I used to wake up with a particular feeling
On Sunday mornings, when I was just a lassie
Nothing could have been more appeasing to the nose
Then a leg of roast pork baking in the oven
Or even a bake chicken or lamb stew
On the top burner, while my mother would sang out of tune
in the kitchen, as she prepared the breakfast, and Sunday dinner
While putting together a Sunday feasts

As for my father, nothing seems of important
Than fixing the old engine or washing down his old Woosley car,
As for me, it was removing those tight braids, or laundry with my wash pan
and scrub board, my mother would be busy in the kitchen,
But somehow, she can tell when we weren’t doing the laundry correct
Even down to our pair of white socks,
And to think latterly of its ****!  back then.
I meant to big up some old dudes from my village
The ones who had left a lasting impression on me throughout
the years, those characters, those lively old men
My father, the sharecropper, ******* or gun smoke)

Dan Dan aka (Daniel Mrs. Sealy husband) I referred to him as
Norbert the man who encourage his wife to gain weigh MS Evelyn  
His way of thinking, he loves women who had meat on the bones?
Old man Sealy the village butcher,  the slaider
nobody could have slain a pig like he uses too,
Odaly Roach, the biggest eyes in a man eyes  
But he would always, give me a penny or two to buy my candies
I remember, his friendly words, of future endeavors (R.I.P) my mentor
Pap_pee, my friend father, he would give me one of his ripe avocados the most tastiest fruit of them all
With a smile, I would thank him, (may he also rest in peace)
It's time to put the aside the old resentments; lies,
Some of them were good old grumpy old men
And some of them were bad *** characters,
While looking back, most of them were BLP Political men
However, no one could have never left a lasting  
Impression that Buddy Sealy the man with the black felt hat
The old man with a bicycle who enjoy his life to the end.

Everyone is counting the casualties
Most of us saw the video of the decease
Most of us never knew her real name
Her story, was yet to be told,
Of a night worker, who stand alone in the dark
And defecated between the adjacent cars,
While an onlooker makes a video for shaming purposes
Words of comments, were

“How one live, so shall how ones die.
Man’s days are determined; by the almighty
Yesterday her name was the ***** from the club

Tomorrow her name will the late decease from Jamaica  
I will plant a tree in her name for peace,
And will it blossom beautifully without the shame
I shall be name, foam Flo wreck, the one who couldn’t be tame  
We only heard of people, after they are gone,
Peace be with you, peace be still
Peace came after, where was the peace when you need it most

**there is a very tiny cracks  in which another world begins and ends  Slavko Mihalic  quote

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,