self-care

When you want to be so much like your mum but fight the urge

| Sheree

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.

Seaweed

| Sheree
Cresswell Beach

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

| Sheree

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

| Sheree
Caribbean Queen, 2020, Blue Curry

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.