Crazy isn’t it?
How we sleep on our talents and dreams,
Because of a doubtful fear of what life could be.
Your dreams are looking at you,
Staring at you,
With anger, sadness and pain.
Instead of shunning the doubtful whispers within,
Take action reaping the benefits of the life you could live.
Your life is filled with undeniable purpose,
So why not take the first step and remained focused.
It will not be easy,
You may feel loneliness at times,
You may go through heights of adversities.
But what next to come is joy and success that will be well worth it.
So Stop Waiting,
The What Ifs,
Absolutely Have Faith,
And your life will never be the same.
The summer of 1944
Welcomed two new arrivals
At our small house
In the Greenwich Town
Community in Kingston
The one expected
The other a happy surprise,
Now three scores and ten,
My heart reminisces often
On a place that was,
That still is
But is not
And cannot be conjured
The way it was.
For Greenwich Town then,
So clear in my memory
Like stills projected on a screen
Click by in unmeasured slow-motion
One after the other,
Exists not for me alone
Exists also for natives
Of that time and place.
Sunday evening cricket matches
In Tinson Pen drew spectators
As bright patches of colours,
On small grassy hillsides
Topped with fruiting almond trees,
Enjoy and support a favoured team
From the pavilion set back
And some players
Watch and cheer,
Refreshing thirst-quenchers at hand
And at right, along a pebbled lane
Weeping willows as sentinels
Whisper and wait our exit.
An antiquated steam engine
Noisily speed along its iron artery,
Connecting and connecting towns
It stops each day
At East Avenue and Eighth
A choice for school and work,
Now quiet rails stretch far
From deserted station platforms.
Street criers pass by homes
Selling their goods:
Fruits and vegetables, is one cry
Solder your pots and pans, another
Fresh snapper fish, still another;
Carts dripping with water
Held Ice-chip-covered-just-caught fish
From the sea a few blocks over.
Always on a Sunday
The ice-cream man
Calls to waiting children
Eager to buy ice-cream-fudge-on-a-stick.
Twelve-inch blocks of ice
For your icebox
Saves a visit to Branstaff -
The ice factory on Foreshore Road.
Very near the ice factory,
Can be heard a fearsome noise
A loud grinding buzzing
As dangerous blades
Slice through huge logs
At the lumber yard
Called, The Saw Mill.
In the mangroves some nights
After heavy rains
Lights dot the darkened beach,
Young boys and men the invaders
Armed with flashlights
And toting large crocus bags.
In single-minded objective
Bags are filled with crabs.
In frantic Sideway movements
Outside rain-flooded holes,
Their hunters show no mercy.
Those images and more
Pass one by one
In my mind’s eye
Of a town as it was
In a time long ago.
- Angella Mordecai Meade
Silvera is a poem of pleasure plastered on the pages
Of paradise ... seventh heaven, cloud nine!
A hero of happiness, his heart still rages.
Hot from the glow of the poet’s line?
We may never know. Never know. Who knows?
But not a blade of grass in Reggae land grows
Untouched by these feet that stand everywhere.
Chairman here, committee there, Chief Judge here.
A ubiquitous euphoria of high spirits,
This animated embodiment of how we might live,
Helpful as a Blue Mountain sun that sits
In salute of sleeping stacks, still proud with a narrative
Of it’s majestic past, long before the austere Trini trend,
When Dalmain was small and still tender to touch,
This jovial poet hugged and kissed every lady as friend
His laughing eyes disguised much, much, much, so much.
Much more than a heart too big to say no!
Here let me hold your hand, let me show
No hidden secrets here, no skeleton in a clinker closet
You see what you get. What you see is really what you get.
- David Brizan