You love like the seasons

The spring in your step renewed me

Your summer lips subdued me

You weakened my limbs and I did fall

But your touch foretold winter after all.

And you left – for what? To recycle a lie,

To bring forth new flowers just to let them die.

Reading Owl

She was by a window in the library,

Brown eyes turned golden in light,

A pencil-chewing, hybridized sight,

Eyes glassy from the trance of reading,

He approaches, she, unheeding.

He says hello and offers to refill her coffee cup,

She empties his will with her strange eyes, so sunny side up.

Jamaican Waist Trainers, Best in the World!

Two ladies, tourists, were talking to Sammie while he drove them about in his taxi

The girls asked if he liked eating cheese with broccoli and they laughed when he said “me don’t like brackli.”

One asked “ok, do you know a gym I could go to in this parish? Or a store that sells waist trainers?”

He said “you don’t need none of dat this island will get you down to size like a strainer…

Just take a walk to a cabin up there, right there to the dewy green mountain

Your legs will cry out for murder, Miss Ladies this is certain.

And the hills are like obstacle courses, I doubt you will return with all your nails intact

If you do, is a miracle, look out for Jesus knockin at your door, tat-tat!!

Or…maybe carry four coconuts on your way from the rastaman fruit stall

I guarantee your arms will be as firm and toned as the great China wall.

Or jus go to a local community and pass some people’s gate

Let the mongrels chase you round,make you break track records to date.

An’ you don’t need no waist trainers, just take a kingston taxi day-to-day

I promise the driver will squeeze you in tighter than donald trump toupee.

Over time your waist will get smaller from the passengers digging into your sides

And you’ll shape little in the middle like squeezed flouride

Toothpaste, that is – and I sure this is better than any waist shackle you can find online

Let your environment be your trainer than a money-grubbing gym coach all the time.

Here is where you come off ladies, have a safe trip, you hear?

And thanks much for the tip, ma babyloves take care!”

Soda Pop People



after a difficult day,

you feel like

a bottle of soda.

Shaken to your core with things left unsaid, undone, unknown

Trying not to seethe too much but pressure is building like a pagoda.

and you’re fizzing at the rim because you are carbon dioxide in the torrid zone

You let more effervescence through but the traces seem to miss their view.

Dissolved liquids of common ground leave no room for  those outbound

with different minds, approaches and appearances

So you remedy the spill by closing the lid, thinking you’re doing yourself a favor

but you can feel yourself receding, vapours bleeding, losing your distinct flavor.

Let it out? Keep it in?

shake shake. fizz fizz.

Fine Line Between a Good Girl and a Hoe

And so I had sex with that man, Your Honor

Not because he wanted it

Not because I was infatuated or in love

or for a deeper purpose to be extracted by a psychiatrist.

I was just curious

and a human, an individual.

is that not reason enough?


Not for the gender-brand managers who brought me before The People’s Court,

eager to paste a label to reassure and satisfy identity consumers that only men do what I did.

Guilty! Thrown and locked in a cell

with other slimy females as well

whose bodies did not provide the desired adhesion for name tags,

they would not appeal their case through error confession or error correction.

I guess you can say they were unappealing.

I wonder… why do we create norms and act like it came from something greater and more inflexible than ourselves?

“Blame society” “Rebel against society”

An eavesdropping alien from space would think Society is a visible god, wanting us girls to fit nicely in pink frills on His shelf.

“Then She Knew”

Upon the door of her mind

He knocks.

Forcing his way in with naked desire,

Sweet nectar to fruition.

His taut diction widening her intellect…

teasing her imagination

and wetting her senses.

Erratic rhythms roaming

uncharted, voluptuous valleys…

Then she felt it:

The honeyed climax.

the gasp of inspiration,

the clenching of wits,

the pleasure of orgasmic looting

and the repose of coupling.

She left a trail of red lines on the broadsheet,

evidence of her enlightenment.

Then she knew….

Language had invaded her structure,

giving birth to a poet.






Wolves howl.

As if in mockery of my internal anguish

Arouse the echoing walls of my heart.

Oh! How the abyss aches from suppressed feelings –

Uncertain possibilities…

For if it has been proven that flawed has won perfection,

I with newfound voice would sound my soul like a wolf under moonlight.