Those clock face braids,
Twelve, three, six and nine
Oh! How lovely they shine,
I love and hate them at the same time

The smell of the coconut oil from my hair
made my eyes water,
But, my scalp stay healthy and oily
that's been  all that matters to me
plus the warmth of her gentle hands

My aching back this pounding headache
Make me think of grandma’s hands,
but to think of her hands,
I had to think about her golden brown ***** cakes,
or those hands that soothe my aches and pain,
When I was a medically fragile child,


She would put a soft cheesy two layer of
Cheesecloth, melted onions, two banana leaves
Between the cloths, she would gentle placed it
  on my congested chest, and spoke to us as if
Vick vapor tropical cream, was minty ice-cream
Grandma’s hands, always had that added plus
She named her thick brown belt
“Do as I say, not as you do”
Because Nana might have to disciplined  you,

I held on to Grandma’s hand so tight,
until I was about twelve ,
It was sad day for me when
she passed on to another world
Nana if you can hear me,
I am still holding, and holding tight
To those wonderful memories we once shared.
Elfriede A.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She had her own signature scent,
A lasting aroma, that lingers in every corner of her home
As the strong winds picked up the scent,
and move it quite a distance.

She carefully prepare the mixture from the earth
Cuss ,kuss grass, Jasmine, rose buds and roots,
Before she prepare the mixtures with that special touch

Like a fine wine from the winery,
“One more drop of Rosemary oil, she would say
This would make the scent last for eternity,

Old Granddad he would make silly jokes,
His word usages, madam chemist, a witch with a spoon,
But in the end, she would always made a special potion for him
We would carefully select the flaky mahogany woods shaving,
with combinations of fresh vanilla leaves with extracting oil with oils
Those homemade perfumes from flowers had lots of potential.

Granddad hand craft the wooded bottle stoppers with his chisel,
It was a joy to watch, the old Irish typhoon working and smoking his pipe
Old Alan baffler was Nana nickname for him

She would scold and speak harshly to us
for touching the those colorful luring bottles
“Don’t open those bottles, you malicious children
Else a witch would appear: She would often say,
For me, my nana was an old chemist,
with old decade’s wooden sticks.
Preparing the mixtures like a fine wine,

I am forever grateful for those memories
I should have follow in her footsteps,
Her secret potions, her gift,
Is worth millions of dollars today
Looking back on yesteryears , good parenting
and good memories

Grief Unmeasured

I measure every grief I meet—
knowingly, they’re all related to me.
Some smaller, some larger,
but all carry weight.

Yesterday, a friend’s text arrived:
“Her daughter was shot in the head.”
The words formed a puzzle I needed to unravel:
What, why, where?
I kept asking.

Death came too soon for this young woman.
My thoughts turned to my own children—
why must mothers bury their offspring?
Black-on-black violence, a painful reality.

I reached out to my friend,
but she refused my texts and calls.
Understandable—the shock is overwhelming.

Will pain ever grow old?
Will humanity cease its violence?
Or will weapons persist indefinitely?

Why does existence hurt so much these days?
Will we run out of comforting words?

This morning’s headlines were grim:
“A young mother abandons her newborn.”
Heartless? Perhaps not.
Fear for the child’s life drove her actions.

What future awaits that abandoned soul?
What trials lie ahead?

Emily Dickinson once wrote:
“The meaning of life is just to be alive.
It is so plain and so obvious and so simple.
And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic
as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves.”

In passing, we find solace—
a piercing comfort on our journey through Calvary.

A little not to Kiri Petro Sino*      

Some phantasms are like my lovers
Neither faithful nor trustworthy
My memories of them is slippery
Not kind, but phantasms
This left a bad taste in my mouth
Sad as it might seem:   I do not sympathize

Not all phantasms were my lovers
I think of them on bad days,
Some are losers, wearing the badge of shame
Not publicize, but hidden like a crouching tiger with it hidden sword:
They hid behind the skirt of their new loves:  griping,

They defeats and their regrets in life shows in their everyday life

Forgiveness is an act of self-love and respect.
- don Miguel Ruiz

My kind of forgiveness might be an emotion
Its turning that page of my life:
Without reading the Contents to the end smoothed me

Some of my phantasms are my everyday peers
  I think of them as lost poets without words
deep with their thoughts: individuals who are
afraid to express themselves to the fullest.

The things we grow tired of were the same things
we once love and adore, in our relationships
Their faces, their smell and their voices
What a turned off: what a misconstruction
these little things turn out to be....

He called my poem
Wise and tropical
The heat of the Caribbean:

The tongue of the goddess
Years of eating so much
Fishcakes lace with Guinea Pepper Seeds
Ginger beer and mauby bark drink
Top with lemonade and pomegranates
remains in my blood stream:

When I dream, I dream
and react like a chosen prophets
So, I spread my words like a modern Moses

Message in my poems, are
Like ashes, they can’t be bottle
They have to be scattered
Throughout the internet,
Around the globe: global feeds,
Depending on the poet’s pen
The archives is not the place for them to be stored

I once saw my mother sob
As she kneel in the sugar cane field
The tears was for her children future,
These days I sob because of a bad dream
Our American dream is no longer valid,
a beacon of hope without a definition
for our future:

Tupac saw the comings
In his dreams,
Suddenly, the silencer
Silence him,

Martin Luther king, had a dream
A silencer silent him
Apparently, John Lennon was getting closer to the truth
he too was silent

He called my poems
Wise and tropical,
I think of them as written transmission:

Band- aid  doesn't fix bullet holes
people **** each other.

People reached for the weapon
and pulled the trigger
people **** each other.  Why?

http://www.vox.com/2015/6/23/8833529/mental-illness-mass-shootings

sweet and sour plums the
fruits all covered  in black ants
  an intense fragrance

Haiku

white beard and red suit
a big round of **, ** **
Jolly Santa Claus

the  last   bus  has  left  
another four hours to wait
the passengers sigh

a peaceful morning
the poets harmonizing
poetry on demand

poetry archives-
watching from behind the screen
the critics torment

I am afraid, in this
Times of uncertainty
Leading up to November election,

Love without feeling,
Sunlight without the warmth
At time when our city is a cage,

filled with rage:

The talks of death, without hope
It can be brutal my friends,
The flowers blooms
where no man can see it beauty

Upon the graves of the daily departed
Old men and women sit alone (waiting and waiting)

What is it that we lack in these troublesome times?
Happier days, without the cage,
Without risking the rage,
Without, keeping our eyes
On the numbers of dead bodies,
In our inner cities or around the countries bend:

Our trembling lips under the masks,
I thirst not for the wine but
for my freedom to breathe freely
Without, limited restriction, without fines!
Our lips tremble under the colorful protective masks,
Can we really breathe?

A little while ago I had a lengthy conversation
With my dearest friend in Angers western France,
about 300 km southwest of Paris
We cherish our memories of the past:
With little hope and a dream,

We might meet again on the Island of Barbados..
Our memories of the past with keep us intact
Our future for right now seems uncertain.
We have to cry, we have to cry,
We must cry, we must…

I love a woman,
who's not afraid to speak her mind
who ain't afraid of the up-shots
In 1960 women burnt their bras
protesting and debated for equal rights

I have no time for women with weak links
they could loosen the chain
before they could really think
If you choose to be strong
stay strong, be confident:
Do not let your fears choose your destiny
Never let anyone senses your fear
or even drove you to the verge of tears..

I have no tolerance for a strange brew
idealism and self-interest
it defies me, and somehow
it make me uncivil,
but I am a woman of dignity
However, if you want to rolled with me
You have to be strong,
no wee, wee ,wee little crotch -less *****
Heartless.. for heaven sake I am not
I am just a ******* notch from the block

I wish there was a way for me to keep my initials out of your mind
I shall continue writing my stories into poetry, and you would be forever
Be haunted by her flashing eyes and beguiling smile until death.

What the devil has joined together, it will stumbled and fall
but every desire has an obstacle in it, and that obstacle was you.
So, do bear in mind that not every pretty face or smile
isn't real, genuine or sincere  

Night haunts and evil lurks in every corner. Like plague it’s...
For a black heart will only find beauty in darkness.

The worst of the initial pain is yet to come, my arch rival and enemy
you seem to have a lot of time to stand and stare at the dark glare;
mysterious abyss of love.

Wallace Stevens

Although you sit in a room that is dark
Except for the outdoor patio light
And texts frantically
on your phone
Or biting your lower lip
Letting yourself bleed
Or gazed at the door
with the rusty hinges locks of love

Or with one finger you fumbled
With the bobby pins in your hair
with the wavy side up

What is all this?
Benjamin Rabbit and the stranger danger

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gray-room

Heart of darkness
transcend some light
you confused the body and soul.

Heart of darkness
your youthful years
were gracious and gleaming
you loved with gregariousness.

Heart of darkness
blindsided by *******
it saturated the body and soul

Heart of darkness
forgive and forget
ratify a truce with love,
Let love in.

Heart of darkness
bruises heal in time
in love there is fear
however, perfect love
casts aside doubt.

Heart of darkness
sadness interferes with hope
we were saved in this hope
hope that is seen is not hope
leaving only trust.

Heart of darkess
the essence of hope
the secret to victorious living
lies in seeing good
in every situation that comes into our lives

Heart of darkness
Let love in....

In a world of filled of hate
Love is not the enough
We need a clean slate

We have given up on believing
The superior, then there is the inferior
The rich and then there is the poor
The celebrities and there is the followers
Then comes action, follow by reactions:
Politics and politicians:
Beam us up Scotty:  beam then down Lucifer

I read this morning that Kanye W
Is thanking the lord for his S68 million refund
Here I am thanking the lord this morning
Not to be gun down, by the drifters
Or to be sidetrack by co-workers,
Only if peace would come sooner,
And haters would vanish…..
Like the children of Hamlet town

*** within marriage is pleasurable,
even, if he had six wives,
so why was Henry VIII displeased?

Madness!!

It’s the little things we pondered the most
When hitting the ceiling
But we tried it in silence
Allowing the good times to simmer

Three months ago, I never had any thoughts

About, love, loving someone, or being in love,

They say a good love is one that sits you down, gives you a drink of water, and pats you on top of the head. But I say a good love is one that casts you into the wind, sets you ablaze, makes you burn through the skies and ignite the night like a phoenix; the kind that cuts you loose like a wildfire and you can't stop running simply because you keep on burning everything that you touch! I say that's a good love; one that burns and flies, and you run with it!”
― C. JoyBell C.

If I was to tell you that I saw a rose blooming in the heart of winter

No one would believe me, that love struggling to stay afloat.

Perhaps, the rose is here to remind us, of something, we’ve have forgotten

During the summer's months, (like did we stop and smell the roses)? Such cliché indeed)

I never thought of the rose, until two days ago, when I told my friend about

That single rose I uses to get ever 6th of the month:

That too had stopped when our love for each other was dying like the rose:

However, the memory is still here, did I appreciated the rose gestures on the months

Yes, I did, I felt love, I felt the warmth inside.

It seems like I am going to be alone once again for Christmas

But I will think of that single rose,

I will drink my eggnog, and baileys Irish Cream

But will not bake my goose, but I will relive

Past memories, my mistletoe kiss will have to wait,

And disguise my disappointment like a true trooper:

(Laughter brings many positive qualities into the world and into human relationships.) quote

I am now seeing, why a laugh, a smile, a body gesture

Can make a person feel so good inside,

When he smiles at me:  

And it's because, I open my heart, once again:

He said I always write sad poems
who I am with you,
is really who I am with my writing
I tell it like it is. I always say what I mean
It might be the poignant anxiety of my mind

I observed people, observing them make me
Wondered about their lethargic self-control over their own life
If it’s not about health, it’s about their love life  
Believe it or not, watching them helps me
Get through a rough morning:
When I compose their pitiful stories,

It gives me an adrenaline rush, so I unwind
With a paragraph or two, dropping my ideas here and there
While I pondered about their state of mind
I learn from their mistakes, I bottle them in an old Mason jar

And I move on to my next subject, and that would be
The images and faces of Political madness
in two thousand and seventeen

My followers, my friends!
The Liberal minded is dragging us down minute by minute
Yes, I love to write about sad things
That fetter me. The dead can’t write about them
The fearful are too afraid to speak up,
A good rehab center is so hard to find,  
No wonder they had to make marijuana legal
So I had to touch on certain subject before I die
Their isn’t love in the world today
The little that is left, someone wants to buy it

Self-respects and self-esteem, we must try to distinguish between the two my friends

Staying silent is like a slow growing cancer to the soul and a trait of a true coward.


,

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:

The earth requires it there.
The poets do not like the lyrics.
As the tsunami approaches the lands

The poem integrates without a solution.
As the summit talks upheld information

Global warming, tariff continues debating:
China not backing down, and we, the poets
Surprisingly asking what’s next?
A poem like this doesn’t comprehend
That earth requires it there,
Make it make sense, this Tariff war
About percentages, or principles of humanity
Make it make sense, make it a kind world
Make it turn water into red wine,
Make them say, “We are for the small people,
And not the profit holder’s fat wallets,
Make the world spin like a Bitcoin machine:
The more money there goes a burden of responsibilities there:
He who pay the Pied piper call the tunes:
,

It varies from woman to woman, however
this girl will always hate giving birth

Maybe she wouldn’t even get married nor have ****** *******
More than forty years ago those childish thoughts kept circling in my mind
It didn’t take long for her to realize that *** and babies had something in common
Nana so often said to us girls with her Island slang
“What sweeten a goat mouth, would burn his tail end”
So girls you're worth it, don’t do it
The after effects, the after effects so complex and powerful

Nana woke us up in the wee hours of the morning
either with her singing, or the rattling of the *** and pans
I knew at some point I would come to hate being a nurse
I probably wouldn’t be able to show Compassion
If you aren’t compassionate enough: being a Nurse isn’t for you
I hated those homebirth early morning deliveries
Not enough light, no running water in the homes,
And the list goes on in late sixties on the Island

When I finally woke up that morning
I noticed Nana’s black bag on the table:
  Her lily white apron on the back of the chair
How she got her uniform to stay so white was a miracle to me
Granddad was outside fixing something under the old Wolseley bumper
Using an old flittering kerosene paraffin lamp to get the job done

Our country farm house sat the bottom of the hill
So Grandad needed the old Wolseley car to be in good condition
To pulled Porte hill and there I was about to be Nana’s Nursing Assistant

Was I up for the yelling, screaming, crying? At my age, I wasn’t,
  However, being defiant wasn’t appealing, Nana played on our emotions
  another one of her favorite island slangs
“Some children are to be ****** to death if they are defiant to their parents said Nana”
I was also too sleepy to sulk so I sat and quietly listen to her rambling on and on:

So I turned all my thoughts and energy to Genesis 3:16
To the woman he said, "I will make your pains in childbearing very severe; with painful labor you will give birth to children. Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you."

And that was my last words to Nana: No man shall have control over my body

  and that was my last trip with Nana on her delivering baby route.

A treacherous heart set its mark

My beautiful lips you long to kiss
became the daffodils in springtime
As it slowly, unfolded by the sound of his Tenor voice.
I remember him, but I never remember his ****** touch

All poets are not romantic, but our poems can
creates a romantic setting, allowing us to see and feel
the words in each line.

A famous writer once wrote.
Have a heart that never hardens,
and a temper that never tires,
and a touch that never hurts.”—Charles Dickens

The mind, body and soul havoc the hearts
into believing that our love is worth fighting for
my caramel exposed **** reveal my darkest secret
my ****** quest was answered.

"while nibbling my ear he whisper my name
the sound of his voice, command my heart to accept love
or was it was the feedback from those dilated eyes?

the thoughts of his hand caressing my inner thigh
his hot balsam breath, working the curve of my neck
breathing life into the foreplay: my imagination of his
tranquilizing earthy cologne made me sigh with relief;
that set me drunk with desire, with the deep power of joy

We cannot quench the thirst without our vision, our heart, our life,
Or our passion, restoring our relationship wouldn’t be answered

Master bedroom

It would have been nice
If it could live up to its name
Knowingly, the master couldn’t
Even handle his business in any room
Why called it the master bedroom,
The master haven't mastered any role in any room
until his compassionate flower,  the ladywith a heart of an angel,
Made a deal for the people, , as history was told
Her love for the oppressed citizens of Coventry would never be forgotten:
A Yellow Lily not to be reckon with:
Lady Godiva the people's choice

When men say these words
Not tonight honey. I have a headache
A common phrase for women: men curse.
But what’s wrong when men emit it so often

Come, all you young men with your wicked, wicked ways,
Sow your wild oats in your younger days,
So that you may be happier when you grow old
For your days is shorter and your nights will be long

The mind of an old poet,
Can be poetic in translation,
His reputation about delivering his verbs, meter, sonnets and limerick
Runs smooth

However rhythm is the essence of poetry
In reality to entertain his loves in bed:  
Distill and not powerful enough his love making ****!
Hold down your head Tom Dooley.
No tranquility he wept in silent

I leant upon the cold iron prop
On the subway flat form: suddenly,
my thought turn to this movie from the 80s
About a little boy name Alfie
Whose tongue got caught on the frozen lamp pole
During a daring rush trend:
Winter months can be so brutal

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not;
and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Winter Depression, / a seasonal S.A.D
In the mist of all this: I saw a small bird
Rumbling through the garbage looking for food
His dotted feathers caught my attention
Perhaps not all birds fly south for the winter after all:
Homeless birds seek shelter with homeless humans
Without the small outdoor wood fires:

The beautiful landscape we once admired is blanket with snow
The roar of the winds and the surging of water;
It wasn’t a pretty sight to see with my watery eyes

We cried out to our God for a little relief
But most of all we keep praying for safety
I fell on my **** trying to step over a bank of snow
Luckily I didn’t land on my face
The humiliation and the botherations of dealing,
this kind of weather year after year:

we just have to bear in mind that
Winter begins on the winter solstice and ends on the spring equinox.
The roses will bloom again, the tulips with rise again in April
And we will determine which one is the morning dew
And which one is not the icicle dripping:

......................................................­...................................
Prayer for autumn and winter days
I’ve just rediscovered this beautiful prayer from belief.net. I know it’s now winter and the title is Prayer For Autumn Days, AND I’m not crazier than usual, it is still appropria…
sparklesandangels.wordpress.com

Mr. hourglass
Why didn’t you stand by me?
I realize now that I was hardly alone in my naivety
during my youthful days

I remember
my curvy shape
my long slender legs,
The stride of my step as I sway along
the sandy beach of clover bay

I felt
the misty spray bounce off the sea and bathe me
within in that frame of time
my mind was free
from all negativity

  I reflect back on the years of my youth
I am so smitten by the truth
Oh! How I long for those wonder years
Without the regrets, the tears
I dread all futuristic journeys
That led me so far away from you.
Mirror of my past
this girl before you
Have lost her way

Boast, not thyself of tomorrow
For thou knows not a day may bring forth.
I am looking for a second love
Because my first love he

Never fulfilled my wildest fantasies
Where no wood is, there the fire goes out.
So where there is no talebearer, the strife ceases

So can you blame me, for looking for my second love?
Ointment and perfume rejoice the heart
A warm hand can smooth a broken wing.
So where was my first love hands

I just got a called from my sister today.
She said, hello. “How are you doing?
I cleared my throat a bit and turned on my happy voice.
For a moment I imagined myself being in the executive seat
  turning my chair around slowly to greet my client.

I kept the conversation flowing, until my daughter’s dog came into the room. so I pretend he was my assistant coming to fix my coffee machine.
I had to let my mind take me to this place called calmness and most of the time this kind of diversion actually works for me

How I am, or who I think I am, my perfectly poised frame of mind at that given moment,
my wants , my island family needs, makes me want to write an unfriendly family poem

Without leaving any stone unturned.

Sore fingers and a keen intellect,
With the poet’s pen, all will be well.

How to love the summer rain
that cold tingly feeling, but to
feel your arms around me,
I do remember that

The warmth of your lips against mine
I didn’t expected that
The sound of your skype voice makes my heart race
I turned up the volume just to heard you say my name

Or was it to tune out the tip, tap, tip, tap of the rain
on the window pane
But to feel your arms around me
Oh! how it warm me like the morning sun
and tingles me like the cold summer rain.

So what the different between you and I?
I will always love you more than the
Summer rain:

Human Hyenas**

Since the dawn of humanity, the narrative surrounding creation has often placed Adam at the center, positioning him as the architect of the enchanting yet elusive Garden of Eden. However, this romanticized view glosses over a fundamental truth: many women became disillusioned with the carefree dispositions and laid-back attitudes that men often exhibited. Over time, this disconnect led to a collective realization among women; they became increasingly frustrated with behaviors that stifled desire and intimacy in their relationships.

Now, in hindsight, it seems that the damage has been done—too many grievances accumulating without sufficient efforts to mend them. Our world, vibrant and diverse, belongs to all of us, representing a tapestry woven from various perspectives and experiences. It transcends the simplistic archetypes of the average Tom, ****, and Harry. However, the mutual respect that once characterized interactions between men and women has eroded, giving way to a reality where the notion of a man's dominion—founded on outdated theatrical standards—is no longer viable.

Instead, we find ourselves navigating a tumultuous landscape, rife with chaos and confusion, where differing mental attitudes and perspectives collide. In this fractured society, phrases like "I was here first" echo with divisiveness,

Laugh, and the world laughs with you
Weep and you weep alone
.
He walked into a crowded room and fires his weapons
While humility is considered strength, humiliation is hurtful
ego stands down. Shame is private, humiliation is public:*
There was only one thing left for him to do, and you know what
For the earth will be a better place, without so many psychopaths

The government is on the warpath, the vets are mentally ill
Left wing, right wing, the mental effects of war continues
day after day , after day.
Their transition from battle to home becomes an internal struggle.
There are no winners, only the good die young

If We Speak of the Hurricane



We think of past storms, the aftermath

The deep wailing of the crowd

The interview of the bystanders

And here comes that sad looks

of the homeowner faces

And there it stood that uprooted fallen tree,

Inches away from their house

And that when we know,  

It was the rightful thing to do

Listening to the voice of God:



In the wind of the solemn sound

I remember the falling Palins,

The rusty galvanizes that blanket the streets

Where the birds of prey nested:

And once again, we listen to the voice of God

In the wind of the solemn sound

If we speak of the past storms,  

and chat about hurricanes disasters

I remember how the winds pressed on the

Apartment window, forcing it way in.

But I listen to the voice of God

As I heard an uprooted tree, clash down

On the rows of park car, before the alarms sound

Scattering debris, block the drains

Water filled the lonely streets,

And once again, we cry out to God

The volcanoes, now hurricane Elsa  

Why We??

I am a poet. From me, you will get only the best
It’s called persistent, not defeat
a roller of criticism moves me,

However, to watch my surfer friend Andy out on the wave
driven with the wind, those moments of the great madness
  makes wonderful poetic lines, I sense the rush, his madness,
and his sense of honor.

I shall therefore joyfully boast in my sufferings my friends
However, when you disrespect the poet, you disrespect the art.
you cut your roots at the source, and your thoughts will grow silent,
I am so blessed with the spirit; I am never stumped by fears

Yet, if you hold my poems against the mirror
the mirror would never read the contents backwards,
My messages to the world have no secret.

I am your poet, not your puppet on a string
My words are louder than clappers,
Like a heavily smoke-filled room,
My words might gag you,
because my words speak wisdom

This poet is not ashamed to write from her heart
My poems is like most nightmare transcending
our fears for the best.
I am breathing, I am writing.
  this is the new age of poetry

Humid August Morning

Packed in my mind lies, all betrayals of my past
It shows on my face like a ****** mask
Over the passing years nothing seems to change
Not even my wore out tattoos nicknames,
I seek answer; I search for peace,
  I am caged, I am seized
 With my innermost thoughts and convictions

What’s my purpose, which one of my petals is going to fall now?
Who’ going to step in and staged an intervention?
I am caged, I am seized, I am so loving ******.
Surrounded by happiness, laughter and some forgiveness
Once again, here I am taking another summer test.

  Open bars, aged faces, cold frosty Banks beers
An islander tradition nothing changes,
not even my tattoo nicknames, Bajan Yankee
Caribbean Queen and Meany heartbreaker,

However, when the laughter fades,
and the music stop in the most romantic setting
A black heart, a broken soul, makes old memories resurfaces;
I see so much, I heard so much and
I overthink so much about worldly things

How can I not go back to the land of the flying fish?
Or where the Bank beers are four for ten
Or where the rooster wakes us up at the crack of dawn,
where humble people just smiling
and saying hello makes a different.

The annoying mosquito buzzes under the protected nets
Till I reach for a can of repellant with anger and yelled who’s next!

I‘ve heard the annoying barks of the neighbor dogs
The unsettling morning news, but nothing as soothing
As watching a black bird singing in the apple trees.
Speaking to the heart of the humans souls:
Once again I am an Island Girl

*See how the nature trees, flowers, grass grow in silence
See the stars, the moon and the sun; we need to be able to touch souls