The older I get the more
the details move me.
Fresh golden sheafs
in the tall grass.
Greylag geese lifting
into flight. Tiny bits
of white shells in moist
sand. The brown and
cream stripes of horsetail.
The small orange berries
of sea buck thorn.
As I note these details
my body quivers with
recognition and joy.
she opens the kitchen door
after the rain,
the garden is fresh
the air is sweet and clean.
she smells the soil,
the berries are bright.
As the dead leaves are blown away
to leave a clear white sky.
she adjusts her energy
and wants to grow
Seen from afar,
white dressed trees
Up close, delicate white
blossom with yellowpink centres
Earthy vanilla scents
the air, Spring is sprung
Receding into the distance,
a silvery slenderness,
turning purple, then black in the dimming light.
I walk to this lady of the woods
who stands alone upon this moor.
She still claims the light,
as light is everything to her.
Her crimson catkins separate
like wings, to flutter
into the breeze,
a swarm of speckled flies.
Undressing her tissue skin
again and again, she endures
revealing her white graceful
beauty
as the day comes to a close,
and the house settles in for the night,
the clock ticks-clicks into the thickening
silence, a breathing silence, you claim as your own.
You’re reminded of late night conversations
with your mum about everything and nothing.
How sitting across from her, you longed to be as kind and giving as she but not as lonely.
You’ve witnessed how she never had a chance once everything
shifted and drifted off course after
her one and only love died. You witnessed their love
desiring that kind of love for yourself and grabbing at any given at times in desperation.
Now you realise, their love was conjured up in a child’s mind to be all
and festered in a woman’s heart to be nothing.
between their toes seaweed mushes
it comes out of nowhere
squeals and screams
wet, cold skin meets cold, wet skin,
pods pop, bones crack, the sea rolls in
Too often we refuse to gaze
on something unpleasant to see.
Rubs against us all the wrong ways.
I don’t like to see an oak tree,
feel my neck snap. And my heart breaks
when there ‘s something unpleasant to see.
My words, a soundtrack for those taken;
blackmen whipped, flesh-eating scars, pain,
felt my neck snap and my heart broken.
Dead eyes and flashbulb smiles at the slain.
Who wants to look at these photographs?
Black guys, whipped, flesh-eating scars, pain.
Who has to deal with the aftermath
of bodies reshaped by tragedy?
Who wants to look at these photographs?
Callous grins surround,
too often we refuse to look.
Their bodies reshaped by tragedy
rubs us up the wrong way.
After Blue Curry and Billy Ocean
systematically punching holes in dried palm-tree frond flesh, traditional craft works, it may be
but what about leaving me to my natural beauty?
weaving in dark cassette tape chorusing Caribbean Queen, a fusion of soul, reggae, R & B and Pop, is this a sign of respect or ridicule?
imitation gold earrings, massive hoops that weigh me down at the same time as being ingrained in my identity.
do you mock the tourists who flock to buy these artefacts or do you mock my style handcrafted out of colonial oppression to mark the self as subject of self, rather than object, chattal?
This poem is part of a series of poems created during the month of April, 2022, as part of the poem a day challenge. You can read the rest of the poems created during this time here.
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