#caribbean
The workman told you to bury a curled dark lock
Of your dead baby’s hair in the earth,
A quiet offering to a quieter god
You spent several months weeping to the sky
Your small hands curled into your white frock
Work was left unattended in your colorful house
No food on the stove,
No boiling salt fish, or softened dumplings in murky white water
The pungent smell of cured fish filling the quieter home
The home, austere and shrinking into the long street
Your helper comes to do all this
Your children understand in their small ways
You covered the lock of dark hair with fresh dark soil
Palm fronds wave in the wind
Salty sea air kisses your wet skin
Tears make tracks on your cheeks like a map pointing to
Nothingness, like a page of a book with words of moroseness
Once you had my mother, birthed her into a world of noise
The sure and strong hands of the matriarchal mother,
Your mother, who’d delivered more babies than she’d had her numerous children
Then you cooked, you toiled, swept the veranda with your broom
Left the buried lock of hair in the locked cabinet of your mind
Now, when I make the saltfish, I do it with stilted preparation
My hands form lumpy misshapen cornmeal dumplings
I fry the little ***** of dough for too long, they come out dry
I pop one into my mouth and chew
There, the fragrant smell of your perfume,
Sweet lull of your voice, your birdlike hands.
Nov 10, 2023
Nov 10, 2023 at 8:27 PM UTC
We are just small fragments,
Stitched, glued and burned together,
Life is just a series of moments,
A mosaic of pain and pleasure.
Rest in peace,
While we rest in pieces.
You move into the light,
While the heaviness has us bound,
We can try to make light,
But our faces are pressed into the ground.
Rest in peace,
While we rest in pieces.
How do we move forward while taking a stand?
What is my life without you in it?
How can we let go and still hold hands?
Is the answer supposed to be a secret?
The dead rest in peace,
While we pick up the pieces.
We will create our mosaics with fire and tears,
We will make all the pieces fit.
Your death caught us unawares,
The grief is just hard to admit.
Jun 22, 2020
Jun 22, 2020 at 6:18 AM UTC
One thousand six hundred and sixty six
none: a salesman, a noble, or a cook
Macabre swam the sea of ****** Bay
In a fleet, the Dutch, French and Britsh he took
A crimson tide soaked the sand to a stain
Great reefs, he made, floating stench of maim
The more Macabre swam for lust of pain
More life, to the vast ocean floor, he claim
Now, three hundred and twenty three years on
Under a full moon in the depth of night
He, Macabre, still swims a ****** Bay
In search of an undaunted soul to fight.
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 1:33 PM UTC
The sands were still—home silent trees
The day was calm—our lives at ease
We rattled no more than passing breeze
As we sang the ocean's frequencies
Time had passed and we rode the waves
Ventured far out—lost track of days
We swam through nights and their gentle haze
And we came to rest at each other's gaze
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 1:51 AM UTC
Where's your pet Sparrow?
Did Edward Teach teach you?
Did you learn sailing from him?
Will you be a Blackbeard too?
Or would you rather not be?
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 3:39 AM UTC
Goats eat and **** the grass of ramparts,
stupefied cannons sit, garrisoned sentries
primed for nights of buccaneers,
seared by centuries of sun. Down shadowed
cobblestoned ramps, fortified shutters
covet rifle forend and barrel,
wresting rumored slave rebellions
from the locker of history,
while languid waves whisper indifferently
a roll call of human cargo,
chattel displaced, cast to the sea.
Here history sways to sounds
of brown skinned children
at play in breakers,
laughing, shrieking, thrashing,
buoyed by time to this vaulted brick
reverberating chamber,
here a window’s light is cast
beckoning vision past the beach,
to seek the horizon Icarus like,
to fly towards beauty in terror where
an azure sky conjoins a turquoise bay.
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 5:14 AM UTC
He wrote of the light of the world,
a testament, a lamp to illuminate
the place from which he came —
I saw his lighthouse coalesce
out of the cloaking mist, its blade
shearing the sheath of darkness.
I inhaled the dusk bloom scent
- Four O’Clock Flower, Poinsettia, Frangipani -
beguiled by a road, undeterred
by calls in the night, the rain, the unknown way.
I sang with one thousand night-drunk tree frogs
proclaiming an equatorial cycle to the stars,
choristers intoning a chant of existence.
I rode balanced between
the cycling engine's torque and the
reflective cast of my foreign skin.
I felt the grip of ignominy constrict the stir
of my drink, amongst hands toasting
the crush of entitlement’s bearing.
I walked where people dwell, and stop
to greet and tell news of the market
or of their nets, bearing the sea’s returns.
I savored the song in his speech,
a seasoned stew, unshackling the tongue
to ring like the steel of a drum —
a tapestry unfurled: a world
paced by sirens of wind and wave,
embroidered on the earthbound side
of heaven's abiding blanket.
Copyright © 2017 Gary Brocks
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
I met a boy –
in the middle of the ocean, with no prenotions.
Eyes soft as the waves –
rocking us down our way, smooth sailing my way.
I knew it wouldn’t turn into something bigger –
than a summer crush, a summer fling.
We were just living in the moment –
living young, wild, and free.
Out on the Caribbean –
where the sun shines brighter than I’ve ever seen –
I shared a kiss under the stars,
with a stranger, only at 17.
Didn't matter how many stories we told
bout the lives we lived back on the shore,
We were just basking in our short-lived loving –
lost on the ocean, my storybook romance –
I’ll forget your name, I'm sure you’ll forget mine,
but I won’t forget your face or our time.
No strings attached is a little too extreme…
It was just innocent lovin’ on the seven seas.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
Pearly white against a black backdrop.
Glossy cars on broken tar.
You're laughing away, children at play.
You wish your rent costed as little as your drink.
But you're still
smiling.
As the big man files out a grand,
You drop a bills underhand.
Your hype phone rings
Your mother is calling.
Saying that if you're done pretending
Look around at what you should be mending.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 7:55 PM UTC
Mermaids and pirates
Spending this night together,
A hot starry night
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 3:56 AM UTC
It was hot before
Then spring came flaring with heat
I need to go swim
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:51 PM UTC
I am from VapoRub,
From Goya
And morisoñando.
I am from the traffic
And loud horns,
From the Caribbean heat,
And the city lights,
From the buildings
And the towers.
I am from the palm trees
And the coconut trees,
Dancing bachata
And merengue
In the beach,
From yaniqueque
Y plátano,
From tostones
And fish.
I am from Sunday gatherings
And loud family members,
From Jose, Maria, and Primos,
And the hardworking
Payamps clan.
I am from the
Madera’s baseball team,
From Canó, Sosa, y Ortiz,
From the long summer rides
To ***** Cana
And Samana’s beach.
From “work hard
Cause life is not easy”
And “family before friends.”
From Christianity
And Saturday morning sermons,
From God is good
And He brings joy.
I am from Santo Domingo
And Monción,
From Santiago
And Spanish ancestors,
From mangú con salami,
From rice and beans.
From the grandpa
Who owns the village
Surrounded by
Chickens, cows, and bulls,
From the business owner
And the well known uncles
In my hometown.
I am from the only flag
With a bible.
From the red, blue
And white.
From the most beautiful
Island in the Caribbean,
From Quisqueya y
Libertad.
I am from the
Dominican Republic,
The country that holds
The people I love and
Miss the most.
I am from the
Little Paris box
I keep next to my bed,
Filled with precious
Gifts and letters
That make me feel
A little closer
To them.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
My amusement comes from the music.
Every riddim that flows freely.
The bass go boom boom boom.
Every tune blooms open like flowers in the summer.
The sound of the drummer; and the tempo from the bass
The mellow vibe vibrations soothes all frustration.
Relaxation.
Its live and jive.
And it makes my hips sway.
I'm talking about di gud ol reggae.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC
"Call me Ishmael..."
Holy sea, holy sea!
Reading Herman Melville's
"Moby **** at Caribbean Sea
I'm reliving his ocean reveries—
Those mystical vibrations
This magnetic virtue of the ship
Last night's circumambulation
Today's balmy afternoon
A meditation or dream
Leading us to nowhere
But the phantom life of the sea
We become free to drown
In our own mesmerizing images
Like Narcissus did
Or like that fellow Ishmael
Abandon all the respectable
Toils, trials, and tribulations
Jump on a sail
To catch white whales
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
Though I splish
Though I splash
*** I drink so fear my wrath
Behold my mate
Behold my captain
Cutlasses ring and we are laughing
Pity me not
Pity the foe
Sink him to the godless unknown
Plunder the hold
Plunder her chest
Strife we be so do not rest
Sink the English
Sink the Spanish
We rule here so we **** them
Free we are
Free we be
A lavish life is the one for me
If I am hanged
If I am dead
Fear not mate I swam to land
Cut your foes
Cut their friends
We rule this kingdom
In the Queen Anne's Revenge!
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
Pink and said to be mean
Your tentacles tend to scare me
You're often alone, are you lonely?
Drymonema larsoni... don't worry
We can be friends, just don't sting me..
Native to the Mediterranean, Caribbean, and The Gulf of Mexico..
Searching for Moon Jellies and feasting once they're found
They wrap their tentacles around- them and drag them in
What a cruel fate? you may think that but we do the same thing.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 6:56 AM UTC
We fought to keep our balance
as the island burned around us
Tears mixing with the waves
like unbottled messages
sent to speak our sorrow to other shores
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
An ebony goddess
of beauty never seen
she is African
Caribbean
a Nubian Queen.
She the essence of
her father
she the essence of
her mother
in heart she is
our sister
in heart we are
her brother
in heart we are
one in her
as a fire
like no other
with her
the world does
turn
with her
our bellies
burn
as we long to be
near her
we love her
not fear her
she sings out
we can hear her
as she moves
we can mirror
all the light
she projects
what she adores
she protects
what is foreign
she respects
what is hostile
she rejects.
She is precious
she is priceless
with her presence
we are warmly
acquainted
with her blessings
we are joyfully
painted.
~Miguel
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
I was gonna write about how I was writing standing up like Hemingway at some bar in Key West, but instead I ended up nearly lying down, like some Roman eating grapes, and I’m not scrawling with a pen. I’m typing.
Why the standing up, Ernest? Was it to gauge how difficult it was to keep good posture? Was it to better measure how drunk you were getting?
He would have boxed me for those asking those questions, or maybe he’d just slam a few shots.
All of us Northeasterners enjoy getting drunk somewhere tropical. I never have a choice in the matter. Whether it’s Florida, South Carolina, or the South Caribbean (I've never left the Western Hemisphere), all I really like down there is beaches and seawater. Everything else gives deep cringes. Those other tourists, so annoying just to look at. Flip flops, whole families, and the god awful shops they keep open. You go to a place good for a beach, green hills, seawater, and fruit, and you want to buy diamonds? C’mon. I wish you’d want these islands to be like national parks; nature over here and cities over there. But the tourists enjoy fake grass huts that try really hard to sell them junk.
So who’s to blame for the sellers perpetuating petty sales and mediocre values? Is it the islanders that make a profit, or the buyers that want the wares? Or is there a third party guaranteeing that the buyers and sellers alike are propagandized to expect the less than fine things in life? Are the salespeople actually working the shops, the ones really getting rich from the sale?
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC