Monday, August 31, 2020 4 words I am thankful for

I Can't Please You

I'm sorry that I can't
Please you.
That I can't bend my
Spirit, my will, my existence
Into a pretzel for you to
Consume and find a bit
Of satisfaction for a fraction 
Of a millennia

I'm sorry that I
Can't please you,
That I can't put my life 
On hold to collect directives
On how to make your life
Easier, better, happier,
Even though you have yet to
Set directives for yourself.

I'm sorry that 
I can't please you,
That I've failed in the mission
Once again. A mission
That was not mine in
The first place. A mission that
Has left me battle weary,
Embittered and tired,
Oh, so tired.

What's that?
You need what?
To do what for what is not
For my better good?
To do what that strips
Me of my agency?

I'm sorry
That I can't please you.

That's it.
No ramblings.
No explanations.
No reasons why
I'm not jumping at your
Beck and call.

I can't please you.
I've accepted it.
I've come to terms with it.
I've settled into it like enjoying
A fine glass of wine,
A hot cup of coffee,
The view of an endless horizon
That curves just that little bit at
The corners.

I can't please you...
And I'm not sorry about that.

Wednesday, May 11, 2016 0 words I am thankful for


Over the last few years, I've been given opportunities to perform at events in and around my island. In some cases I write an original poem for the event. This poem was written for a fashion design competition that was called Afrosentric.

One of the organizers wanted a spoken word performer speaking with background music as dancers danced. Another organizer had seen me perform at Soothe had suggested me. As I knew the first organizer, I had an in.

What I found amusing was the fact that I've turned my back on what I studied at college, Fashion Design, and I turn around and am performing at a fashion event. It still tickles me to think about it.

Anyway this introduction as grown too long, so here is the poem:

Traveling across
A sea of sand,
A man as dark
As the sun is bright
Adjusts his turban
And looks to the
Horizon, seeing
Nothing but sand
And somehow he
Finds comfort here.

Women dance under
The full moon,
Their hands reaching
High to the cloudless
Sky as the drums
Beat a rhythm
That is echoed in
Their hearts, in
Their souls. It was
The music that brought
Them to their feet,
To the dance.

Children laugh
Despite the emptiness
Of their stomachs,
They laugh.
Despite the poverty
That surrounds them,
They laugh.
Despite the many tears
That have fallen and
Will fall,
They laugh.

This land beyond
The horizon is not
Only deserts, grasslands
And jungles,
It is cities with
Buildings that try to
Touch the sky.
Technology and commerce
Fitting neatly in the palm
Of one's hand.

This land, so far
And yet so near
To us all.

It is near
When we look
At the reflection
In the mirror.

It is near
When we break
Out into song,
In our voices.

It is near
In the food we eat,
The way we speak,
The names we give our children,
The way the rhythm,
Any rhythm, flows
In and through us.

It is so far
And yet it
Is ingrained
In every cell
Of our being.

Our being,
The beings of
The stolen children,
Taken and forced
To toil in a land
That, too, was stolen
And yet they would
Have us believe that
It was discovered.

Despite our abduction,
We survived,
We survived enslavement,
We survived poverty,
We survived adapting
To a freedom that
Was not even a dream
To our parents.

And through this fire,
A new people was forged.
A Caribbean people,
But never do we forget
Our past, our history,
And the fact that
We are the children
Of Africa. We
Are not just Caribbean people
We are Afro-Caribbean people.

Our past proves
That we are a
Resilient people,
A creative people,
A people capable
Of everything and

We have accomplished
So much in spite
Of our painful
Beginnings, we have
Created champions,
Artists, intellects, dancers,
Singers, designers and
The list goes on
And on and on.

And as the future
Extends beyond
The edge of our horizons,
There is so much
We can achieve,
We, the stolen children
Of Africa, we, the

Although our leaders
Wish to return us
To slavery under
The moniker of jobs
Where we bow our heads
In servitude to
People with pale skins
And green bills.

We, the people, can choose
To be different.
We, the people,
Can show those who
Think we are only
Capable of laboring
Under the dictates
Of those who don't
Even look like us,
That we are better
Than this.

We, the people,
Can show the world
That we are creators,
Innovators, masters
Of industry and
Much, much more.

And tonight
We link our past
With our future.
Our past, Africa.
Our future,
A new generation
Of designers.
And that link,
That bridge,
We call


P.S. In this piece, I took a shot at the local politicians and would you know it the Minister of Culture was standing in front of me.

P.P.S. Will post the video within the coming week.
Monday, May 9, 2016 1 words I am thankful for

Tick Tock

Tick Tock
I hear my
Biological clock
Ticking away
The eggs I have
In short supply.

“Yuh nuh have
A child, yet?”
He looks at me
Like fertile soil
In which to
Plant his seed.

I look at him
As though he is
Trying to plant
A weed in my
Well tended garden.

“Step along,
Young boy,”
“Don't you have
Two, Five, Eight
Kids, brother man?”
“Ew,” are thoughts
That prod the back
Of my tongue, begging
To spring board off
The tip and dive
Into their ear
To swim in the
Gray matter
They call a brain.

And still the clock
Tick Tock
Tick Tock.

Fuck the clock.
Toss it into one
Of those trash disposals,
Let it be reduced
To bits and pieces,
Freeing me of
This prison.

This prison of
Others' expectations
Due to the fact
That I am a woman,
And as such, I must

Alas, my entire
Existence, in a
Blink of an eye,
Has been reduced to
A walking womb.

I want to....
Breathe, the inhale,
Exhale kind,
Don't get it twisted.

Then again, I could just
Let time slip away,
Let the clock run out,
Ignore the pity
In people's eyes,
The venom in the
Eyes of overtaxed
Parents, the laments
Of family and strangers
For not letting my genes
Live beyond my body.

Extracting this clock
From my craw and
Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

Then I would see a little one,
Be it a floppy headed babe
Or a gangly seven year old
Who has just begun to reason,

And I touch my hand
To my stomach.

And I imagine a
Little me with an
Extra bit of spice.

And I think,
Just maybe,
Just maybe
I could be
Someone's mommy.

Tick Tock
Tick Tock


image credit: Ales Krivec
Tuesday, January 26, 2016 1 words I am thankful for

Seven Days

Give me seven days,
He smiled,
His eyes twinkled
Like the stars above
With an energy
She knew too well.

Can you perform
A miracle in such
A short time?
Her smile was nervous,
Tinged with a hope
That was ambrosia
To him.

I can do it
In less time,
His confidence never
Wavered, a steady
Candle flame, even in
A sand storm.

Then seven days
It is, she smiled
On the outside
And prayed on
The inside.
She wanted him
To succeed.

One then Two,
Two then Three,
Three then Four,
Four then Five,
Five then Six,
Six then Seven,
Seven then...

At the end of
The seventh day,
As the sun became
One with the sea,
As the moon bloated
And sickly watched
Over her, he came forth.

Did you worry?
He searched her face.

Her eyes flutter shut.

Did you pray for me,
He tipped her chin up,
Urging her to look at him.

She could never lie to him.

Did you believe in me?
His lips brushed hers.

She met his gaze
And in his eyes,
She saw that the
Miracle had come to pass.