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
grow
poetry
blossom
Seen from afar,
white dressed trees
Up close, delicate white
blossom with yellowpink centres
Earthy vanilla scents
the air, Spring is sprung
slender
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
When you want to be so much like your mum but fight the urge
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.
Misty Sunrise
Seaweed
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
The Terzanelle – The Gaze
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.
Caribbean Queen
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.
La Jablesse
After Zak Ove
Come, follow me, young man, into the forest. Come. You like the sway of my hips, and my secret smile?
Then come, follow me, if you want to see more, to touch more. I’ll be all yours in the hidden forest away from the waging tongues.
Pay no mind to my necklace of antique nails or the weathered ropes I wear like a scarf or shawl. It’s just my unique style.
Come. Not yet. Don’t peak under my wide brimmed hat or under my long skirts. Patience, you naughty boy.
Come follow me and I’ll be all yours in time. Brass horns and trumpets I adorn because I love to make merry and dance.
African mask I wear because I know where my people come from. Smelling of jasmine and rose with a hint of decay. Come.
Pay no mind to the way I walk, one foot on the road and one beached tree trunk for a cow’s hoof in the grass. Come.
Come into the forest, deep into the forest where the trees are tall and thick and no one will hear you scream as you are lost and fall down a ravine.
Listen, I need you, handsome young soul, to keep my own beautiful. I feed off your fear and lostness and fall.
Listen I’m happy to own my own narrative again. They call me La Jablesse- she-devil.
Listen, I say, I’m a woman in control of who she be and who she chooses to take to forest, to bed, and to death.
Living Wild Studios 