY RODE HORSES, Mathias looked at his cell phone for information, and said. “They gave Steve Bartman a world series ring, so I think the Library of Congress should give you two a room, desks, and all the modern tools you need to do what you have to do for the history or Poetry, Railroads, and Literature Law.”

“Age for age Mathias, intelligibility.” Andy replied. “What needs to be done, as all of our responsibility as for Poets and Story Tellers is imagination farming so people can think for themselves again, and enhance the Literacy Rate? To bring back the arts in a new way. Has anyone of you read the original Lion King screenplay by J.T. Alen and Ron Bass? It’s more poetic than one realizes, Also y’all this lack of imagination crisis is a serious one.”

More true to life here in Africa. Redd said. Look around and mellow, let it all go Andy.

Andy thought about his heart rock, and throwing it into the sea as they rode on. They knew why God never left anything out, unlike Politicians and Religious priests. They treat people like children. Life is hard core for adults too, even if there are things adults can understand that kids don’t. Northbound they rode, and surf was up, and to the beach they went, north to the pirate cemetery. The Poetry Train was expanding, alive, invisible or dead.

Andy spoke, “Redd remember when everyone laughed at us for what we were doing. Remember our old webmaster told us to get a life when we fired him? Redd please post on Facebook,

PoetryTrain.com has been combating racism since January 7th 2010...

With the arts of reading, writing, listening, and never robbing Peter or Paul, aka playing politics to play with peoples lives. These journeys on, we do what we can, been on that level, and has been a profitless education system, but intellectual and spiritual wise rich, and that is what it’s about. We have lifted up the geniuses-Poets of tomorrow, The Wicked Papoose Caboose. We understand, their intellectual being, similar to the silver age of the Russian Poets, we get it. We run not a Poet mill, but a path cut, and many will understand. We cracked open the egg to the realm of a world of wisdom, and it’s rising, rising, rising. Our reward is reading, listening, and promoting the next Poet and Railroader, because that’s how we roll!

“Let’s do our laundry in the sea.” Mathias said.

“10/4” Andy said. “We don’t want to work for the Library of Congress, we want everyone to work for the Library of Congress. While at it, Vanish clean the whole political forum.”

Mathias laughed and said. “You never go stale.”

Yeah, he was pissed in 1990 when congress took away Saturday morning cartoons, and in fact I was too. Redd said, I could wake up early for them for sure, and not school.

Everyone laughed as they stopped their horses on the beach.

“Ya ya and you don’t hear about angry mothers crying about media and you know them who dummied down their children, because, the whole time, politics done the same to them, and they have nothing to say.” Andy said, “We need the hands that feed us though, but it’s the wrong food and water. Also, when one does not know the difference, they just don’t know the difference. Simple and hard truth.”

Ode to our reality. Redd spoke. Look around. Dismounting horses in such beauty, connected to nature. The ocean is ink, massive waves of ink, and these surfers are pens, creating action poetry. Amazing. Check out their love for this, and natural ability.

“Like their sweat suits and boards, it’s their badge of honor.” Boet proclaimed. “Similar to your Poetry Train fellas.”

“These young men out there used to be homeless kids on the street.” Mathias said.

Andy laughed, and said, “Boet you sound southern Californian, like, like Valley talk.”

Boet laughed and replied, “Excuse me but isn’t it like a word like a simile?”

Everyone laughed.

“Remember those Godzilla toy commercials while watching Saturday cartoons Redd? “ Andy asked.

Yess ssir, Redd replied.

“I ask that because looking at the sea I am imagining the giant coming to Africa here on this shore on a surf board.” Andy said. “Poets with books need modern commercials y’all. To bring back imagination. You know what the deal is, Poetry Train and Google and Youtube is similar to the old style vinyl record players. All one has to do is to read and search, but the Doh ya. And to tell you all what. I knew Bart Simpson was the Anti- Christ.” Andy thought of a past girlfriend he used to tell that to.

“A surfing Godzilla, and I don’t know what to think about the Bart thing, but I must trust your intuition Andy,” Boet said and laughed.

“Has he always been this creative Redd?” Mathias asked.

As far as I know yes, and that’s what they say too. Redd replied.

Boet looked at Andy and said, “When you’re in the groove, it’s simply not possible to dwell on what troubles you. The first few waves of life like that, you duck under. Watch them surf. On the way out just wash it all away. By the time you’re out back, it’s as if you’re cleansed and your mind is clear. You know what’s up and when to connect, when the mental noise and tensions have been temporarily washed away.”

“Ya ya we all need a little bit of help from our friends, and team mates.” Andy replied.

“Actually I don’t know how you do it.” Boet said. “I watched you clean up the Youtube playlist in like five hours. It would have took me five weeks.”

Andy laughed and replied, “It’s easy to do, with so many Poets and Railroad history. Okay, let’s head north now.”

Let’s find a lagoon to cool off on the way. Redd proclaimed, because there’s no Alaska in sight.

Andy heart squeezed his horse with his legs, thought of her breath and the heart rock in his pocket, furthermore his hard words, but hard was good, a shake’em and bake’em, one has to move on if one can’t take’em. Andy looked at them and spoke, “I read the Chicago papers online today. Those folks in the oval office are going to capitalize on all the ignorance that’s been baited and taken... Carry on... Lil Whyte right, We aint Playin’. Trumpty Dumpty says racism is evil, no shit... Wow, all them chicken heads doing a doozy for sure... All in all we be the 0 in w0w..” Andy laughed, “Ya ya.”

Where is the monkey holding its nose? Redd asked. And where is a filter to know whose true? Because the things happening in the U.S.A. Reeks. I got to thinking about the Great lakes back in the states, and the geography, people just take it all for granted, and bat their eyes. Something nuclear maybe happening there.

“When I no longer shed a tear over an event, a moment, a song, a poem, and furthermore a screenplay, then you can no longer call me a professional human-poet, with a spirit,” Andy proclaimed. “These poetry orgs sites are not the big leagues of Poetry. None of them are and so are we, so that’s what it’s about. History and the web itself has a memory, so come on show it all some love. Owe, Memory the King of Sting. Let us camp here. Everywhere with humanity. It comes down to personal responsibility. People need to get a damn backbone and stop being so weak, sensitive and fragile about life. Choose to be a better person. No one is responsible for anything we do except for ourselves. That’s a fact that will never change. ”

Boet and Mathias did not know what to say, but they too, watched the U.S.A. Fall apart because love disappeared and everyone fell for the divide and conquer tactics.

“Numbers, thinking of numbers is not good.” Andy said. “Numbers cause problems for letters.”

“Do you think Eric Ortner and the President’s committee on the arts and humanities will ever notice us?” Boet asked.

No. Redd replied their hands are tied by numbers while they scream for art to save them.

“It’s about a three days ride to the west coast.” Mathias said. “So we should camp here.”

“It’s always the bad things that get spread in the news, never the good things.” Andy proclaimed. “At least we have the wisdom of Ngugi Wa Thiong’o now.”

Too bad and it’s sad we could not get anyone to translate these Poets of the 21st Century for us. Redd said, they will get noted.

Continue Reading Next Chapter

About Us

Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered book publisher, offering an online community for talented authors and book lovers. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books you love the most based on crowd wisdom.