#tropics
My body is a tropical island
Full of wonders, views are grand
A spectacle of various rare terrains,
overwhelming for the unadventurous
and exhausting for the meager brains.
My body boasts of all the different
exotic textures and new colors,
something your waiting eyes
must be ready to marvel at.
My body takes pride in its
mountain-like curves;
not exactly the perfect shapes
but awe-inspiring, like a painting.
Something your anticipating hands
has to feel thrilled to touch.
However, my body is also known
for its extraordinary yet abrupt movements;
scary for most and sensual for some.
Like earthquakes and typhoons,
you'll never know when the rhythms come.
Something your foreign familiarity
would either be thrilled or petrified about.
So I welcome you to this island of mine,
leave your worries back to the shores,
clear your soul and free your mind.
Leave you exhilarated and in monsoon,
my rainforest flora forever in bloom.
Aug 29, 2022
Aug 29, 2022 at 1:24 PM UTC
I catch myself pondering,
Time and time again,
To what draws me here,
When others refrain,
'There's nothing there', they say,
'No money, No future'
Yet for me to live anywhere else,
Would seem like torture,
Waking to the sounds of the hens,
Each morning without fail,
Watching the boats in the harbour,
Before they set sail,
The silhouette of a coconut tree,
Against a magenta sunset,
Living on these enchanted islands,
Is something I could never regret,
For if I am dreaming,
Wake me, I request you do not,
For each moment spent here,
Is truly a gift, never forgot.
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
sweet tree
raised from
tropical
earth
to grow upright
and out
to sprout
from trunk
a bunch of
pink and
pointed pods
or perhaps
crimson or
yellow
aubergine
tangerine
green
scythed clean
from host
and hacked
in two
for getting at
seeds a-pulp
in white
and slimed
and spreading
them out under
the sun
to get hot
in their own
juices
to ferment
wild
to bake
dry
poured tinkling
by the
thousands into
sacks of hessian
for sending
‘cross seas
to furnace-cracked
futures
winnied and
conched
sweetened
melted
and hardened
into shapes
of other things
© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 8:27 AM UTC
When ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memories lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Beneath equatorial skies,
And the tactic used to keep me indoors
While the missionaries rested their eyes.
My mother was sick with malaria
The curse of the tropic zone,
And while my dad was away on the hunt
Their station became our home.
And after lunch when the sky was hot
And the morning’s work was done
They took my shoes away from me
To keep me out of the sun.
The veranda air was still as a grave,
Not a sound to could be heard outside
Save the click-click-click from the beetles
And the grasshoppers jumping to hide.
Or the scratching scaly slither,
Of a snake on the flowerbed verge,
Or the distant cry of the crested crane,
These are the sounds that merge.
The sight of the distant Koru hills
Shimmering in the haze
Beyond the frangipani trees
Return once more to my gaze,
And the prickly spiky Crown of Thorns
That lined the garden ways,
These are the sights that ribbon back
From my early Kenyan days.
The smell of the room was a mixture
Of scents on the garden air,
And creosote coming up through the floor
From the pilings under there,
And paraffin from the pressure lamps
Which hissed as they gave us light.
With the hint of oil of pyrethrum
Sprayed round the eves at night.
The step to my door should I venture
At noon was as hot as a stove,
The soil on the paths and driveway
Would burn if ever I strove.
And the thorns in the earth would pr ick me
As I cautiously picked my way through
To the shade of the frangipani tree,
From there I took in the view.
So, when ever I touch the ground that’s hot
With the sole of my foot that’s bare,
I never fail to recall a time,
And the memory lingering there,
Of a day when I was just a boy,
Where the images I find,
Set smells and sights and sounds of
Africa sizzling in my mind.
Redding, California July 4th 2005 temperature 105° Fahrenheit
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
My dam broke with you for good
A river repressed for years
Now I have a massive flood
Sweeping away all the fears
My chest exploded with words
All emotions storming down
Watering all the burned lands
Inside the ditches and ponds
Heavens for guppies and barbs
My birds are finally home
Butterflies are living here
The red soil is dark brown now
Uakari, and brocket deers...
Aguaje and row cacao...
No more dust, but lots of rain
Washing away all the pain...
This tropical life is nice
Please, don’t build another dam
And cut off the water from
This marvellous paradise...
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC
Forests of coral adorn the rocky ocean floor,
Sheltered here in this sky-blue lagoon.
See the golden sand, shining through the still waters,
Fringed by plumes of palm.
The warming sun is smiling,
Flanked by fluffy white clouds.
Gulls are calling
Over the whispering sea.
A tropical paradise
Punctuated only
By impromptu showers.
Those colourful corals
Swarmed with teeming fish
Of every hue.
This is the place
To be.
Paul Butters
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 5:49 AM UTC
the silent tress hold memories
of winters sweet melodies
search high and low
and in every fox hole
where oh where.. can she be?..
oh feet that quickly flee
who then holds your stories
or keeps you... in times keep
but the trees and stones
that stay beside roads
you gave a glance to safely keep
but in every time
of past and new
they pass by you
without speaking speak
beginning , end ...old and new
oh what stories you doth keep
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 10:48 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
she laid her eyes on me like twin regrets
her face was full of the dark hours
full of graveyards of her truths once held so high
now she stumbles in the hasty shadows of
storms riding the coastal highway
in the company of men who had
seen brighter days of their own
they break off a piece of stale bread and pass on the difference
all with an eye to the gathering rain
all with an eye to the long road
i stood near to her
and we spoke a few words before fate could drag her off
her words were plain
but behind you could see the rich tapestry
of what could have been
a life wrenched from its true line
to follow the coastal highway
to follow the setting sun
they break stale bread and pass the difference on
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC