Selected poems.

I am from the Earth — not its pretty-brown core — its just-tolerable crust.
from the true black
qualms where I bury these psalms, deep
down in the land of the dreaded Rastas and lost Amazonians
and from the boisterous strut and sound
of the smartest woman of all they knew, Walking Tall
with her head in her lap.

I am from the veins
of this woman that craves
more than just to “mind her children”
and from the needles that comforts, her
from the discomforts, of
“girl, is what you really doing?” “one day I will stop”
The gravity of her reply.

I am from each syll a ble of
each word of each sentence, of
each chapter in every book, that she mistook for
us,
and loved and groomed so dearly instead
as if her story didn’t already have its end.

I long for those days in the green meadow
Happy in the Spring of May,
Free of pain and sorrow,
Listening to the chickadee sing,
Eating oranges, and my peculiar grin,
I the dreamer and you;
a dream come true,
No one told me that the enemy would eventually
Catch up to us, you and me,

In a flicker of a light and the change of a leaf
I am in a new place,
A strange land!
My eyes must be deceived;
I am alone and you gone
Gone to the unknown!

What is that unusual sound I hear?
Thunder clashing
My youth is gone;
I am unveiled
Gray skies is all I see,
This is strange beyond my own belief
I have never heard this sound before.
Now, it rains and it pours

What actions are the results of such reaction?
A Storm! Roaring winds and monstrous thunders
I am afraid, I want to scream, but shudder.

Bring back the sunshine!
Sing me the tune of the lamb
Or the Jack and Jill of the hills
or a story about the macramé man

I long for the laughter we shared,
The unusual joy in the street
Hiding under the bridges,
Indulging in sweets and treats
And the mischief we engaged

Remember that day we watch father shaved his face?
It seemed so funny to me
How could I not see?
It was staring me right in the face
Green, Green eyes did not let me see
But it eventually caught up to me

Liberate me!
Bombarded with questions
Is god he or she?
This puzzles me
Oh bring me back to those days
When my only care was A and B

I hate the colour of my son’s teeth
Figments of failure splatted onto a clean slate
not remnants of neglect
just signs of a retired struggle
of tired knees buckled around his entire being
head coerced backwards
confined between two gym-deficient inner thighs
of baking soda crusted cloths, ribbed for effect
wrapped around one persistent-ass second finger
gearing to nag against an unwilling smile

The sound of blunt trauma screeching
from this little guy
prevails as I ease up on my grip and desire
to make those quad choppers white again

but the truth is, there can never be a clean slate
we can never return to the ignorance or bliss
that we will treat these pearls as gems
instead of clams chomping down on desires
coved behind those deep-pink kissers

As I said, I hate the colour of my son’s teeth
Highlighting not the truth
but the painted fabrication that this shit is easy
and that he’s just too young
for me to be fucking this shit up already