The
Rose of Dawn
I am not a poet,

I am not a poet but I wake up early in the morning
Just to listen to the sound of the birds outside my window
While my thought turns to you,
with images of a naughty school girl
I drop down my ideas here and there
I hope of releasing my inspirational thoughts without giving up
My entire self-worth or lower my self-esteem
With each tweets the birdies makes,
It reminds me that anyone can be a poet,
Which each sipped of coffee that slowly touch my lips
I can actually feel the adrenaline surging through my body
Word, words, ideas, idea, this sense of rush
My entire self-worth, my self-esteem, perseverance”
Always reflects back to my naughty school girl experiences

Then I remember why I am not poet, because
my words are considered to be a deadly weapon
like the relentless heat of the desert.
Inducted to be worst summertime madness
Even for a poet.

Three thousand times
I felt the weight of the world
  Sinking me into the floor,
I Embrace Your Failures!
Draw Strength
Each and every single moment
I  often took sneak peaks at your underwear,
and
Laugh out loud sometimes
squirmed  
Against Your brutal body odors

  I stood firm with my legs on the floor
No more! No more!
I am just an old worn out chair.

Nothing is more beautiful than sipping tea or coffee
While admiring lovely roses as they sprung into view
this beautiful June Morn

Or Even
hanging out on the boardwalk looking out to sea
Thinking of grandmother crockpot beer and beef stew

However, how can it be more memorable?
As old tires buried half way into the front lawn
Suddenly, you find yourself thinking about Dawn
Your classmates ...Cassidy and Tate
who recently passed on

Then you notice stifling weeds babies between the lilies
You bounces back when reality jogs your memory

The stifling **** suffocate the lilies
It’s a life lesson to learn from nature flowers
Unhappy raucous behavior every passing hour
through life little things

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool
Than to speak out and remove all doubt.”

― Abraham Lincoln
……………………..
Conversation with older folks always
Makes us think about
How complex we are
When asked 80 to 90 percent of older people
How are they doing?
Most replies are the same
“Child I am just waiting.
Waiting!
For what
To meet my maker”
From the time we were born
Plans were made for us
About our life
What are you going to be?
When we grow up
And soon has one become an adult
Our thoughts about dying
Frighten us
You are born then you die
Life might be simple for some
However, it a race to
get over unfairness of life

I met my third grade teacher last year
The first thing she said to me
“Did you follow your dreams?
A moment in an instant world
I felt like she were in control
^
She is much older now
However, nothing has change
We born, then we die
No matter how hard we try
The ropes never seem to loosen

One must take charge of his or her own life
Someone once wrote that
Life, like marbles block is given to all,
However, everybody doesn’t know how to layered such blocks
Even if they read the manuals on life and survival skills
With careful observation, it seem that the local
women spirit cracks so easily on the small Island of Bim
as the men moves on to other women’s
Leaving many on suicidal watch

I visited my old friends, on the island as time permits
And nothing seem to change, they older folks
Weakness still shows:
they lives seem to be on a standstill,

The little island girl in me Grieves within for them
Over the years, I have grown into a stronger woman
I demand respect from my friends,
especially the men

Its more women and not enough men to fulfill
Their ****** appetites, so life on the island become a *** war,
Infidelity is higher than ever,
where the flying fish is plentiful
whereas, some of the women seem so pitiful.

Older men with younger women
The middle-aged women either have to join a church
Or unfortunately,
lined the walls of the dance hall,
or pubs
While looking for love in all the wrong places,

The nights slowly moves into the wean hours of the morning
while the Barskeepers promotes the beer three for ten dollars
Snip snaps sounds is heard throughout their establishments
It seems more like humiliation than enjoyment
In the meantime broken hearts merges all over the place

The only patronage that seem to be having a time of
their lives was the tourists from abroad, who show
signs of unsteady gaits; but were having a wonderful time
On the Island of Bim

The barbecues grills filterers golden spark,
the music
Entices the air
the salted breeze, balm our lips even
Merging with the taste of the Bank beers,
and it was all well
on the island for that short period.
However, with all my finding and frustration, nothing
Can beat cold, cold coconut water
or a refreshing Bank Beer

Give and Take
I do not speak of love:
because I struggle with its true meaning
I do not say good morning to strangers
What’s so good about it

I do not celebrate birth:
a child is born:
suddenly someone die
I do not exchange gift on holidays,
Or birthdays
because that cycle will continue
Like the never-ending story:

Life is a struggle within itself by having
To pretend to like strangers,
exchanging  gifts
It’s a profane of utter of words under one breath
the hellos, or good mornings

I do not speak of ****:
because the taboo is that only weak men get ****
Why?
Because there has been so little research into the **** of men

I do not speak kindly to any relationship with a married man
The Bible does not talk about dating
Only marriages, unhappiness,
And foreign lands

However, only spend time on those who love you
Unconditionally

When I go back to the Island
and my old friends said that they miss me
I miss me too,
the old me,
The one who had the futuristic ideas
the girl with
the ***** locks braids which is
so happy and natural like the
land
the same girl with the ashy feet,
the one who work the land with her bare hands

I was like a woman land army,
wild and carefree
the same girl who  use her teeth to peel
out the hard skin and bite into the inner part of
the sugarcane and chew it.

who planted Roses, Morning Glories
with a smile
The one who loaded sharp blades sugarcanes
on to the high trucks
in the relentless hot sun
or frigid rain
with aches and pain
and drank water from the pitchers
until the sun go down;

Somehow, that girl survive those hard days
Even when she dance until dawn to the
sweet sound of the reggae beat
and the oldies Goldie's tunes

The one who woke up early to catch the 5:20 am bus
to travel miles to work in
Wildleys for minimum wages.

So when I go back to the islands
And my old friends say they miss me
Old friends brings all of the memories
back into the present state of mind
for a woman who is growing old