"antonia" poems
Beat the Congo
Blow the horn
Wave your hand
Out of many one people
What a vibration
In a this little island
Even though we can’t live as one
But when a party time
We unite
Nuh matter the culture (it doesn’t)
We a full joy we self
You have Rasta talking
Christians praying
Bay song playing (in the context Bay means a lot)
Smiles on everybody faces
Out many one people
So come the Chinese, British, Syrians, Americans, Indians
Every Caribbean and rest of the world
Come to Jamaica
And feel alright
Listen some Bob
Don’t carry no jewelry
Because you will get rob
But come and eat
Have a feast
Enjoy we beach
Entertainment
Energy a shot
Drink a cold beer
Relax under the coconut tree
Feel free
We have **** chicken
Curry goat
Festival, rice, Bammy
Fry and steam fish
Come enjoy we cultural dish
Food galore
Go back a your country
Tell every boy and girl
Say Jamaica nice
We know say crime and violence
Corruption
A plague
But don’t let that stop you
Cause everybody welcome
Nuh matter taste (It doesn’t)
Come in a haste
Cause we have a celebration
Jam dung vibration
Me a tell the politician
Say me a send out a special invitation
But first we yard need renovation
Build up Jamaica
And education
Cause we live in a paradise
Black, green and gold
We proud and bold
As we motto say
Out of many one people.
CHRISTENA ANTONIA VALAIRE WILLIAMS ©2012
JAMAICA
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
Born Robert Nesta Marley on February 6, 1945
In nine mile, St.Ann
Emancipate yourself from mental slavery none
But ourselves can free our mind
I grew up on that prophetic message and philosophy
And it never left my soul or mind
You have left a legacy
World renowned
This dreadlocks man left his mark
Permanently
I believe you were before your time
I was not yet born
When you departured
But your music was my friend
I was built on your roots
Something music lacks today
Your words emanate so powerfully
That builds faith and tear down injustice
It inspire greatness
I remember the man who chants words of ball of fire
Hitting beyond anyone’s imagination
Or comprehension of his God given talent
He has touched hearts from Jamaica to America
Europe to India to Africa all over
His music is worldwide
It’s like a life’s guide
Whether ball head or Rasta man
Bob Marley music lives on
I have yet to see someone like him
His legacy continues with his sons and daughters
With every Jamaican
His message was deep, spiritual and philosophical
To the soul and mind.
R.I.P
The Great Reggae Legend.
All Rights Reserved.
Christena Antonia Valaire Williams
Jamaica W.I
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
Antonia is such a good swimmer,
She often swims in the sea,
Where she met a friendly dolphin,
Who she invited back for tea.
There were plates of jam sandwiches,
Ice-cream, with jelly in a fancy dish,
Vanilla slices and chocolate cake,
Oh, and of course, lots of fish.
Then the dolphin shared a story,
Of a far off-distant land,
Even though his voice was very squeaky,
Antonia could easily understand.
The story told of mermaids,
Magic songs upon their lips,
Their singing enticing sailors,
From the rigging and decks of ships.
Though, the sailors were not harmed,
Only enchanted in a drowsy sleep,
Dreaming in the mermaid kingdom,
Beneath the ocean cool and deep.
The mermaids made a prophecy,
Of the sailors promised release,
When mankind stopped all wars,
And had learned to live in peace.
Antonia thought, ‘how very wise’,
Watching waves upon the sea,
From the beach, she waved goodbye,
To the dolphin who came for tea.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 5:36 AM UTC
Phenomenal woman indeed
Your poems discovered me
While I was just a teenager
Not sure of my place
But there you were inked in many books
Speaking fearless deep within
A master of the ink
Engraving emotions
Tears, pain, joy and strength of a Black Woman
Resonated a power so deep and devine
Your creative, Angelic style
Inspired me to write poetry
That can break down pain
And wipe baby’s tears
And elderly wrinkled cheeks
Your poems hug me like a mothers arm
Your poem is like armor facing a war
Standing up for my beliefs
And expressing it freely
Your style and the woman you are is emulated
I say Thank you Maya Angelou
For you is an inspiration
And for that
Here's my poem as a dedication.
All Rights Reserved.
Christena Antonia valaire Williams
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
Antonia, it’s time to rise today
Your breakfast is ready, your tutor waits
“Time is running", mama says
There’s much to learn as a princess
Antonia, follow whatever we please
Stand tall and straight, hide your scarred knees
You’re no longer a little girl
You’re bound to be a queen of the world
Antonia, quickly, put on your shoes
Lace your corset so it’s anything but loose
If you’re short of breath, you’ll have to wait
A true royal must never be late
Antonia, there’s no more time to play
With your chin up, follow what we say
You must learn to be a trophy of France
To walk with grace, to speak, to dance
Antonia, stop laughing like a witch
Don’t be a disgrace, you’re not a *****
You’ll change your name and all in between
Marie Antoinette is who you are as queen
Marie Antoinette, with beauty from the gods,
You’ll marry a man you’ve never loved
You’re off to France, now say goodbye,
You are to leave everything behind
Marie Antoinette, you lover of life,
With your luxury and power, your kingdom’s in strife
As you live your own Versailles delusion
Your kingdom is brewing a violent revolution
Marie Antoinette, do you remember the sweet days of sixteen?
Here it all ends, with a cruel guillotine.
Antonia, free spirit, never meant to be
A girl chained by royalty, a reigning queen.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 10:16 AM UTC
Do you believe the powers come from heaven in rain?
Denounce the brittle, little lies that keep you detained.
With one fell swoop your family denies that womb water
from their line ever held you. Our child, disgraceful.
Hold me now, wicked wind, in twilight to find truth,
for no amount of trying will mend the boards began
pried to the point of breaking right loose. Glue won't
fix this rift. Don't worry, I find it nice that some do
get to choose. Ungrateful mug, she rejected our
love by walking with her brow upright. Beaten none,
for the patchwork of lashes mashed in back above
the *** of property, branded and pushed in.
The sky will call a caw for you on one more day
you kept yourself from death, promising to do
your due, never invite the listless, self-inflicted
sorrow, others lip to ear in shadow gaslight to
imbue. One more day others in shadow decline
interview.
I. Will sing a prayer.
(She denies the gods given)
I. Own nothing to give.
(Free and kindly)
I. Will sing.
As much and where I would like to sing.
(She's another one with a will)
Not crying at the back of the world, not holding just to hold.
(She's another one who hunts happiness as if to others she's disappeared)
Not stopping to cry back at the ceiling holding me
to the floor in a box as its missing pieces
(When she's only a another piece)
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
Here comes the sun in all its glory
tracing the hemisphere in its slow
rise over rubble, but first the tallest
steel and concrete dedications to
the lives living high while their
green shadow casts below over
the desecrated. I see bright night light
shining blue. I see wide, wild light
only high noon. Morning, all day
veins are caving under the rubble
under the tallest.
Here comes the nasty truth, suited
in belts clasped with wealth for
well being, beating the lies with
a dollar sign, until the ugliness
of the first story presses like
meat into the underneath, under
the detritus concealing lives in
the dirt with the needles.
I see bright night light shining blue
in the park restrooms. I see wide, wild
light only high noon from the under-bridge,
waiting for trains to come crush.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
I'd like to eat, but I'm sleepless
waking while seeing the sun rest
greeting again before I shut my eyes
to the day that I endlessly live.
I'd like to dream, but I'm dreamless
to demands of fear from my brain
where it sits in the head controlling
impulse then flooding just when it wants.
I'll **** your **** for a five or a ten
and here when you thought you'd
never find a silent friend.
I'm on the cheap should you need me,
for a tap on the fingertips.
I'd like to be where you all say no
to the presence of reverie
in the face of the guarantee
I'm preemptively broke
for the moment of falling down
where I wave and I bring you in
to home and a ******* meal
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
Bartender
Pour me some more
Let me stumble through the back door
Let the police
Smell the poignant aroma of rhythm and blues
Collide with my Genius creative expression
Handcuff me for resisting being silent
Check my breath for the bubbles of a drunken poet
Spitting up words and rhymes
Expressively with profanity of poetry
Charge me with intoxication
Verbal sensation
Before the judge
I plea guilty
Poetic confinement recommended
On the walls I write art
Painting out the graffiti of the prisoner’s thoughts
And colouring with poetic expressions
Bartender
Pour me some more
Until my cup overflows
I just can’t get enough
Let this liquor become embedded in my arteries and lungs
Let it be in my very DNA
Let it flow through my blood and veins
Through my heart and mind
Let it be hypnosis for my dreams
I drank poetry and it tasted delicious.
CHRISTENA ANTONIA VALAIRE WILLIAMS ©2012
JAMAICA
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
While we stood by
And allowed others
To exploit
And degrade the earth
We are as guilt as they
We did nothing
To stop
The **** of the world
The world bellows
Out cries of help
It coughs up pain
And it’s too dry
To cry
We stood by
And watched
While others committed
Pollution and crime
Leaving stains
Of blood and toxic waste
Even God heart aches
The world has to endure
The human lifestyle
Until
One day
It will give way
Sending a message
That it had enough
Of our
Intolerable exploitation
Of The **** of the world.
Christena Antonia Valaire Williams
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
Half white, half other
Mother of a soon to be
Born from an intent at backlash
Mother of a born to be
Plastic spoon in a microwave
Destitute, minimal,
designer criminal
Bun in the oven
Baby be coming
Out of any mind to choose
Mother of a soon to be
Potential property to bruise
Heidegger enlisted to the off-side
Probably due to the wave before
Baby lost to the in and out
of control, vessel of the past and preordained
Prescribed a will denying the innate
All joke, all alone
Began to end in a hot flash
Mother of a soon to be
Giveaway
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
To Antonia
Different things:
a book read,
this flower picked,
one kiss taken.
And things that delight:
in the library,
amidst a garden,
caught in love’s embrace.
And my delight:
to keep control
and hold a sense
of rightness ruling
every action,
every thought,
every instance
met or made.
Let me look at all I see
that comes my way,
and with my eyes
make welcome;
no discrimination,
no diversion left
(or right) to comfort’s zone.
May all I touch, acquire, retain,
be honoured, rightly valued,
rightly owned, and used
well, and again.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:14 AM UTC
What if all you believed was a lie
What if everything was an illusive deceit
Would you commit suicide, continue to believe or investigate the truth?
What if your life depended on it
What would you do?
There is paper trails wrapped up in illusion and like a picture framed
You only see what is there,
At least what the camera shots.
Charisma is subtle
It’s a quality I despise, why?
It’s the traits of politicians,
They tell you sweet bitter lies,
A fool enthralled, you eat it up like it was pork chops and salads
An appetizer
A delight.
Conspiracy theory elaborates truth as well as lies
What are we to believe when the world is built on bluff?
And we are all blind; give me a pair of glasses so I may see the world more vividly
I do however; believe I need more than that.
What holy war is upon us, when will the Jews have some solace?
When will the fat aristocrat evacuate his couch and out of the kings palace?
When will the rich exchange shoes with the poor and vice versa so
They might know the shackled ******** life as well as champagne and caviar.
We question the possibility of what takes precedence
I may Google the net, read a thousand books
Dive in all sorts of information
But I guess my appetite wouldn’t be satisfied because my eyes and ears
Had enough to realize and acknowledge that the world is built truly on illusion
If you don’t believe me, take the movies,
They use graphics and all the technology at their leisure for things to appear real
Actors and actresses like wise
We are all plunged in by theses perceptive beliefs
That precipitates a reality that conjures fictitiously real.
All rights Reserved.
Christena Antonia Valaire Williams.
April 17, 2013
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
my window, to the world
has a view of Central Park
the window, the view,
courtesy of Aunt Antonia
whose millions came from
the slaughter of lungs in Pennsylvania mines
she never saw, the lover she took
leaving it all to her, for his penitence,
and her tolerant presence in his penthouse
for forty years and a day
the day she spent at his deathbed
not even holding his hand
no one contested the will
not even his drunkard son who
squandered his fortune on five wives
and landed in a trailer in Tenafly,
some said
when Antonia made her own last laps
I was not there, but in my old place by the river
with my useless legs, the sticks of flesh and bone
that never took one step, the same legs
that earned Antonia’s silent sympathy
and divinely divested dollars
a cousin watched her passing,
pillaging her jewelry once she was gone,
snarling to her nurses the ******* would get all else
and the cat, part of the bargain
and I did, and each morning
when I look onto the park
through the maid’s invisibly clean glass
the feline is pestiferously perched
in mid frame, in park’s green summer
or white winter, reminding me
of the mines, the insolent indifference,
the passing of millions,
the dead legs that were
my first inheritance, my curled curse
that brought me a cat
and a park where
I would never walk
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
Thouest my love
Flattering like a sparrow
Chirp and sing
Melodies
Then thou art
Take this love
And let us travel
Like travelling musicians
Breaking down
China’s wall
Rebuilding Berlin
Asleep we lie
In the kings palace
Take this heart
As if we were
Romeo and Juliet
Underlying passion
If we must die
I wish to die
In love
Holding you
With clutch hands
Like sinking titanic
Whisper
Soft
In my winters heart
Slowly
Take me into a trance
Like a summers night dream.
CHRISTENA ANTONIA VALAIRE WILLIAMS ©2012
JAMAICA
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
I dream a dream
I dreamt the day when we were not perfect or immune to fear
But we were in one accord, despite our doubts and differences
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I felt love so strong in an atmosphere of once
So war and anger,
For the first time babies stare
For the first time the homeless was fed and cared
For the first time I thought, Christmas came everyday
This was a dream within my dreams
A dream I dream never to be awaken
This is my letter to the world,
I dream a dream,
That every boy and girl will be taught that they are special
And have an uplifted self esteem,
I envision the sun shining through the cracks of dawn,
The day that injustice will be mercy’s pawn,
I dream of a better world perceived through the eyes of unblemished child,
I dream of sunsets in smiles
I dream of masks removing beneath the disguise,
I dream… To scream like a timid girl, yell on top of my voice:
Wake up world.
All rights reserved.
Christena Antonia Valaire Williams.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 10:12 AM UTC
Todos han muerto.
Murió doña Antonia, la ronca, que hacía pan barato en el burgo.
Murió el cura Santiago, a quien placía le saludasen los jóvenes y las mozas, respondiéndoles a todos, indistintamente: «Buenos días, José! Buenos días, María!»
Murió aquella joven rubia, Carlota, dejando un hijito de meses, que luego también murió a los ocho días de la madre.
Murió mi tía Albina, que solía cantar tiempos y modos de heredad, en tanto cosía en los corredores, para Isidora, la criada de oficio, la honrosísima mujer.
Murió un viejo tuerto, su nombre no recuerdo, pero dormía al sol de la mañana, sentado ante la puerta del hojalatero de la esquina.
Murió Rayo, el perro de mi altura, herido de un balazo de no se sabe quién.
Murió Lucas, mi cuñado en la paz de las cinturas, de quien me acuerdo cuando llueve y no hay nadie en mi experiencia.
Murió en mi revólver mi madre, en mi puño mi hermana y mi hermano en mi víscera sangrienta, los tres ligados por un género triste de tristeza, en el mes de agosto de años sucesivos.
Murió el músico Méndez, alto y muy borracho, que solfeaba en su clarinete tocatas melancólicas, a cuyo articulado se dormían las gallinas de mi barrio, mucho antes de que el sol se fuese.
Murió mi eternidad y estoy velándola.
1.2k
Turn up the boom box
Let’s hear some classic remixing
Close the curtains
Turn down the shades
I am the lady of the night
Let’s rock away
As I wish not to sleep
But just have some fun
I want to go back
When loving you
Was real
When kisses and roses
Were romantic
When music was sweet
Soothing to ears
When the taste of love
Was irresistible
When music and love
Was at its best
Write your name across my heart
Was my song
Sealed with a kiss
When I was your lady in red
Turn down the shades
Close the curtains
Let’s hear the classic remixing
Turn up the boom box
Christena Antonia Valaire Williams
found in the Archives of The Gleaner Company of Jamaica
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
Raza de «Comuneros» era su raza. Fuerte
Su corazón de virgen, en tierra esclavizada
Quería que la noche rompiera en alborada,
Y que se alzara libre lo que yacía inerte.
Sin temor al peligro, y al azar de la suerte,
Armó en silencio brazos; y en su ideal, fiada,
Sudario fue su velo de hermosa desposada,
Y su nupcial desfile, desfile hacia la muerte.
Y cuando ya, vendada, iba a caer de hinojos,
Quiso evitar entonces que los profanos ojos
Del pelotón hicieran a su pudor ultraje,
Y se ató con la venda la falda, pues temía
Que el estremecimiento postrero en su agonía
Levantarle pudiera sobre el banquillo el traje.
942
I am afraid to love has I have been broken too many times before
Like the sun I have lost its core
Like the rain my tears pour
I am afraid to love
I fear to make a step of faith and walk through loves door
There’s a linger of a permanent soar
I am afraid to love has I have been broken too many times before
I have had my wings patched up
My eyes sowed in and my heart tranquilized with pain and regret
I have been in this terrible nightmare like an induced coma
That I am unable to be awaken from
I am too afraid to love
To give love another shot
A shot that might paralyze my soul and stop my heart
Destroy my very existence
Struck me dumb or mute with fear
Fear to love and be loved
I am afraid to love has I have been broken too many times before
And it hurts me right down to the core
And my heart pains me once more
And like a fallen bird I fail to soar
Fail to find Paradise Island
I am in the wilderness hoping to be rescued
As I am afraid to love
My Dear.
All Rights Reserved.
Christena Antonia Valaire Williams
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
Just like some spell
You spell the word l-o-v-e
You spell the word m-e
You spell them out
Right on my ears
You spell your feelings out
Slightly hidden through these years
My hands softly slide down on your cheeks
Under a spell
A l-o-v-e m-e spell
I Inflate my lungs
And blow
And breath
And tell
Tell you
My spell
I spell y-o-u
A l-o-v-e m-e spell
The same way
You did it to me
by Antonia van Haas
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
There was the backfield tandem of Doc Blanchard and Glenn Davies on several West Point football teams of the UOS.
There is that power hitting duo of the modern day Yankees - Gary Sanchez and Aaron Judge.
There were those great power hitters of the 70s, I believe, that seemed to come in clusters like Mike Schmidt, Breen Downing, and yes, I believe, John Milner.
There was, of course, Ruth and Gehrig that stood out on the 1927 Yankees.
There's Hawke Leonard and James Harden, an unsung pair of the San Antonia Spurs and the Houston Rockets, respectively, in pro basketball that stand out.
There's Stephan Curry and Kevin Durant, a Mutt and Jeff combination in the Golden State Warriors.
There was a couple of gifted first to play on a University of Illinois basketball team African Americans that were tantalizing good at that time - Mannie Jackson and Governor Vaughn.
There was those 4 great old time Boston Celtics guards; Bob Cousy, Bill Sharman, K.C. Jones, and Sam Jones.
There was Bill Bradley and Dave Debusschere manning the wings of the New York Knickerbockers pro basketball teams of the late sixties, I believe.
There was Ron Kissinger and Glenn Becker, the keystone duo on the Chicago Cubs of the sixties, I believe.
There was Mainstay, reliable pitcher for the Casey Stengal dynasty teams - Vic Raschi and Allie Reynolds and there were great teamsmen of Vince Lombardi's pro football Green Bay Packers Super Bowl team like Dave Hammer, Forrest Gregg, and Boyd Dowler.
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC