I come to a room adorned with whispers of time,
Where the shadows dance in a rhythmic rhyme,
And there, an old woman stands with a heavy heart,
Gazing into a mirror, looking at the crooked work of art.
...
On the streets of Kingston, as the morning sun greets,
I see a Jamaican boy with calloused hands and weary feet.
His dreams in tatters like the shirt on his back,
Yet resilience in his eyes, on this rugged track.
...
Today, upon this stage, an actress must
Perform a tale of love and woe,
Many roles in past, she played and executed well
But in the hushed embrace of theater's din light
...
Judas came knocking at my door
All this time his back was turned
And I could not see his face,
But he was beautiful
...
Many a man
make declarations of love,
But rare is he
Whose love remains true
...
She left home to journey along
the road less traveled,
She had no compass, then
But only the vision of her journey's end.
...
I sat to eat at the table for three
There was my mother, my sibling and me
And for many years-
before my dangling feet
...
Monumental woman of God
I still hear your voice before the dawning of day
Summoning the power of Abba Father
To keep the enemy at bay
...
In a quaint cottage by the whispering trees,
Resides an old lady, time's gentle tease.
Her eyes like windows to a bygone age,
Hold tales of joy and sorrow, written on life's page.
...
What do you mean
that my poems aren't Jamaican?
Were you there with me in Waterhouse
When hunger lick mi shut but
...