Poems

Echoes of Forgiveness

In the depths of the heart, where shadows reside,

Lies the weight of unspoken words, the pain we’ve denied.

Love’s tender flicker, now dimmed by regret,

A symphony fractured, a haunting duet.

Every harsh word lingers, an echo in time,

Each silence a canyon, each tear a steep climb.

Yet amidst the ruins, a whisper takes flight,

Forgiveness, a beacon, guiding us through night.

To forgive is to unravel the threads of our grief,

To seek understanding, to offer belief.

It’s the courage to face what we fear most to see,

The rawness of scars, the truth of our plea.

Love, in its essence, is messy and bold,

A tapestry woven with stories untold.

It dances in light and it trembles in dark,

Finding solace in moments that spark.

When trust has been shattered and hearts stand apart,

In the rubble of sorrow, we find a new start.

“Bear with one another”, the Scriptures implore

In the grace of forgiveness, we’re offered much more.

Let us build from the ashes, let the past be our guide,

Through valleys of doubt, where our spirits collide.

In the grace of forgiveness, we discover our place,

Two souls intertwined, embracing the space.

So, here we stand, with the weight of our past,

Forging a future, with love unsurpassed.

In every foreboding glance, a promise is sown,

That love is a journey, and we’re never alone.

– Douglas Barnes

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Dry Wedda House

Ploop! Ploop! Ploop!

Is di sound a di pan

Inna mi Modda

‘Dream House’—

Choo di hands

A Work Man

Shi gi dem money

And someting fi nyaam

Yet every rainy day

Wi House a

Open back van

Di Kitchen go pit!

Living Room go padam!

And as fi di Bedroom

Salt River,

Clarendon…

Mom say

Whe mi fi do

When Workman

Doan give a bam

Mi never live

Inna good House

A pure dry

Wedda one…

Mason gimmi

Pure Ark

Fi put pon

Mi Land

Is like a

Mechanic mi check

Wid a Architect plan

Him gimmi two car tyre

Teck mi money den ran

Den pon him way out

Sey “Wrong Profession”

I gwine fire

Di rum drinking

Lay, lay Workman

Di Big Belly

Nyaam mi out

Long belly

Christian

Di Tiefin, lazy

Ginal

Spanish Townian

Not to mention

Di bad breath

Smoker Joe

Kingstonian

I doan know

How I employ

So much craven man

Dem meck mi spend out

Mi money

When mi Daughter

Deh Hospital

So a gwine

Mark di ‘X’—

Like mi Granny

And lef dem

To God

One day before

I die

I’ll get mi Dream House

And stop hear ploop ploop

Like cat a go after mouse

I will no longer

Be known as the

Dry Wedda House Ooman

Because God will

Be di Chief Architect

The Man with the plan

Cause in my Father’s House

Are many Mansions.

– Lisa Gaye Taylor