Sit and be silent to be heard no more,
Perhaps you heard those words somewhere
Sometimes in one's life growing up,
Why people think it their duty to silence
another person not to speak openly and freely,

A spoken word or sound is meant to be heard
Like the loud ring tone of a cell phone  
And indication, someone is calling,
Somebody need to be heard:

My grandparents, and parent believe  
In silencing this poetess when I was a child
At a point where my voice stays inside,
Then step two where, everybody that knew me  
Kept asking why I was so shy:
Why was I afraid to speak to my elders?
Me being shy became social anxiety for some
As for my friends I spoke with confident, like a true trooper,
Grown folks intimidate the hell out of me,
Why? Because of commanding words
Sit and be silent to be heard no more.

As an adult, I have a hard time taking orders
From others, or being talk down too,
Maybe that's why I enjoy writing so much
Only I can hear my voice when I compose
Until I allowed my reading to take a peep
At my work, my Island tongue,
My American frustration on worldly views
I sat for too long, I frown for too long,
I bite down on my tongue for too long,
But I concocted a plan, on how to
Get back my silencers, and revenge them
With my spoken words of silence, without being seen

"Great is language, it is the mightiest of sciences
It is the fulness and color and form and diversity of the earth and of men and women and of all qualities and processes.
It is greater than wealth, it is greater than buildings, or ships or religious or painting or music. -----Walt Whitman.. "

Granville Wesley Clarke

May 14, 1921 ====July 19 2011

The late ******* or Perry

A golden heart stop beating at sunset July 19 2011



Today my memory is a large duck egg

Yes, that large duck egg, you got from the  

Chicken coop, so that I could have it for breakfast”

If you haven’t tried ducks, eggs
it's time to became a tester.


There will be no funeral today,

Only memories of the people we love

I remember the tall trees, in which you

Climbed in order to cut the branches that block the view

And the wind that cool our roof top  



I remember our morning strolled in big gully

In which we would go and pick green lemons

I with my small paint bucket, you with your big brown onion bag

with our findings you would fill it to the top,

My small paint bucket I  also filled it up to the top:

With my doo rag tied so tight around my head I sweat bullets

my brother old pants protected my skinny legs from the bugs

There we were strolling through the woods  



Almonds,  I ****** the juices, and hammer the nuts with a rock

As you cut down trees, to finish your pig pen,

There will no funeral today, or weeping

Just good old memories, about the dead

Rest in peace, with the angels,

Until we meet again,

Sweet memory, can fades like old Navy clothing

As it leaves a bad taste in one's mouth

Like a can of Grace corn beef, with stale onion,  

dash with cooking oil, yet tasty, at the moment:



So many years has passed, the thought of them still

Makes my skin crawl, oh how I detest the memories

When the pain refused to go away:



I was about to turn the key..

And they he appears walking towards the elevator  

Same as ever, heading to same familiar place

Vulnerability is weakness, voodoo has its temporary moments:



Sweet memory, fades like old Navy clothing.

And a scorn wife never forgives, a viper sting.

How can the dead rest in peace? Knowing what  

They have done. Forgiveness has a price tag

And its black. The living will go on living

The dead shall roam the earth for eternity  

When hell is full:

The Mask Tell Our Story

No one can see us when we wear the mask
The phantom of the opera,
Swiftly, we walked by with a frown.

The mask tell a story,
Of what evil men can do,
Of a rich man,  a poor man
who never travel to foreign lands\


He wore the mask, of soot
On his face, on his hands,
But, he never travel to foreign lands
Somehow, we all is blending in now..

Every poet has a beginning
Every river begins somewhere,

Like every story, or poem,

I ever wrote, behind the door of fearfulness

I had to let go the uneasiness of entrapment that

******* my wellbeing.

The world is so crazy right now,

Even with all what mother nature dash out

As humans' beings we, still hang on strong,  

Every poet or poetess has a beginning

Every river begins somewhere,

“ I just love when she belts out

“You know my Name!

That songstress can sing,

She was one of the poets whom  

Was able to get from behind the door of darkness

And sang her heart out to the world.

She has a relationship with her music

I have a feud with my poems,

I see the world in a different light every day

*“I know people can be judgmental and difficult. But if you shut yourself away from the world, you'll never see how beautiful it really is.”
― Imania Margrie, The Pacemaker *

Take some time away from your job

And stay behind close door

Do you notice how you feel?

Away from that environment  

For me its peace, the freedom

And control of oneself

Every poet has a beginning

Every river begins somewhere,

Do people still blanket their walls with pictures

Of family members, framed and hanging like draperies

When I walk in my living room,  

I see a lonely couch, a 55-inch television

And memories of people who once lived there:

Sometimes I smile, sometimes I pondered,  

Sometimes I just want to say,

Where are my children,  

Why am I alone, then I smiled and speak?

It's good to be alone, with my poems, my thoughts

And my broken table, the one which she broke

After sitting on top of it. While chatting on the phone



I wondered if the years would change like Tik Tok video clips

Like a new outfit, with a clap of the hands


To grow old is to lose everything?

Yes, or no? But the worse part ..

Is when you work your whole life

And nothing to show, that **** per say

Just old memories, and piled of bills

What have the years thought us,

Never take nothing for granted:

Never put all your eggs in one basket

Never, allowed the bank to control, your

Pennies and dimes, never lend money to your friends

Keep your personal business, bottled:

journal entry Poetry..
I am not ready to face this man
Who broke my heart into squares?
I am not ready to look him full in his lying eyes
And asked him why did he made my eyes overflow
I am not ready as yet to asked him if he remembers
  the birth of his child, the signal from the moon,
the last Friday night of fish and chips
Wailing and speaking in tongues,
being strip down to my waist as
you held my hand and encourage me to be strong!!!!!
That trauma was only for a very short period,
My broken hearts will never heal,
because of whom I invited into my soul
However, to reshape my heart again will take courage, but to
Forgive, sounds good
Forget, I’m not sure I could
They say time heals everything
But I’m still waiting… Quote
Just before he said “How are you Are you okay?
To slam the door in the viper face once again is a step to healing.