Poems
Poetry is my first love. My favourite poem of all time is 'The Song of the Banana Man' (Evan Jones; 1927-2012). The imagery is so powerful and as the daughter of a farmer it's filled with familiar smells and sounds.
(scroll down for a select few of mine)
A Tribute to My Mother
- Who Knows?
It was a day not unlike this one; when
Family and friends gathered to morn
Someone who too was loved and dear
That a similar congregation was asked,
- who knows?
A simple phrase that stayed with our family
To become one of my Mum’s phrasemes
Like her Mother before, Mum used many learnt sayings
As her repertoire for every of life’s situations
A Phrasebook passed down through the ancestors
Repeated to children of the Windrush generation
The Caribbean lexicon to our heritage;
‘donkey have no right in horse race’
‘who feels it knows it’
‘who hold the cat tail is who knows if it’s hot’
- who knew?
Mum, born on the Caribbean Isle of Dominica
One of nine, to hard working parents, Omega and Florita
That a cruel stroke of fate would bring her to these shores
In a country wrongly called ‘the motherland’
To work in hazardous jobs to help rebuild that land
With no appreciation; to be seen, only, as an immigrant
My mother's life was long but it was never easy
Yet she always maintained her pride and dignity
A mother to four children, grandmother and great gran
She loved, was loved and gave love in her unique way
Her head high she strode purposefully through life
Never allowing struggles or hardships to hold her back
- who knows?
What sustained her in her darkness moments
When past decisions came back to haunt her
- who knew?
That dementia would steal from her, her very essence
Robbed of her smile, laughter, strength, her determination
Gone was the personality, the character, who was my mother
But I chose remember Mum in her vivacious years
To those who may ‘mal-palé’ (we’re Dominicans), should know;
‘if you doh have nothing good to say, doh say nothing’
‘all food may be good to eat but all talk not good to talk’
‘your mouth is yours, say whatever gives you pleasure’
In time, I’ll reminisce, joke, laugh, when I remember
And utter those forever words, ‘Mum used to say’
- who knows?
**************************************************************************
A Lasting Reminder
I gently rub her blacken knuckles
The only part of her not frozen, not stiffen
The folds of excess skin move without resistance
She inherited that feature from her grandmother
I used to hate mine, wanting long slim fingers
Yet as I stand for the final time
To say my last goodbyes with tears
I see that the body in the simple casket
Is not my mother, anymore
The person she was ended in her last breath
I rest my warm hand, clearly full of life
On top of hers that are placed atop each other
The rosary I bought her, threaded through her fingers
Both of our nails beautifully polished
The similarities are still there
Now, I’m pleased mine resembles hers
Happy that part of her isn’t stolen in death
I long talk to her, in our mother tongue
To make her laugh out loud, again, like I used to
But my mother had died many times before
That Friday in September was the final stage
That freed her from mental and physical pain
I accept that I should not wish her here
Because all that we can do and say is over
I will reflect, I will process, I will move on
Let me, though, capture a lasting reminder
**************************************************************************
Fridays Gone
I will miss you, Mum, in so many ways
But even, more so, especially on Fridays
For our weekly chats when I’d ring
We used to talk about almost anything
I’d check on you and you on me
We’d chatter and gossip on and on; maybe
For an hour but mostly always more
I think we covered every theme for sure
World politics, the environment, family going-ons
We’d call out the bastards and the morons
About the terrible state of the earth, you’d claim
“As my mother used to say, *latè dèchiwé pyèsonn pa-sa pyèsté”
Of course, we talked, too, about the weather
That British custom that brings us all together
It’s too late now to wish I’d seen you more often
I do hope our catchups did something to soften
Any strain or pain distance placed on our relationship
In the thirty-nine years of our mother-daughter friendship
The sound of your voice is imprinted in my memory
From the sharp ‘click’ followed by, “Hello”. In summary
I don’t’ hold too many regrets, I did all I could’ve done
Forever in remembrance of Fridays gone
(*direct translation: earth is torn, no one can-not mend it)
SELECTED POEMS from Collection
Titles:
Standing Still
Yet Again
Contemplation
What the world needs now
A place in time
Count on Me
There’s Much
My children will be fine
New Year’s Resolution
Do You [even] Remember
Staycation
Standing still
I stand still. My life.
Everyday my child grows around me
like the shoots at Spring’s dawn.
Blossoming in warm Summer days,
fed from nature’s nourishing dews.
I envy her, in the way adults do,
wishing my own parents were like hers.
Endless laughter
patience
abundant hugs
reassurances
precious kisses
devotion
memories (I hope I’ll never forget).
She says, “My mummy is the best mummy in the world.”
I concur.
Years zoom by. I’m standing still.
My child is on fast-forward.
Yesterday my baby crawled
today my toddler walked
tomorrow she’ll run, race,
straining against my arms –
the elastic band…stretches.
Tug-of-war in my heart:
hold on, let go,
be selfish,
protect,
accept (Lord it’s hard).
I say, “My darling stop, stop growing so fast.”
She laughs.
Yet again
Yet again, my love and soulmate
came to me at REM sleep
my soul welcomed his.
The decades haven’t erased
him from my heart.
My love
called my name softly
I looked into his eyes
felt his warm breath,
he nuzzled my neck.
My love
kissed my lips repeatedly
he held me close
defiant in a tight embrace.
My love
whispered in my eager ear,
“I miss you. I love you”,
He said he longed for me
I said that I did too.
I cannot follow.
A fast road. Hot asphalt. Soft head.
Gone. Yet again
Contemplation
|
Sitting in the afternoon shade
her fingers intertwined hands siesta in her lap
rough thumbs circle each other
she mutters softly
as she communes with her God.
II
The sea and land collide
stirring up mini dust clouds
in dry brown dirt
aeroplanes spew cloudy trails
in endless blue skies.
Nothing interrupts her peace.
III
Her thoughts are silent
echoes from children lost to foreign lands
cast a shadow on her sun-bitten face
she’ll never hold them in her arms or
cast her eyes upon them again.
She stares hopelessly into the distance.
IV
Years of lost embrace her
family, the beautiful home,
hard earned earthly belongings,
stolen by traitorous David in 79’
Defiant she straightens her back
her resilience marked on pursed lips.
V
Eyes lifted to heaven,
she’s ALIVE and grateful for her meagre blessings
her grandchildren (I’m one of them)
a re-claimed two-room wooden shack
perched on crocked wooden stilts
that lets in the sun, rain, moonlight.
VI
Sitting in the Summer shade
thousands of miles and an ocean
from where she sleeps
peacefully I pray
my fingers intertwined, thumbs circling,
I contemplate on her life and mine.
What the world needs now is not love sweet love.
What the world needs now is tolerance bloody tolerance!
Governments and Religions dictate our lives.
Rules on how we live our lives. Sanctioning
who we can marry, how we should marry,
who we may love, how we can love.
Work. Play. Eat. Drink.
Grotesque religious fanatics dressed on intolerance
proclaim love, peace, faith and truth.
Psychopaths entrenched with outdated beliefs,
peddling wares of destructive influence,
‘pipe pipering’ people back to the dark ages.
I have faith the sun will come up tomorrow.
But is it in my place to force my truth on anyone?
A religion, a faith, doth not a people make.
Predatory politicians, the manipulative bastards,
Shout sweet promises;
“Vote for me”. “Vote for us”. “For your Protection,
Health, Education, Wealth”.
As they laden their pockets and bank accounts.
Times may change but man never will.
What happened to the advantage of youth?
The rebellious, self-opinionated, game-changers.
They’re brainwashed. The get-rich-quick-or-die-trying Fools.
Follow. Follower. Following.
Who the hell is Leading?
I’ll tell you who. The Rich. Sucking. Grabbing. Pilfering.
More and more into their gluttonous bellies.
Who needs a conscience when we stampede
Over morals, disregard ethics, values and each other,
to get to where we want and what we want.
Ye gods!
Oh, I forgot they too have stopped listening.
Let’s not blame the world-wide-web either!
Because we’re losing the ability to talk, to negotiate,
and only communicate behind optic fibre walls.
Earnestly researching inventive ways to deceive,
corrupt, destroy, put down, bring down.
Is there even enough space on this waterlogged planet?
Every medium is used to collect every detail of our lives.
Freedom of expression. Freedom of speech. Slowly suffocated.
TECHNOLOGY IS ADVANCING THE HUMAN RACE!
Do I need to know about some inconsequential entity, who is;
getting married, is a size zero, on a diet, is pregnant, had/having a baby, having an illicit affair, wrote a book, launched a clothing line, created a perfume, took another selfie –
I could go on....
a place in my time
the smell of soil and grass jolts my senses
my heart starts an uneasy beat
panic knots my distressed stomach
my lunch races back to my throat
the urge to flee argues with my feet
BREATHE! BREATHE! BREATHE!
to rediscover the ravishing beauty
of mountains that climb coated in green
blanketed in descending rain clouds
my fingers trace the rugged outlines
up and then down into the valley, and
along the aged face of the village
to the purple Atlantic, tranquil in the distance
the house, once my home, is smaller, retreated into itself
deserted of life, forlorn, surrounded by lush foliage
here and there the roses, I planted as a child, wave
‘welcome’, they whisper to me, but
they are ghosts
echoes of years of hurt, fear, lingered in dry rot.
Count on Me
Count the stars in the clear night sky
That’s how many days I want to love you
Count the wildflowers in a summer meadow
That’s how many ways I wish to please you
Count the snowflakes in a winter’s snowfall
That’s how many times I’ll to be there
Whenever you need me, always, count on me.
There’s Much
Another anniversary of my birth ends and there’s much I’m thankful for; My children who I grow to appreciate and love more every day; Family, real family, whose love and acceptance of my craziness fills me with joy; True friends, near and far, who inboxed me birthday wishes decorated with emojis; I’m grateful to be able to receive these with every breath; But, I’m reminded of what Nen used to say, ‘This world is badly divided and no one person can stitch it back together”, Nen was right; Advancement in technologies only exposes the glaring rift that divides us and advocates our selfishness; Sustained persecution because of skin-colour, religion, culture gender, ethnicity; The hate-filled, fist-pumping advocacy of the normalcy of intolerance; Where religious dictum has replaced faith, humbleness, understanding, compassion; Now kindness is newsworthy, every good deed must be rewarded by going viral; Insatiable appetites for the perpetual widening between the have and have not (‘who have, have. who doh have, doh have’); Enticements for the singular accumulation of wealth, ‘get rich quick or die trying’ attitude of the next generation; Unable to escape the relentless bombardments of wickedness, evil, pain, hurt, we inflict on each other, on our earth; Walls; Wars; Water shortages; Weapons; There’s more I’m thankful for; The sun will shine tomorrow; Rain will replenish the earth; Roses still smell as sweet; Food on my table, a roof over my head; Most precious commodity, health & strength in enough abundance I can get out of bed in the morning; Music that revitalises my soul, lifts my spirit; Books; Comedy; Laugher; Walking on warm sands; Moonlight, moonbeams, dreams; Though, there’s much more I long for; The love of a man/woman; To again feel butterflies when touched; To be kissed long and hard; Sex that satisfies like rain in the desert; Inner peace; Contentment; Dancing like there’s no tomorrow; Complete a collection of short stories; Publish my writing; Write; Write; Write; Again, there’s much I’m thankful for; ME
My Children will be fine
Every day I torture myself,
am I teaching enough
to my children today?
Have I given a lesson in
Responsibility
delivered a lecture on
Discipline and
conveyed the case for
Respectability?
My children will be fine.
Every night I remind myself
have I done enough
for my children today?
Did I feed them healthy foods
Ensured they drank enough water
Took a break from social media
And brushed their teeth?
My children will be fine.
Every moment I examine myself
am I doing enough
by my children today?
Did I set an example in tolerance
was I dignified in every sense
demonstrated restraint and
exuded ethics, values, and morals?
My children will be fine.
Every day I make this effort
For my children’s sake.
I work to give them an education
better than I had;
love them always, better than I was;
create a family, more functional than I had.
My children will be fine.
My children will be fine.
New Year’s Resolution
Crunch. Munch. Munch. Munch. Crunch.
A woman in an African headscarf
attacks a firm medium carrot
at Moorfields Eye Hospital
in the waiting area
in clinic
fifteen.
The patients’ stare
at the woman
eating
a carrot
in clinic
fifteen.
It’s January ninth
on blue chairs,
the waiting area
in clinic
fifteen
a woman,
bites into
a carrot,
Crunch.
Do You [even] Remember?
Do you [even] remember?
Because I do
Me, on my knees, as ordered. No Resistance.
The first LASH. Second. Third. Again and Again.
My arms, useless in defence, retreat.
My body, surrendered to the inevitable
Until it collapsed. Blacked-out.
Do you [even] remember?
Because I do
Still hear my screams, desperate pleadings,
“I’m sorry.” “I’ll not do it again.” “Forgive me.”
“Spare me.” “Please.” “Please.”
Flight or Fight. Nowhere to run. No escape.
Panic. The taste of Fear, bitter. Dry mouth.
Adrenaline pumping. Chest heaving.
No tears. They came later. Silent and hot.
Do you [even] remember?
Because I do
Your rage, hot, hissing. Nostrils flared
sucked all the air from the room.
Face distorted. Eyes blinded.
No hesitation. No conscience. No reprieve.
Your body rigid. Armoured for attack.
Weapon of choice – a piece of garden hose.
Do you [even] remember?
Because I do
The PAIN. Back, arms, legs, backside.
Burns. Stinging. Bleeding. Oozing.
These are now long gone, but
A stubborn defensive scar remains.
And though it’s fading with time
It’s not the only hated reminder.
I remember.
Staycation
It was in summer August twenty-nineteen, when
Me and my sister, My sister and me
took our first staycation together
in the tranquil setting of Kentisbury Grange, in Devon
far from the strains and stresses of our personal lives.
We shared a queen-sized bed for the first time
was waited upon by friendly and delightful staff
the kind all good hotels should have.
(And ate every crumb of the melt-in-the-mouth cookies)
On the shaded table and bench, drenched in sunlight, or
chased by drizzled rain, we hoped time would stand still
as we sipped, twenty-six pounds per bottle, wines
willingly ignoring the damage to our pauper’s purses.
(We talked in hushed tones, on comfy chairs, in the rustic sitting-room)
The breakfast at the Coach House kept us till teatime but
disappointingly our looked-forward-to posh dinner
left us wanting. Was it the food or our palates?
Redemption came with dessert, pure ecstasy in our mouths.
We drove the quiet Somerset country roads
Me and my sister, My sister and me
in a lazy hired car. We cruised the famous landscapes all the way
to a beach in Woolacombe where she dipped her toes in
the freezing Atlantic. Me? I observed from ancient rocks
my feet safely tucked in ankle socks and Dune ballet pumps.
(A place steeped in history harbouring the ghosts of centuries past)
On the clifftop we sat on a bench as breezes licked our skins
each of us lost in our individual thoughts.
Hunger pangs took us to the fish and chips shop
best we’ve had - hungry people find no fault with their food.
(Flowering plants, manicured gardens, quiet the turbulent mind)
Sitting on the grassy knoll toes dancing in the summer sun
the panoramic views capture our immediate imaginations
- blue seas, soft crashing waves, white clouds, wet sand, hills –
I’ve seen, experienced better, but on that day, it was more than enough.
An American jukebox, moreish Cornish pasties, in Lynton
Me and my sister, My sister and me
posed for holiday snaps on the bridge over the East Lyn river
that meets Hoar Oak Water. Clean, clear, gurgling
a familiar sound that transported me to another time and place.
(The deafening silence undisturbed by modern life noises, creates calm)
At Charlie’s café in Lynmouth we drank délice coffee
Shopfront windows pulled us in, we browsed, we sighed,
‘Oh, this beautiful.’ ‘Wish I could afford that.’ ‘If I had the money.’
At times we said, ‘what the hell, we’ll only live once.’
So, obligatory pressies were bought for loved ones and
for each other, mementos our shared memories may outlive.
We lived in the moment, no endless selfies or social media.
(Not even squabbling ducks, gliding seamlessly on a pond, make a sound)
Me and my sister, My sister and me
we talked and laughed and learned things about each other.
We agreed we’re different but life has shaped us in similar ways.
Our facial expressions and mannerisms that seamlessly unite with
a simultaneous smirk, sly smile, giggle, flared nostrils; our love of books –
all similar.
But she’s a people’s person and was soon sharing her life,
her job, her precious twin baby grandsons, even about me.
I’m more guarded, though. But I don’t mind.
We promise we’ll return with our families in tow because we know, like us, they’ll feel the same about this place
(The perfect setting for contemplation, for writing; just ask Christie or Hardy)
However, it’ll not be the same, it can’t be, it won’t be
because;
We’ll always have our first trip to Devon
Me and my sister, My sister and me
When for a few days of our lives, fleeting hours, precious moments
We shared genuine laughter and love and enjoyed each other.
(At Kentisbury Grange, a little haven of tranquillity and near perfection)