Monday, December 14, 2015 1 words I am thankful for

Something to Tell

"Do you love him?"

I looked back to see her standing in the doorway. Rays of light streaming pass her, bouncing off the dust floating aimlessly in the room I used as my studio. Her heavy loc's, laced with threads of silver, hung around sturdy shoulders and the dress she wore reminded me that her heritage was never far from her heart. Mama Elliot had come a-visiting.

I turned my attention to the mound of clay, spinning before me on the potters wheel. It was not out of disrespect that I turned my back to the old woman, I just did not want my face to betray me. I wanted to find the right words to answer what appeared to be a simple question.

As I held the clay in both hands, I heard her enter the room and take a seat in the corner of the room. As I dipped my thumbs into the top of the clay, creating a dip that would grow into a bowl, I heard her strike a match. Soon, the scent of Mama Elliot's brand of ganja coiled around me, tickling my sensitive nose.

She did not repeat her question, she did not have to. Plus, it was not the old woman's style to repeat herself unnecessarily.

At last I said, "I don't know if I love him." I knew she would wait until the sun melted into the Caribbean Sea and be born again in the Atlantic Ocean. "I've grown accustom to his face," I said, honestly, to the vase forming beneath my hands.

Her laughter rumbled out of the depths of her like thunder erupting from a stormy sky. "You've been listening to Papa Elliot's music, eh? For a Rasta, he sure love the white man music."

As her laughter subsided, I felt the intensity of her gaze forcing me to look across at her.

"Be truthful, Child," she took a draw on her spliff, half way spent by now. "What you mean you don't know if you love the man?" With each word, a puff of smoke escaped Mama Elliot's lips.

I turned back to the vase, now six inches tall, spinning before me. I took a scrap of paper and made an indentation in the base. All the while contemplating the truth and if I should speak it.

"I care for him a lot but I'm not passionately in love with him." The words of my mind were spoken by my lips.

She snorted in an unbecoming manner.

"Who said anything about being passionately in love with him? What gave you the notion that love had to be passionate?" She exclaimed.

I looked at her and said nothing. Then returned my attention to the vase. This time, making an impression on its bulbous center.

"You think Papa Elliot and I have this passionate love, don't you?" She asked.

"Don't you?" I asked.

It seemed to be that we were speaking only in questions.

"Child, let me set the record straight. Papa Elliot and I love each other. There are times I hate the man, thinking that I should pack up my barley bundle and leave his sorry backside. Then there are times when I love him something fierce, I would drink his bath water if he asked me to, and you know how dutty the man can get."

A snicker escaped my lips before I could suppress it.

"I'm sure he feels the same way 'bout me," the old woman continued. "You see, Child, love is not this blazing inferno meant to devour your heart. Love.. love is the slow burn, the kind that forges steel. You have to keep stoking the fire, baby, to keep it going, to make it worth it."

She took another draw on her spliff, savouring the high. "An inferno dies out as quickly as it is erupts, but the slow burn, that  can last forever."

Mama Elliot got to her feet and walked over to me. She stood over me and I looked up to meet her gaze. Our eyes locked, she searched mine, she searched my soul.

"Do you love him?" I knew this was the last time she would ask.

"I... I love him." The words of my heart, spoken by my lips.

Mama Elliot smiled, a knowing smile I knew so well. "I know."

"If you knew, why did you ask?" It was I who was searching her eyes, her soul.

"Because you needed to know, you needed to say it , to hear yourself say it. Now you have to say it to him." She leaned in, pressing her cheek to mine and whispered in my ear. "Nuh worry, he love you, too."

I closed my eyes, tears welling up behind my eyelids, strong emotions bubbling up from within, tugging and pulling at my defenses. The fortified walls crumbling under the weight of my mother's words.

I opened my eyes and she was gone. I looked down at the vase and the wheel slowing down. I had now lost interest in it, deeming it complete as it was. I looked up at the old picture of Mama Elliot hanging on the wall in front of me.

She died ten years ago, diabetes got the best of her. Yet, my mother always came to me when I most needed her, when I needed her guidance.

I got up from my stool and walked over to her picture, reaching out to touch her likeness. "Thank you, Mama."

I heard a noise at the doorway to my little studio. I turned to see him standing there.

"Are you okay, baby? Something told me to check on you," his voice, thick with concern. I knew he saw the tears on my face, glittering in the half light.

I closed the distance between us, I took his hand as I stood before the man I loved. I looked into his eyes, searching them, searching his soul, discovering that Mama Elliot had told the truth.

With a smile, I said, "There is something I have to tell you."
Friday, December 11, 2015 1 words I am thankful for


Among the rocks,
I found a diamond,
Its many facets
Reflecting my torch
Light in every direction,
Dazzling my eyes.

In my hands,
It was hard
And unyielding
And all I had
to do was slip
It into my pocket

No one would know,
No one would believe.
Instantly, i would
Become rich, but
What is rich?

What is rich,
If I deceive
The ones I love?

What is rich
when there is
No one to share
The trappings
Of my prosperity?

What is rich
If I was alone
In a world
That is foreign
And nothing but
Illusions and deceptions?

Digging a hole,
I made my decision,
I placed the diamond
In the hole
And buried it.

A fool am I?
Perhaps, but a
Happy fool with
No money to his name
Is better than an
Unhappy one with
Money to burn.

A fool I am.
Wednesday, December 9, 2015 1 words I am thankful for

His Words

He would whisper
In my ear in
The most unexpected
Places, the most
Unexpected times.

His words would
Beat against my ear drums
As crowds pressed us
Together as we waited
For a concert to begin.

His words would
Break my concentration
As I sat at my desk
Working on a budger
Or something work related.

His words would
Wrap theselves around
My attention and
Pull it violently away
From what triviality
I was lot in.

His words never
Changed, never morphed
Into anything else
And still when I heard
Them a smile wormed
My face.

Then his words
Would become my words
As I whispered
Them back with
Equal sincerity
That was never
Lost on him.

His words.
My words.
Our words.
I love you.
Monday, December 7, 2015 1 words I am thankful for

Held On

He held on to me
As the golden raays
Of the morning sun
Turned Sharp and white
Then dull and golden

I should be dead,
Instead, she lay
Motionless, somewhere
In this building of
Life and death.

He held onto me
As though I was
A life preserver
But he was mine.

I held onto him
When the hearaging
Didn't stop. When
the doctors and nurses
Buzzed around like
Inhabitants of a disturbed
Hive, he held onto me.

I survived but
She didn't, she
Slipped through my hands
And fell into death's
And before I could
Get to know her,
She was gone.

It was as the
Shadows stretched
Till they became one,
That the tears came.
One, then two, then
My ace, his face
Was awash
With tears.

And we held on,
Even as sobs
Caused tremors
In our bodies
We held on
To each other.

The tears would dry,
The sobs would be
Silenced. The pain
Would recede from
Sharp to dull
And we will try
Again, but for now
We held onto each
Friday, December 4, 2015 0 words I am thankful for

A Monster

I feel like
A monster.

The light streaming
Through the gap in
The window turned
Innocuous dust motes
Into stars. I wondered
If actual stars were
Really dust motes
Floating in someone
Else's space.

Are you
A monster?

I looked across at
Dr. ..., his head tilted
As though he was
Reading the pad
He always held,
But he was looking
Up at me over his

Do I look like
A monster?

We were prone to
Doing this, answering
Questions with questions,
I'm sure to normal people
This would be irritating
But to us, it was normal.

A minute passed.
What does it
Look like?
A monster?

I reached out and
Grabbed a handful of
Stars. The action would
Have looked peculiar.
Perhaps it was.

It has horns,
And red eyes,
Pointed teeth,
And terrible 

I squeezed my hand,
Imagining stars, moons,
Planets and little itty
Bitty people being
Crushed in my little

What if I said
It looks like a
Woman with
Grey eyes and
A disarming

I smiled.
Are you calling
Me a monster?

He didn't answer,
He wrote on the
Notepad he always
Held during our
Sessions. The thick
Glass separating
Him from me.

Perhaps, I am
A monster.
Wednesday, December 2, 2015 1 words I am thankful for

Feels Heavy

My pen feels
Heavy today and
As I force it
Down upon the paper,
It sputters ink
Here and there,
Thoughts splutter
With no rhyme
Or reason, just

My pen feels
Heavy today and
It feels as though
A wall was built
Between my muse
And me.
Free her,
Free me,
Free us!

Let our words flow
Like rivers older
Than time, older
Than the existence
of creatures that
Quench their thirsts
In the ever flowing

Let my words be
Unshackled from
The heavy chains that
Hold them down in the
Muck of silence,
Let them be free.

Free them,
Let them not be
Held back by mine,
Own fears, mine own
Doubts fed by
The words of others.

These words are not
Mine, they never were,
They were stories
Of their own making
And I am but
A tool, nothing more
Than a pen, a type-

My pen feels
Heavy today and
Still I put it
To paper, I let
Thoughts sputter
Across it until
They make sense,
Then again....

Then again,
Do they have
To make sense.