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"jamaica" poems
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needs hellopoetry Rwanda needs hellopoetry Saint Kitts and Nevis needs hellopoetry Saint Lucia needs hellopoetry Saint Vincent and the Grenadines needs hellopoetry Samoa needs hellopoetry San Marino needs hellopoetry Sao Tome and Principe needs hellopoetry Saudi Arabia needs hellopoetry Senegal needs hellopoetry Serbia needs hellopoetry Seychelles needs hellopoetry Sierra Leone needs hellopoetry Singapore needs hellopoetry Slovakia needs hellopoetry Slovenia needs hellopoetry Solomon Islands needs hellopoetry Somalia needs hellopoetry South Africa needs hellopoetry Spain needs hellopoetry Sri Lanka needs hellopoetry Sudan needs hellopoetry Sudan, South needs hellopoetry Suriname needs hellopoetry Sweden needs hellopoetry Switzerland needs hellopoetry Syria needs hellopoetry Taiwan needs hellopoetry Tajikistan needs hellopoetry Tanzania needs hellopoetry Thailand needs hellopoetry Togo needs hellopoetry Tonga needs hellopoetry Trinidad and Tobago needs hellopoetry Tunisia needs 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Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
The World NEEDS HelloPoetry (Please Make A Contribution.)
Afghanistan needs hellopoetry Albania needs hellopoetry Algeria needs hellopoetry Andorra needs hellopoetry Angola needs hellopoetry Antigua and Barbuda needs hellopoetry Argentina needs hellopoetry Armenia needs hellopoetry Australia needs hellopoetry Austria needs hellopoetry Azerbaijan needs hellopoetry The Bahamas needs hellopoetry Bahrain needs hellopoetry Bangladesh needs hellopoetry Barbados needs hellopoetry Belarus needs hellopoetry Belgium needs hellopoetry Belize needs hellopoetry Benin needs hellopoetry Bhutan needs hellopoetry Bolivia needs hellopoetry Bosnia and Herzegovina needs hellopoetry Botswana needs hellopoetry Brazil needs hellopoetry Brunei needs hellopoetry Bulgaria needs hellopoetry Burkina Faso needs hellopoetry Burundi needs hellopoetry Cabo Verde needs hellopoetry Cambodia needs hellopoetry Cameroon needs hellopoetry Canada needs hellopoetry Central African Republic needs hellopoetry Chad needs hellopoetry Chile needs hellopoetry China needs hellopoetry Colombia needs hellopoetry Comoros needs hellopoetry Congo, Democratic Republic is in need of hellopoetry Congo, Republic is in need of hellopoetry   Costa Rica needs hellopoetry Côte d’Ivoire needs hellopoetry Croatia needs hellopoetry Cuba needs hellopoetry Cyprus needs hellopoetry Czech Republic needs hellopoetry Denmark needs hellopoetry   Djibouti needs hellopoetry Dominica needs hellopoetry Dominican Republic needs hellopoetry East Timor (Timor-Leste) needs hellopoetry Ecuador needs hellopoetry Egypt needs hellopoetry   El Salvador needs hellopoetry Equatorial Guinea needs hellopoetry Eritrea needs hellopoetry Estonia needs hellopoetry Eswatini needs hellopoetry Ethiopia needs hellopoetry Fiji needs hellopoetry Finland needs hellopoetry France needs hellopoetry Gabon needs hellopoetry The Gambia needs hellopoetry Georgia needs hellopoetry Germany needs hellopoetry Ghana needs hellopoetry Greece needs hellopoetry Grenada needs hellopoetry Guatemala needs hellopoetry Guinea needs hellopoetry Guinea-Bissau needs hellopoetry Guyana needs hellopoetry Haiti needs hellopoetry Honduras needs hellopoetry Hungary needs hellopoetry Iceland needs hellopoetry India needs hellopoetry Indonesia needs hellopoetry Iran needs hellopoetry Iraq needs hellopoetry Ireland needs hellopoetry Israel needs hellopoetry Italy needs hellopoetry Jamaica needs hellopoetry Japan needs hellopoetry Jordan needs hellopoetry Kazakhstan needs hellopoetry Kenya needs hellopoetry Kiribati needs hellopoetry Korea, North needs hellopoetry Korea, South needs hellopoetry Kosovo needs hellopoetry Kuwait needs hellopoetry Kyrgyzstan needs hellopoetry Laos needs hellopoetry Latvia needs hellopoetry Lebanon needs hellopoetry Lesotho needs hellopoetry Liberia needs hellopoetry Libya needs hellopoetry Liechtenstein needs hellopoetry Lithuania needs hellopoetry Luxembourg needs hellopoetry Madagascar needs hellopoetry Malawi needs hellopoetry Malaysia needs hellopoetry Maldives needs hellopoetry Mali needs hellopoetry Malta needs hellopoetry Marshall Islands needs hellopoetry Mauritania needs hellopoetry Mauritius needs hellopoetry Mexico needs hellopoetry Micronesia, Federated States is in need of hellopoetry Moldova needs hellopoetry Monaco needs hellopoetry Mongolia needs hellopoetry Montenegro needs hellopoetry Morocco needs hellopoetry Mozambique needs hellopoetry Myanmar (Burma) needs hellopoetry Namibia needs hellopoetry Nauru needs hellopoetry Nepal needs hellopoetry Netherlands needs hellopoetry New Zealand needs hellopoetry Nicaragua needs hellopoetry Niger needs hellopoetry Nigeria needs hellopoetry North Macedonia needs hellopoetry Norway needs hellopoetry Oman needs hellopoetry Pakistan needs hellopoetry Palau needs hellopoetry Panama needs hellopoetry Papua New Guinea needs hellopoetry Paraguay needs hellopoetry Peru needs hellopoetry Philippines needs hellopoetry Poland needs hellopoetry Portugal needs hellopoetry Qatar needs hellopoetry Romania needs hellopoetry Russia needs hellopoetry Rwanda needs hellopoetry Saint Kitts and Nevis needs hellopoetry Saint Lucia needs hellopoetry Saint Vincent and the Grenadines needs hellopoetry Samoa needs hellopoetry San Marino needs hellopoetry Sao Tome and Principe needs hellopoetry Saudi Arabia needs hellopoetry Senegal needs hellopoetry Serbia needs hellopoetry Seychelles needs hellopoetry Sierra Leone needs hellopoetry Singapore needs hellopoetry Slovakia needs hellopoetry Slovenia needs hellopoetry Solomon Islands needs hellopoetry Somalia needs hellopoetry South Africa needs hellopoetry Spain needs hellopoetry Sri Lanka needs hellopoetry Sudan needs hellopoetry Sudan, South needs hellopoetry Suriname needs hellopoetry Sweden needs hellopoetry Switzerland needs hellopoetry Syria needs hellopoetry Taiwan needs hellopoetry Tajikistan needs hellopoetry Tanzania needs hellopoetry Thailand needs hellopoetry Togo needs hellopoetry Tonga needs hellopoetry Trinidad and Tobago needs hellopoetry Tunisia needs hellopoetry Turkey needs hellopoetry Turkmenistan needs hellopoetry Tuvalu needs hellopoetry Uganda needs hellopoetry Ukraine needs hellopoetry United Arab Emirates needs hellopoetry United Kingdom needs hellopoetry United States needs hellopoetry Uruguay needs hellopoetry Uzbekistan needs hellopoetry Vanuatu needs hellopoetry Vatican City needs hellopoetry Venezuela needs hellopoetry Vietnam needs hellopoetry Yemen needs hellopoetry Zambia needs hellopoetry Zimbabwe needs hellopoetry
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196
Planes flying overhead make me sick Certainly this country is a top pick But I cannot escape the feeling Something is missing The island breeze across my face A simply enchanting place The water may be tainted The walls not painted Doors made of zinc But then I think It shall forever be the my home And will always think about it when I am alone it will leave you saying ah Jamaica
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Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC
Homesick
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
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Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
Out of many one people
I found my soul at 300 baud in a world the world would one day come to adore before there were webs we were the spiders before there were laws nothing could be denied to us we were wardialling before cybercrime we were a virus before virii became a fake news byline but if busted I'll deny I ever tried to break a trunk through MCI jamaica sat on ************ station for days raking in creds like a madmuhfuhn rap master with nothing greater than a pair of headphones and a cheap cassette tape deck to take me there kids today dont respect what they play with back in the day we had to be outlaws to connect to todays day to day bandwidth
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Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
bluebox (2600 reasons to be online)
There was an Old Man of Jamaica, Who suddenly married a Quaker; But she cried out, 'Alack! I have married a black!' Which distressed that Old Man of Jamaica.
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4.1k
There Was An Old Man Of Jamaica
As the warmth of the sun kisses my cheeks, the coolness of the breeze brush my hair and the soothing sound of the water makes it hard for me to leave. Oh paradise where have you been? Colorful attires, friendly people, delicious food, cultural music and creative dances. I've never felt such joy from all the places I've been. Oh sweet paradise where have you been? People always say there is no place like home and when you visit Jamaica it will have you saying 'oh sweet paradise where have you been?'
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Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 5:26 AM UTC
Sweet paradise
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
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Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
The Great Reggae Legend
Hello everyone,   I'm so very sorry … I feel horrible doing this, but I have no choice. You see, I have published my first book on Amazon/Kindle! This piece (and many others) had to be taken down because they do not allow published material to be available online for free. (Go figure) I wanted to leave the shell of the posts because I felt compelled to leave all your helpful and loving comments. (Silly sentimental, I know), but I also didn't want to just have the pieces disappear without an explanation. I feel bad enough as it is!   I owe ALL of you so, SO much for all of your reads, love, and support. It was YOU that gave me the gumption to FINALLY get off my **** and publish! Thank you all for the warm comments, camaraderie, and encouragement! I will still be here, reading, uploading and just being the Rascal that I am. How could I EVER leave you guys?   The book is called “The Way I See It – FictionPhilosophySoul Food” and it will be FREE for the first few days on Kindle Select, so watch for it, if you are interested. I hope that you go and grab it. If you do, I would also hope that you find it worthy, you would leave me a good review. That will help me get in the public eye! Soon afterwards (2-3 days or so), it will be available in paperback. I will be building my Author page tonight (12/21/2018) and my website finished first thing Monday! Find the book(s) here: www.amazon.com/author/jeff.gaines Or find the book(s), and all about me, here: www.JeffGaines.world   Soon after, I also hope to have my first novel (a supernatural thriller), called “Wanderer” available as well!   Wish me luck!                                 Big, Biggest Love,                                                Jeff Gaines
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Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
NOPO@HEPO!
Hello everyone,   I'm so very sorry … I feel horrible doing this, but I have no choice. You see, I have published my first book on Amazon/Kindle! This piece (and many others) had to be taken down because they do not allow published material to be available online for free. (Go figure) I wanted to leave the shell of the posts because I felt compelled to leave all your helpful and loving comments. (Silly sentimental, I know), but I also didn't want to just have the pieces disappear without an explanation. I feel bad enough as it is!   I owe ALL of you so, SO much for all of your reads, love, and support. It was YOU that gave me the gumption to FINALLY get off my **** and publish! Thank you all for the warm comments, camaraderie, and encouragement! I will still be here, reading, uploading and just being the Rascal that I am. How could I EVER leave you guys?   The book is called “The Way I See It – FictionPhilosophySoul Food” and it will be FREE for the first few days on Kindle Select, so watch for it, if you are interested. I hope that you go and grab it. If you do, I would also hope that you find it worthy, you would leave me a good review. That will help me get in the public eye! Soon afterwards (2-3 days or so), it will be available in paperback. I will be building my Author page tonight (12/21/2018) and my website finished first thing Monday! Find the book(s) here: www.amazon.com/author/jeff.gaines Or find the book(s), and all about me, here: www.JeffGaines.world   Soon after, I also hope to have my first novel (a supernatural thriller), called “Wanderer” available as well!   Wish me luck!                                 Big, Biggest Love,                                                Jeff Gaines
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10
Is it nice inside your closet? Do you have enough room? Listen, you can talk to me. I have secrets too. Do you enjoy Life inside your Closet? And can you call it Home? Maybe, you'd like to get out. Visit Jamaica, Paris, Rome? You know, I wouldn't let you travel alone. Are you afraid of your parents? or the judgement of your peers? Afraid your deep dark secret might spill out after a few beers? Don't want to ruin your reputation? with what? The truth? Scared of Confrontation? Sweetie, don't waste your youth. © copyrighted Nicole Ann Osborn
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Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 4:44 AM UTC
Life In The Closet
A single tear.from mother.Africa. Igbo ? Kenya. Jamaica. The.Caribbean diaspora. Warm.and.easy.... Belize....coool trade winds. Banana republic. UNU..IS WE UNU IS YOU. UNU is unity.
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Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
UNU. Just one word
Vi en las costas de Trinidad conchas nereidoasirenadas tejer sus cabellos , cantar Rege los peces en Jamaica al amor en Carthagena , madurar como mango a los poetas del Sur bailar Cumbia Y vi en sus ojos la revolucion alrededor de la estatua de Bolivar . 19.10.2000
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Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
[ Vi en las costas de Trinidad ]
I expected this but not so soon I was just finally enjoying being me Leaving here is going to be like leaving behind a huge part of me This is where I was born Where I grew up , where I first experienced true love Where I first experienced heartbreak This is where I became Kay-Ann But part of me is happy I'm going to begin a new life A new life full of possibilities Surely I'll miss my homeland I'll miss the food My dear ackee and saltfish I'll miss the sights Devon House and Emancipation Park I'll miss the people My friends from school and past loves But migrating is all about starting anew Starting that new chapter in the book of me.
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Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
Leaving Jamaica
How fast a vegetable heart can perish? A toddler growing like a seed of corn Planted on a fertile ground So cherished, Like a man after the king's heart. Not knowing nature has a different plan against him Or men of the underworld are strongly against his being And too desperate to shower unending tears on her fresh mother's smiling cheeks He was stolen away by death. I can't forget that dark scaring night Where all the heavenly bodies were dead asleep. The echoes of his granny shout still live in my head A shout she made like she just realised she has been praying into deaf ears The prowess of which I plucked him off my mother laps to my chest Still baffles me The race we ran to the empty darkness outside Reminds me of the speed of a certain Bolt from Jamaica. In prayers, speed and tears We continue our race to a center for health care Too much fluid is lost, the doctor summited and aided us to continue our race for more competence. Competence often too difficult to find in this part of Africa. To cut it all short, competence was found Treatment was made Praises bell began to ring in our hearts for we thought he was already saved. Yes, the next morning, he moved, smiled and uses hands to play! But the noon that follows the whole story changed And the ceremony of mourning began. His spirited effort wasn't enough and he had to leave us, No, he was jealously taken away from us Just weeks before his first year birthday. The stain of his tears still lives on my mother pillow Reminding her that she was a grand mother for eleven months and a week ago. His happy face still stand in a picture at a corner of her mother mirror Recalling the fact that she has lost a gem to the world of ghosts. His father striving to remain a man as he pushes to get loans To pay up his medical  bills from family and folks even from supposing foes. The pain of his departure never cease to add Bitter sound to my heart beat, Though forgotten how cute he was when he was alive But I never fail to remember how cute he became in dead indeed. His demise was a script Unseen, Till date it remain a prank to me. Amidst all the experiences I have been forced to face This is one of the scripts I wish it was never written nor played.
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Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
The Script Unseen.
How fast a vegetable heart can perish? A toddler growing like a seed of corn Planted on a fertile ground So cherished, Like a man after the king's heart. Not knowing nature has a different plan against him Or men of the underworld are strongly against his being And too desperate to shower unending tears on her fresh mother's smiling cheeks He was stolen away by death. I can't forget that dark scaring night Where all the heavenly bodies were dead asleep. The echoes of his granny shout still live in my head A shout she made like she just realised she has been praying into deaf ears The prowess of which I plucked him off my mother laps to my chest Still baffles me The race we ran to the empty darkness outside Reminds me of the speed of a certain Bolt from Jamaica. In prayers, speed and tears We continue our race to a center for health care Too much fluid is lost, the doctor summited and aided us to continue our race for more competence. Competence often too difficult to find in this part of Africa. To cut it all short, competence was found Treatment was made Praises bell began to ring in our hearts for we thought he was already saved. Yes, the next morning, he moved, smiled and uses hands to play! But the noon that follows the whole story changed And the ceremony of mourning began. His spirited effort wasn't enough and he had to leave us, No, he was jealously taken away from us Just weeks before his first year birthday. The stain of his tears still lives on my mother pillow Reminding her that she was a grand mother for eleven months and a week ago. His happy face still stand in a picture at a corner of her mother mirror Recalling the fact that she has lost a gem to the world of ghosts. His father striving to remain a man as he pushes to get loans To pay up his medical  bills from family and folks even from supposing foes. The pain of his departure never cease to add Bitter sound to my heart beat, Though forgotten how cute he was when he was alive But I never fail to remember how cute he became in dead indeed. His demise was a script Unseen, Till date it remain a prank to me. Amidst all the experiences I have been forced to face This is one of the scripts I wish it was never written nor played.
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43
¿Por qué, por qué tiene que ser así? Esto no es correcto, no para mí. No quiero que me digan que pruebe el “Café de Costa Rica”, los “Bombones de Colombia”, las “Arepas de Venezuela”, las “Carnes de Argentina", las “Pastas italianas”, los “Tacos mexicanos”, la “Tortilla española”, la “Comida china” o la “Pizza con el ingrediente especial de Italia”. No quiero que me digan “Esto está hecho en China” ni “¡Wao! Esto no está hecho en China, está hecho en Taiwan”. No quiero que me digan “Mira este documental de África”, “Que hermosa se ve esa foto de la Torre Eiffel” o “Que alto debe estar ese edificio de New York”. No quiero que me cuenten cómo les fue en su viaje a Europa, su jornada en California o sus problemas mientras estuvieron en Canada. No quiero que me relaten las historias aprendidas durante su tiempo en Egipto o los bailes ensayados mientras estaban en Brasil. No quiero que hablen de su críticas respecto a la cutura de India, de Guyana o de Cuba. No quiero que me describan lo exquisita que estuvo la comida en Perú, en Australia o en República Dominicana. No quiero que me muestren la música de Jamaica o la de Rusia. No quiero que me digan  o me enseñen nada, nada más. Quiero yo poder probar los alimentos en su nacionalidad. Quiero sentir el aroma del café en las mañanas durante unas vacaciones en Costa Rica y probar ese toque especial que hace que la pizza en Italia sea diferente a la que acostumbramos a ordenar. Quiero ver cómo hacen los artefactos, estar en China y luego en Taiwan, tener esa experiencia de crear algo. Quiero visitar África y tomar mi propio documental, treparme en ese gigante edificio y apreciar la hermosa vista. Quiero ser yo la que cuente mi experiencia en las calles de Europa, California o Canada. Quiero aprender historias sobre Egipto y sus magníficas esculturas, incluso quiero aprender a darzar como lo hacen en Brasil y cada movimiento perfeccionar. Quiero dar las críticas sobre mis pensamientos hacia dichas culturas, pero con respeto. Quiero describir los suculentos platos y hacer que las personas se los imaginen, de tal manera que hasta en sus paladares puedan sentirlos. Quiero  escuchar la música de Jamaica y la de Rusia y si es en vivo, aún mejor, así podré meditarla e interpretarla. Puede sonar un poco alocado y para muchos sin sentido, pero para mí es más que un simple pensamiento o cualquier capricho, son sueños y metas que a diario me propongo. Para ello hay que trabajar duro, pero desde mi niñez me enseñaron que “el que quiere puede, solo hay que perseverar para triunfar”. Sé que algún día lo voy a alcanzar y todos se sorprenderán, cuando con orgullo les relate sobre lo que un día fue “un simple  deseo internacional ”.
0
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
Deseo internacional
¿Por qué, por qué tiene que ser así? Esto no es correcto, no para mí. No quiero que me digan que pruebe el “Café de Costa Rica”, los “Bombones de Colombia”, las “Arepas de Venezuela”, las “Carnes de Argentina", las “Pastas italianas”, los “Tacos mexicanos”, la “Tortilla española”, la “Comida china” o la “Pizza con el ingrediente especial de Italia”. No quiero que me digan “Esto está hecho en China” ni “¡Wao! Esto no está hecho en China, está hecho en Taiwan”. No quiero que me digan “Mira este documental de África”, “Que hermosa se ve esa foto de la Torre Eiffel” o “Que alto debe estar ese edificio de New York”. No quiero que me cuenten cómo les fue en su viaje a Europa, su jornada en California o sus problemas mientras estuvieron en Canada. No quiero que me relaten las historias aprendidas durante su tiempo en Egipto o los bailes ensayados mientras estaban en Brasil. No quiero que hablen de su críticas respecto a la cutura de India, de Guyana o de Cuba. No quiero que me describan lo exquisita que estuvo la comida en Perú, en Australia o en República Dominicana. No quiero que me muestren la música de Jamaica o la de Rusia. No quiero que me digan  o me enseñen nada, nada más. Quiero yo poder probar los alimentos en su nacionalidad. Quiero sentir el aroma del café en las mañanas durante unas vacaciones en Costa Rica y probar ese toque especial que hace que la pizza en Italia sea diferente a la que acostumbramos a ordenar. Quiero ver cómo hacen los artefactos, estar en China y luego en Taiwan, tener esa experiencia de crear algo. Quiero visitar África y tomar mi propio documental, treparme en ese gigante edificio y apreciar la hermosa vista. Quiero ser yo la que cuente mi experiencia en las calles de Europa, California o Canada. Quiero aprender historias sobre Egipto y sus magníficas esculturas, incluso quiero aprender a darzar como lo hacen en Brasil y cada movimiento perfeccionar. Quiero dar las críticas sobre mis pensamientos hacia dichas culturas, pero con respeto. Quiero describir los suculentos platos y hacer que las personas se los imaginen, de tal manera que hasta en sus paladares puedan sentirlos. Quiero  escuchar la música de Jamaica y la de Rusia y si es en vivo, aún mejor, así podré meditarla e interpretarla. Puede sonar un poco alocado y para muchos sin sentido, pero para mí es más que un simple pensamiento o cualquier capricho, son sueños y metas que a diario me propongo. Para ello hay que trabajar duro, pero desde mi niñez me enseñaron que “el que quiere puede, solo hay que perseverar para triunfar”. Sé que algún día lo voy a alcanzar y todos se sorprenderán, cuando con orgullo les relate sobre lo que un día fue “un simple  deseo internacional ”.
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2
Poem I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox? Now clambering onto the icy porch I open the door into smells of brass polish, wood polish pots full of bones. Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in I must make marmalade with Seville oranges with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like a little sweetness of the blossom worn on bridal veils will come back as the flesh boils soggy with pips and Demerara’s sweetness pummels and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full of a sugar high, then fall. I don’t think I’ll be flying to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars My house will be dressed of stiff forsythia branches, blooming while I pull on stupoods of wool socks, and wax my boards I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling separating mills and boon from reality. If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar And whispered ancient simple words And as spring soars from the dirt he would say agapa me and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter O my mighty easel, you are not like nature though you are like a highway of roots, clamped with straps Supported or shaded, you reveal all that I am. The light begins to drop out of ticking stars onto the snow bank behind the studio the place where crimson and ochre mate. I am really a painter and my brushes are words which glaze accidentally across vellum, spurning censure.
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Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 6:02 AM UTC
Marmalade
Poem I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox? Now clambering onto the icy porch I open the door into smells of brass polish, wood polish pots full of bones. Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in I must make marmalade with Seville oranges with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like a little sweetness of the blossom worn on bridal veils will come back as the flesh boils soggy with pips and Demerara’s sweetness pummels and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full of a sugar high, then fall. I don’t think I’ll be flying to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars My house will be dressed of stiff forsythia branches, blooming while I pull on stupoods of wool socks, and wax my boards I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling separating mills and boon from reality. If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar And whispered ancient simple words And as spring soars from the dirt he would say agapa me and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter O my mighty easel, you are not like nature though you are like a highway of roots, clamped with straps Supported or shaded, you reveal all that I am. The light begins to drop out of ticking stars onto the snow bank behind the studio the place where crimson and ochre mate. I am really a painter and my brushes are words which glaze accidentally across vellum, spurning censure.
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43
All we had all had to die  l never could truly understand why  I wonder if you know how much brighter the stars shine from your almond eyes  Whenever I see you walk by I see that cool July   Your beautiful smile makes me redo when it was mine   For in my eyes,   I keep reversing time  In bed I lie going back to our July every summer night  You and I wrapped in each other tight  you and I gazing at the sunny blue sky  Later came with our first kiss under warm Jamaica Summer rain  Quick drops hitting fast and faster  Your lips so warm and tender  Baby, I pull and pull you closer  By reliving our love over and over  Drowning deep in the island breeze  I remember but quickly forget to breathe  Isn't it funny how special memories can creep in their sleep  Tiny embers that can suddenly make a flame  Always taking you by surprise just like the Jamaica Summer rain  In my eyes,   I keep reversing time  In my heart, there an emptiness still resides   I can hear it cry every summer night The more I long to see the stars in your almond eyes  Is the more I'm again with them underneath that sky  Feeling you again with that island breeze  Continues but remains only in my sweetest dreams  You’ll never know this kinda pain  Of wondering if it touches her the same whenever she's covered in warm Jamaica Summer rain
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Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
Jamaica Summer Rain
It happened at 4:05 PM at Jamaica Station Anticipating a LIRR connection arrival of when A woman answered questions of man The woman was totally high at her command She walked to one side of the platform The drugged up woman dropped her plastic Coke Cola bottle on the ground The woman then walked to the other side of the platform and then stepped off The next then anybody knew, she was laying flat on the tracks A multitude of commuters that pulled her up Luckily no train came Her life yet remained It is the Lord who gave her another chance God had mercy so she could continue in advance Fate could have been death But the message states, “There is still life left” Walking unknown This is what life has shown The woman has a drug crave
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Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
THE DARK HAZE OF NEAR DEATH (TRUE STORY)
Indulgent muse! my grov’ling mind inspire, And fill my ***** with celestial fire. See from Jamaica’s fervid shore she moves, Like the fair mother of the blooming loves, When from above the Goddess with her hand Fans the soft breeze, and lights upon the land; Thus she on Neptune’s wat’ry realm reclin’d Appear’d, and thus invites the ling’ring wind. “Arise, ye winds, America explore, “Waft me, ye gales, from this malignant shore; “The Northern milder climes I long to greet, “There hope that health will my arrival meet.” Soon as she spoke in my ideal view The winds assented, and the vessel flew. Madam, your spouse bereft of wife and son, In the grove’s dark recesses pours his moan; Each branch, wide-spreading to the ambient sky, Forgets its verdure, and submits to die. From thence I turn, and leave the sultry plain, And swift pursue thy passage o’er the main: The ship arrives before the fav’ring wind, And makes the Philadelphian port assign’d, Thence I attend you to Bostonia’s arms, Where gen’rous friendship ev’ry ***** warms: Thrice welcome here! may health revive again, Bloom on thy cheek, and bound in ev’ry vein! Then back return to gladden ev’ry heart, And give your spouse his soul’s far dearer part, Receiv’d again with what a sweet surprise, The tear in transport starting from his eyes! While his attendant son with blooming grace Springs to his father’s ever dear embrace. With shouts of joy Jamaica’s rocks resound, With shouts of joy the country rings around.
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2.3k
To A Lady On Her Coming To North-America With Her Son, For The Recovery Of Her Health
Indulgent muse! my grov’ling mind inspire, And fill my ***** with celestial fire. See from Jamaica’s fervid shore she moves, Like the fair mother of the blooming loves, When from above the Goddess with her hand Fans the soft breeze, and lights upon the land; Thus she on Neptune’s wat’ry realm reclin’d Appear’d, and thus invites the ling’ring wind. “Arise, ye winds, America explore, “Waft me, ye gales, from this malignant shore; “The Northern milder climes I long to greet, “There hope that health will my arrival meet.” Soon as she spoke in my ideal view The winds assented, and the vessel flew. Madam, your spouse bereft of wife and son, In the grove’s dark recesses pours his moan; Each branch, wide-spreading to the ambient sky, Forgets its verdure, and submits to die. From thence I turn, and leave the sultry plain, And swift pursue thy passage o’er the main: The ship arrives before the fav’ring wind, And makes the Philadelphian port assign’d, Thence I attend you to Bostonia’s arms, Where gen’rous friendship ev’ry ***** warms: Thrice welcome here! may health revive again, Bloom on thy cheek, and bound in ev’ry vein! Then back return to gladden ev’ry heart, And give your spouse his soul’s far dearer part, Receiv’d again with what a sweet surprise, The tear in transport starting from his eyes! While his attendant son with blooming grace Springs to his father’s ever dear embrace. With shouts of joy Jamaica’s rocks resound, With shouts of joy the country rings around.
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34
The anti-way is well portrayed on the cathode ray tube plugged into millions who let it pour into their tired brains, so for awhile, like two minutes, I turn it on to find out what the hell it thinks, and there are murders and happy salesman and bigfoot and pictures of Jamaica so I say, "Oh...that's what it's about..."
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Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 5:25 AM UTC
Television
Poem I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox? Now clambering onto the icy porch I open the door into smells of brass polish, wood polish pots full of bones. Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in I must make marmalade with Seville oranges with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like a little sweetness of the blossom worn on bridal veils will come back as the flesh boils soggy with pips and Demerara’s sweetness pummels and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full of a sugar high, then fall. I don’t think I’ll be flying to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars My house will be dressed of stiff forsythia branches, blooming while I pull on stupoods of wool socks, and wax my boards I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling separating mills and boon from reality. If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar And whispered ancient simple words And as spring soars from the dirt he would say agapa me and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter O my mighty easel, you are not like nature though you are like a highway of roots, clamped with straps Supported or shaded, you reveal all that I am. The light begins to drop out of ticking stars onto the snow bank behind the studio the place where crimson and ochre mate. I am really a painter and my brushes are words which glaze accidentally across vellum, spurning censure.
0
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 6:02 AM UTC
Marmalade
Poem I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox? Now clambering onto the icy porch I open the door into smells of brass polish, wood polish pots full of bones. Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in I must make marmalade with Seville oranges with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like a little sweetness of the blossom worn on bridal veils will come back as the flesh boils soggy with pips and Demerara’s sweetness pummels and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full of a sugar high, then fall. I don’t think I’ll be flying to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars My house will be dressed of stiff forsythia branches, blooming while I pull on stupoods of wool socks, and wax my boards I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling separating mills and boon from reality. If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar And whispered ancient simple words And as spring soars from the dirt he would say agapa me and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter O my mighty easel, you are not like nature though you are like a highway of roots, clamped with straps Supported or shaded, you reveal all that I am. The light begins to drop out of ticking stars onto the snow bank behind the studio the place where crimson and ochre mate. I am really a painter and my brushes are words which glaze accidentally across vellum, spurning censure.
Continue reading...
43
Someone’s world jumped onto a cold set of tracks at Jamaica station early last week. Someone’s world jumped into the universe next door, leaving us all for being too human. At the time, I was trapped at Penn Station. A pain spread about my stomach like a pen pressed against a sheet of looseleaf. MTA officials made announcements, calling it a mechanical malfunction. 9 to 5 businessmen in deep black suits with bluetooth headsets groaned and bargained for passage home, ready to ride through a stranger's graveyard. Little kids ran through shops, fingers sticky with frozen yogurt and popcorn- surprise treats used as pacifiers. I sat in a well known coffee shop pondering life and death. The word suicide didn’t hurt like it used to, but I felt connected to this stranger. I thought about that person’s lover, that person’s sister, that person’s mother, that person’s friend. I thought about how all of their galaxies stirred and switched gears. A planet of theirs- tremendous or trifling in their own imagination- collapsed and changed the course of everything. I wondered if their galaxy halted and each star and planet mourned or if their galaxy smoothed over the craters and dodged all the meteors and didn’t even blink. My galaxy shifted and clouds laid thick. Stars dimmed their lights in harmony. A few years ago or even a few months ago, I would’ve cried and thought about following this stranger to train station heaven. But now, I thought about my sister’s galaxy, my mother’s galaxy, my best friend’s galaxy. Now, I felt sadness but I also felt love.
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Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
one-way ticket home, please
Someone’s world jumped onto a cold set of tracks at Jamaica station early last week. Someone’s world jumped into the universe next door, leaving us all for being too human. At the time, I was trapped at Penn Station. A pain spread about my stomach like a pen pressed against a sheet of looseleaf. MTA officials made announcements, calling it a mechanical malfunction. 9 to 5 businessmen in deep black suits with bluetooth headsets groaned and bargained for passage home, ready to ride through a stranger's graveyard. Little kids ran through shops, fingers sticky with frozen yogurt and popcorn- surprise treats used as pacifiers. I sat in a well known coffee shop pondering life and death. The word suicide didn’t hurt like it used to, but I felt connected to this stranger. I thought about that person’s lover, that person’s sister, that person’s mother, that person’s friend. I thought about how all of their galaxies stirred and switched gears. A planet of theirs- tremendous or trifling in their own imagination- collapsed and changed the course of everything. I wondered if their galaxy halted and each star and planet mourned or if their galaxy smoothed over the craters and dodged all the meteors and didn’t even blink. My galaxy shifted and clouds laid thick. Stars dimmed their lights in harmony. A few years ago or even a few months ago, I would’ve cried and thought about following this stranger to train station heaven. But now, I thought about my sister’s galaxy, my mother’s galaxy, my best friend’s galaxy. Now, I felt sadness but I also felt love.
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62
Uncle Mike was heading south To Jamaica he would head With the amount of hair that poor Mike had He could only have one dread A conference for his workplace A nice resort and lots of sun Mike was set to go an party He would work and have some fun But if you've read my other poems Mike is not ...well, tuned in You see his trip was almost over Before it even did begin The day that he was leaving Mike was notified by mail He needed a new photograph For his ID card....no fail!!!! He was already at his hotel When the notice came to say You must send us a photo Or you can't come here to play He bought himself a camera A poloraid and then He tried to take a picture in his room A true multitasker among men He put the camera on the hutch Bent a hanger down to length And then he tried to push the button but, the hanger didn't have the strength He knocked the camera all about Taking pictures of the walls, One picture of the tv set And four photos of his ***** This would be a no go He had to ask someone instead How do you ask a stranger Take my photo on my bed? He made the plane to Kingston Found the hotel, settled in Now, Mike was in Jamaica And the real fun would begin
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Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 6:26 PM UTC
Uncle Mike in Jamaica - part 1
Gunga peas calypso Madly in my cooking *** gradually I pour canned coconut milk into the swirling flavors of cilantro, garlic and onions Staring into the rich brown stew I can see my Mother grating coconut meat and hand squeezing the milk like teats from a cow (Too much work for me) creating a traditional coconut rice and peas dish She was raised on a farm in St. Elizabeth, Jamaica early hours, rugged, hard labor were natural for the family which included nine siblings Pauline was a kind big hearted Soul with ample soft ***** perfect for children to lay their heads upon and skin that always seemed to smell of curry Burnt sienna Indian complexion wavy black river hair and colorful patois accent painted a portrait cavorting over the dandy, rolling goat hooved hills of Jamaican village peasantry The Moravian church of England formed beliefs woven inextricably through the fabric of her simplistic innocent existence our Mom instilled a love of God in us that was pure and hearty "Sonya stop your daydreaming" my Mother's clarion voice interrupts my avid reverie "Bumba!" I cry aloud "I haven't had bammy in eons" Quickly my fingers Google Another tasty native recipe chock full of memories and cassava root
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Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
Gunga Gal
Mama These girls Here in Jamaica Are very pretty Them got Long jett black Curly hair Butter brown skin Ivory white smile I think I am In love with them Them bodies shaped Like a glass coke cola bottle Them walk around here Basking in the yellow sunshine Mama them girls here Too good for me To let them go home Me wanna pick some fruit On this island of Jamaica
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Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 12:40 PM UTC
Me Wanna Pick Some Fruit
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
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Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
I Drank poetry