"guavas" poems
I am from a rooftop garden
That smell like fresh guavas
And hard, wired fences
Behind which lies a foggy skyline
A dreaming city
I am from a small, brown-red backyard shed
Tucked between rural green fields
Where two little girls defended the world from evil by
Laughing and swinging wildly on a rusted, fluorescent swing set
I am from a row of townhouses
Where no matter how late the return
Warm lights inside glow
Beckoning
I am from strong rocks
Against which foamy, icy waves crash
Leaving behind grass
Soft to touch
And hard to uproot
I am from eating overdone fried chicken
From short-lived patience
From a voicemail
That will always say
From Lucy, Tulu and Samah
From don’t eat that, it’s for the guests
And if you have to do it, do it, but I don’t want to hear about it.
From too many whys
And not enough faith
I am from Dhaka, Bangladesh
From jostling crowds and hearing a million voices outside
I am from Limerick, Ireland.
From rustic houses and quaint parishes
I am from Wallingford, Pennsylvania
From suburbia and inane boredom
From the college-genius who crashed weddings on weekends,
The woman who is still unimpressed by sushi in Japan
I am from feeling sad if you do
But wanting to make you laugh anyway
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
When there were no T.V's or cell phones,
When the sky was sequined with stars.
After dinner,family members and neighbours would gather outside on stone benches and chairs,
News and gossip would be shared with keen interest......
Whose wife ran away with whom,
Who delivered a baby,
Who was getting married.
Songs from the latest movie would be sung,
Stories and anecdotes related,
It was fun.
We shared one apple and drank from the same bottle,
Are fruits like mangoes and guavas from the fruitcarts without washing them,
Nothing happened to us.
We never went to a playground,
We played football,cricket, marbles, seven stones and other games on the streets,
And if broke a window, we would run for our life.
We just popped in at our friends' house and shared their food,ate what was cooking in the kitchen,opened their fridges,
No formalities,
You didn't need a nanny to look after your children,
Extended family and neighbours helped out.
Everybody called the grandparents dadi or dadu,
The whole neighbourhood was one big happy family,
Those were the times.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 4:59 AM UTC
♪♫♫♪♫
running fluid, flowing
like love, like life, like blood, like knowing
the living waters from the throne of God –
it starts slow and it builds
equatorial storms, tropical sadness
as the guitars take you home
in reverberations of eternity
through endless repetitions of longing
through palm-branched alleys and red-dirt gullies
breeze caressing guavas and passion-fruit
past dictators’ mansions
past rusting shantytowns
over ditches running with sewage
into colors too intense to bear
colors to make you cry:
greens unseen in cold climates,
red earth, flowering jacarandas
women walking wrapped in rainbows
huge baskets on their heads
in the blare of traffic
in the madness of African cities
through the Congolese night that calls your name
and the smell of poor people’s food over cook fires
carried on the musical breeze
children smile and beggars crawl in the dust of the street
obscure wars are fought, false peace proclaimed
while the bones are exhumed
as the Congo jazz rolls on, flows on
like silver sorrow dancing gold in the heart of darkness
past liter bottles of beer sweating cold
on the bar table by the flower’s starkness
lighting up the midday – when those horns come in
on the boat from Cuba, by way of Bruxelles and Paris
blaring triumphant and strong
like a shipment of diamonds and uranium
glittering in the drunken afternoon of a song with no end.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
fireworks sparkle
the darkened sky of my memory,
sparkling through my soul in a pleasant wave,
uncovering a walk in the jungle of my heartland
and a guava tree.
I’m in my kitchen, filling my nose
with the delicate scent of ripening guavas from Mexico,
palmed in the chalice of my hands,
feeling my way to that jungle walk with my family when I was three
or maybe two, in Hawai’i
and the guava tree.
as I bite through the fragile skin of the yellow globe,
the seeds, like BBs, take me further into my remembrance,
my family around me sharing
the excitement and joy I felt when I saw and climbed
the guava tree.
after we moved back to the Mainland
to a desert paradise I also loved,
each Spring I came down with what I called my Island Virus:
a deep yearning and homesickness
for my heartland
and the guava tree.
c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC
Red guavas fall,
From trees all around us,
And land, victoriously, on the island of our palms,
A soft cushion, paler than the cracked pavement.
Give me a guava or two,
Let’s juggle, one at a time,
Right to left,
One fell, pick it up! C’mon!
Hand me a guava,
I will count them,
I will ensure you taste one,
That our teeth grind them,
With the delicacy of a tropical breeze.
Climb up the guava tree,
I'm already reaching for a pair,
Our mouths are full, there is guava on my lips,
On her lips,
On his lips,
On our lips, “may I help you?”
NO TRESPASSING,
Said a sign on the fence,
“Too late,” you said,
NO MORE GUAVA.
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 8:04 PM UTC
Jumping fences, cozzie on,
towel for a cape:
dives, strokes, somersaults;
doing the pool waltz.
Slurping wormy guavas;
Spinning monkey swings,
Your stories giving me wings:
You said I could fly,
If I Believe,
If I have Faith,
in the Unseen.
Ice-cream seconds, cakes, fizzy drinks;
A shake of the biscuit tin:
"one for each hand, maybe two"
Sugar, your only sin.
Paint. Wood. Leather.
Freshly cut grass.
A pun or ten,
just for fun:
Always the teasing jester.
A dreamer.
Deep talks under sprawling trees.
Hours upon your knees:
in play, in prayer, in Earth's work.
A giver to the faithless, hopeless, unheard.
A believer in love, truth and His word.
What a human.
What a man.
What a legend of my heart.
Gone but never far apart:
I still hear you laugh,
at peace now with your man, God.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 7:02 AM UTC
Gather your books, your notebooks, your pages and pages
Barely legible Catholic school cursive, oil crusted papers
Coffee stains, cheese danish crumbs, ink marks on your thighs
Use your mother’s brain, your father’s tireless oxen energy
Your sister’s bravery, your grandmother’s mix of mango & tajin,
Your grandfather’s home grown guavas from the rooftop gardens
You come from a legacy, a star doesn’t explode in isolation
At my funeral play Jamila, play Nitty, NoName,
Rihanna, SZA, Mahlia, Kamaiyah, MIA, Nina,
Light a votive in the shape of Beyonce and baby Blue
Sing your blues, the chorus never sounded this good
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 4:51 PM UTC
I can’t remember Spring
can’t remember a cold May morning
with overcast skies
in the land of endless summer
roses bloomed in winter
guavas ripened in February
but I haven‘t heard the wrens
chirping and twittering
since we cut down the lemon tree
or the mocking birds
that used to nest there
seasons still turn
in changing climate’s confusion
but where have the blue jays
and butterflies gone?
the banana tree still grows
the native sweet potatoes spread
but it seems there were always flowers
and I miss the scent of night jasmine
the gardens have withered and browned
without her tender care
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
seasons cycle forth
leaves are changing their color
big yellow fruit fall
guavas are early this year
they probably miss her too
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC