The ugly poetess
Over the housetops,
Above the dry blades of the sugar cane husks
I have known fear, I have known hunger
I felt the pain of a nail wound deep in my foot
I belted out the blues like Nina Simone
An era of reform: the moments of truth,

On top of the hill, lies a village in Barbados
Acid rain, rooftop leaks on to my bed
It was a rough year:
only food sources were rice and breadfruits
We lived through it all:

It was my destiny:
To love and to hate them:
those old fruit loops

Through the eyes of a uprising poet
The curving of his pen,
Somehow, he made amends, he purge
the smoky air,
the disgusting sight of the pig pens
out of his mind

lack of personal dental hygiene,
the elders lost their teeth
Grinding down on sugarcane, while they
awaits the big meal of the day
Supper!

With innocent eyes and achy feet
I read so many books for inner peace

My stomach was empty,
but my mind was at ease
To dream big while aiming high

Marlene, Delores, and Linda
Known as the vanishing three
Migrated to North America
Where a Barefooted child
like me wasn’t supposed to be
Eventually, I know I would have followed

I have woven my feathers,
while looking upwards,
In my little corner under the old rusty galvanizes
.
At the old country shop the vanishing three mothers
told me that I wasn’t pretty enough to leave the island
Words of hatred, mere words of discomfort
I felt my wings tighten against my rib cage,
My tongue, glued against my jaws

From that day forward the poet smile against stupidity
And spitefulness, she too had come to
Eat her words, the old shopkeeper

The poetess enter another line from that era
Uncaring beauty without brains
Where are they now?

I walked with confident down that street
The misty air moist my skin
The poetess return to the Island of Barbados
Without the sugar in her blood..
.

For love

You forget your true identity,
you walked around half daze
video chatting for hours on  IMO
Without the awareness of monthly data usages

You filled up your lungs up with air
a constant feuded, about the profoundly tender
Letting, go of the cheese for the shadows
While, losing yourself in a foggy dream

I am holding on tight to my Linguistic style
and not for, that kind of love

I am like the best opening lines in my poems
Waiting to be read, by others and not for love

The best part of the day was two-thirty for me
The best part of the evening, is when I am on the train
With my thoughts, my aching feet
and you on my mind: the warm feeling

The high risk: the madness, this military world
then I thought of a Jamaican comedy
Shabada, Trever and basement Granny
The vibes, his voice, their natural dialect,
of freedom raw on stage, big up to them
Like the olden days with the pen and paper
Pen pals and old typewriters: we communicate freely
Without the social media tools:
Throughout each line we read, we smile,
We touch the smudge ink on the pages,
its represent the love of someone who cared

However, here today is the trump administration news
The regales stories of families who are being torn apart
The thousands of elephants that are being poached for its ivory tusks
To the messages it sends about an uncaring leadership team
For all my pain, my good deals of the day,
Merci, merci, mercy me!
My plantar fasciitis: when would it all end?


**P.S Don’t be afraid of the darkness that surrounds you
Be afraid of the darkness within you…

The sound that broke the silence
around us..
and there we were making love
while I compose a poem of passion
using your strokes as my guide
capturing the moment of my creativity

I am consumed with guilt:
By not having an ******
Therefore as you know my poem is undone ...
I need that 70 ways to please my lover

Inevitable
Situations that is unavoidable.
A little nod to Charles Bernstein


A college without students
Facebook without members
*** without a partner
A man without woman
A keyboard without the keys
A bath without soap
Donald Trump without passion
A twitter account without his followers
A night without rest
A day without snapchat
A bank without money
A soap opera without a plot
A Rally against poverty
A poem without rhyme
A nurse without the doctor
A train without the tracks
A death without weeping
A horse without its carriage
A car without its wheel
A wingman without his buddy
A lotto ticket without a dream
A day without a crime
A lady without her *****
A politician without ambition
A bar without alcohol
A patient without insurance
A day without rain
A memory without recollection
Childbirth without fear
A judge without the jury
A school without teachers
A nightmare without vision
A bed without headboard
Sesame Street without bid bird
Football without violence
A seamstress without training
A story without a dialogue
A baby without its mother
An election without voters
A couple without children
Inevitable
~~~~

He is an unpopular character this old man
Who sits and draw cartoon character
in memories of the dearly departed.

He said that he felt like crying,
but he wasn’t going to cry
Because if he did,
he might not like the taste of his tears
Those loose cells in the tears
is mostly of his mother and father.

He resented  them for not aborting him
He wishes that he was never was born.
Due to the facts that all his life he was scorned

He was in and out of intuition
Always in a state of confusion
Month too months he never saw the sun
He never felt the rain upon his face,
Only long session with the nurses and the
Physiatrist who thought of him as a disgrace

He recalled taking the train for the first time at age fifteen
And that didn’t turn out as expected,
He wets his pant, so he sat in his seat and slaps his head furiously
He was spanked by the nuns, ridiculed by Sister Margaret the head hunter,
Got a huge ****** thermometer roughly up his **** by a ******* dude
Suffered daily due to his severe autism behaviors

He is an unpopular character this old man
Who sits and draw cartoon character
of all his childhood abusers:

I had been on my way to work as usual
I am the seven to three shift
A shift where you see the modern slaves masters
The visionary of the Donald J Trump’s disasters

I saw a title of a poem today,
"The Bullet Was a Girl".
Now my title might be
"The Bullets Are The Russian
that led to  Obamacare assassin
That led to the suspects Russian interferences of
Human rights abuses:
The Russian might build the wall
Now that would be a vision no one saw coming,