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Best Jamaican Poems

Below are the all-time best Jamaican poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of Jamaican poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Jamaican Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Jamaican poems are below this new poems list.

JAMAICAN VOODOO PRIEST by Baniti, Nailah
PREFACE TO A JAMAICAN FAREWELL by lowe, millard
JAMAICAN PARADISE by dunn, cherl
I Love Everything Jamaican In You by Reed, Carma
Jamaican Elegy For An Intellectual (Rex. R. Nettleford) Part III by Shango, L'nass
Jamaican Elegy For An Intellectual (Rex. R. Nettleford) Part II by Shango, L'nass
Jamaican Elegy For An Intellectual (Rex. R. Nettleford) Part 1 by Shango, L'nass
Jamaican Elegy For An Intellectual (Rex. R. Nettleford) Prelude by Shango, L'nass
A JAMAICAN TROG * by Strand, Brian
Pointing Forward to Jamaican Interlude by Karl Parboosingh by Smalling, David

View all new Jamaican Poems

The Best Jamaican Poems

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The Older I Get

I once heard the whisper of falling snow,
saw a spark in the eye of a coal-black crow,
felt the power and awe of a swift river's flow,
the older I get, the less I know.

My hair was once braided in golden cornrows,
by Jamaican friends in an island below,
a psychic once asked me about Jericho,
the older I get, the less I know.

The hot southern asphalt that scalded my toe,
the rope swing that swung us, to and fro,
Christmas Eve and the tree in the firelight's glow,
the older I get, the less I know.

Everyone's gone, but where did they go?
Why is my spirit sinking so low?
Is it true we reap only what we sow?
the older I get, the less I know.


©2010 DanielleWhite


Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2010

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Jamaica Nuff Love

Beautiful Jamaica,land of my birth,
This little dot,specially prepared by Mama Earth,
World best seasoning,grown by our dirt,
And the Jamaican Rum,bad nuh blouse and skirt,
Beautiful Jamaica,land so sweet,
A formal dinner or a party in the street,
Our vibes,our style so unique,
Our warmth,our culture,no other can beat,
Jamaica,Jamaica,land we love,
Touring Jamaica feel free like a dove,
Our rivers,beaches,beautiful sunlight up above,
Sample our tasty meals,you'll find one that you love,
Jamaica,Jamaica,land so great,
Great runners,great music,embrace our taste,
God or Jah Rasta Far I,embrace our faith,
Take a trip to Jamaica,it's never too late.....


Copyright © Richard Palmer | Year Posted 2012

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Love At James Bond Beach

Making Love In Jamaica At The Iconic James Bond Beach It is a sun splashed day;  the air is silent with the sound of waves  the ocean is moving to the rhythm of crying gulls.  The fine white sand underneath our feet is warm. The crashing waters from a small wind sculpted waterfall swims  into the arms of its mother sea. It is a private beach at a spot in the world  where the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean meld. It is a wanting sensation of hot then cold, that teases the senses. The beach is deserted it is only me and the love of my life.  The golden rays of light from the bright morning star  lives in the flow of her platinum blond hair.  In her eyes I can see the bright clear ocean,  with a piercing love glare that beckons me.  Her red lips, her light drenched skin glows  with the beauty of this perfect Jamaican day. Without a thought I grab the back of her head,  jerking my lover's whole body towards me  locking her in the strength of my grasp  inviting her to quench my desire. I bite her lips before engaging in a deep passionate kiss  remove her barely there bikini from her statuesque figure. She embraces me as I lift her in my arms  naked for all the Gods to observe.  I set her down under the refreshing flow of the rushing waterfall.  She attempts to pull at me, but I deny her, hold back both her arms and use my mouth  to suckle her, all the time absorbing the beating waters  that kneads my flesh like so much dough. Suddenly I set her free.  She pounces  like a lioness  a lioness in heat  famished  for the taste of flesh. The world dissappears  I find myself willingly trapped in a void of marvel. Nature's voice conducts  an orchestra of emotions. We writhe in the ecstasy of touch as a series of divine strokes finger paints portraits of rapture.  We dance slow to the precise notes  of a symphony of love into the arms of serenity. In one fluid movement our bodies become one. There is no end to the flavors we consume. Cooling waters flame our sins.  We explode like a building imploding gracefully to the roar of a white sound. Finally we pass out  naked, locked in each others arms.  When we awaken we find ourselves lying on  the fine white sand beach. Tattooed  in the telling shades  of a Jamaican suntan. 02~11~2014 Sponsor: Justin Bordner Contest Name: Make Love To Me In That Ancient Place


Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014

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warning sorry a bit sexual

It is a sun splashed day; the air is silent with the sound of waves 
from an ocean moving to the rhythm of crying gulls. 
The sand underneath my feet is warm and soothing. 
The crashing waters from a wind sculpted waterfall swims 
into the arms of its mother sea.

It is a private beach at a spot in the world 
were the Caribbean Sea and The Atlantic Ocean hug. 
It is a strange sensation of hot then cold, that tease the senses.

The young woman with me is my lover of four years.
 The golden rays of light from the bright morning star 
lives in the flow of her platinum blond hair. 
In her eyes I can see the bright clear blue ocean, warm, 
but with a piercing love glare that sends shivers up my spine.

We are young, in love and safe 
inside a perfect glossy postcard background.
 Her red lips and light drenched skin glows 
with the beauty of this perfect Jamaican day.

Without a thought I grab the back of her head, 
jerking my lover's whole body towards me 
locking her in the strength of my grasp 
inviting her to quench my desire.

I bite her lips before engaging in a deep passionate kiss 
and remove a barely there bikini from her statuesque figure.

She embraces me as I lift her in my arms 
naked for all the Gods to observe.
 I set her down under the refreshing flow of the rushing waterfall. 
She attempts to pull at me, but I deny her.

I hold back both her arms and use my mouth 
to suckle her all the time absorbing the beating waters 
that kneads my flesh, like so much dough.

Suddenly I set my angel free. She pounces on me, 
like a lioness in heat famished for the taste of flesh.

The world disappears and I find myself willingly trapped in a void. 
Nature's voice conducts an orchestra of emotion. 
We writhe in the ecstasy of touch. 
With the strokes of a divinity fingers paint a portrait of rapture. 
We dance now to the precise notes 
of an escape into the arms of serenity.

In one fluid movement, our bodies become one.
There is no end to the divine flavors we share. 
Cooling waters flame our sins. 
We explode like a building 
imploding gracefully to the roar of infinite sound.

Until eventually we pass out naked 
locked in each others arms. 
We find ourselves lying on the warmth 
of the fine white sand beach when we awaken, 
tattooed in the telling shades of a Jamaican suntan.


Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014

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Usain Bolt

Jamaican Usain Bolt
Was found to be at fault
When he dashed off on a whim
No one kept up with him.





Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2015

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A Supreme Summer

Out doors a place of freedom where
prying eyes could not restrain the vibrancy. 
School’s out, summer sunshine, crisp morning light,
cuts through the fog of parental restraint.
Blue jeans, tee shirts, Keds and an orange and 
black striped bumble-bee bus of 
prepubescent girls off for their first day
of summer work, farm work.

Bagged and boxed lunches held tight, their
hands taped white to shield them from the
sticky yellow nicotine sap, the itch,
a rash of budding beauty among the 
burgeoning rows of new stalk green.
Tobacco as far as the eye can see
rises on cane-like stalks. The furrowed
fields are uncovered now in the July sun.

Gaggles of girls in candy colors, sweet and sour girls,
tall and short girls, rows of girls among the cane.
Poled lines spanned the rows above the rising canes.
Little twisters walked the gullies tying off each plant,
around the rising stem a hairy-brown twine was laced,
between the fan shaped leaves of dollar green.
Early summer passed, coloring cheeks pink,
and skin to golden brown.

The stalks rose like seeds from Jack. By the first of 
August, they’d topped the girls and the cheesecloth
shades were rolled above. Steamed in the August sun
deflowered-the children were watered and by 
State Law occasionally rested and retrieved if
the temp rose past one-hundred and five below the nets.
Any bit of uncovered skin was burnt or 
tarred black daily by then-harvest time.

Shooed into the darkened sheds Consolidated 
on the dirt floor the stringers stood, sewing 
machines with piles of slats beside them, one girl per machine
two hands, two leaves, in they went between the belted teeth
and the needle lanced. It also lanced tired fingers.
Piecework; I can’t remember the pay scale but
they called it piecework and it was too. [a fine piece of work]
It took bits of you away every day.

But in the dark, high up in the rafters, the darkies
hung the bounty, handsome black Jamaican boys
crews of boys with lilting tongues and they sang,
and we sang “Come See About me.”
We worked, and we sang “Baby Love”
It was a supreme summer. 
On our own, a bloomin’ summer
where all of life was ripe for the pickin’. 



*picking tobacco


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014

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Anansi and the Christmas Cake

It was Christmas time in Anansi’s house
But Anansi was snoring loud and deep
While all the house was up and busy
Sneaky Anansi was pretending to sleep

Anansi imagined lying on the beach
Soaking up some hot Jamaican sun
Christmas time with all its merriment
For Anansi was never, ever fun!

Poor Anansi - it’s such a crime
To not have fun at Christmas time!

Last year whist fixing the Christmas baubles 
He was jumping up, extremely mad
Because all the baubles kept flying off
And the crooked angel looked very sad

When he tore off the wrapper from his gifts
He always hoped for a nice surprise
But every year his presents were the same
Eight pairs of socks and two colourful ties 

Poor Anansi - the church bells’ chime
No fun for you this Christmas time!

And Christmas dinner was never enough
Because his wife entertained the whole town!
Cold scraps of dinner left on a plate
And a squeeze to find a spot to sit down 

And playing party games was such a bore
Card games he never had the knack 
Charades would leave him a little confused
Legs tangled with Twister or stuck on his back

Poor Anansi, you can bet a dime
No fun for you this Christmas-time

Never anything good to watch on TV
And the Queen spoke too posh and too slow
He didn’t even have a favourite book to read
Poor, poor Anansi with his Christmas woe

But there was just one thing about Christmas
That Anansi couldn’t wait to partake
Every Christmas his wife would prepare
The most delicious, scrumptious Christmas cake

Every year he sliced the biggest piece
Leaving his family to fight for the rest
Delicious, scrumptious with a scoop of ice-cream
This Christmas cake was always the best

Anansi made sure that everyone had gone
Before he scurried down for his Christmas treat
He looked in the oven, the cupboard the fridge
But couldn’t find any Christmas cake to eat

 “Surprise,” said his wife from behind him
“We are having fruit salad for a change!”
Then she handed him a large Christmas bowl 
Filled with tropical fruits of all range.

Poor Anansi - it’s such a crime
To have no cake at Christmas time!
To have no cake at Christmas time!
To have no cake at Christmas time!


Copyright © Elayne Ogbeta | Year Posted 2014

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Baby Power

Babies these days are moving hard,
Brains loaded like a memory card,
Jamaican babies or the ones abroad,
Can't let them out of your sight,head-ache,Dear Lord,
Careful what you do,think they didn't catch it,
Start watching them or you are gonna live to regret it,
Children Hospital is full,I can bet it,
Long,long lines,baby mother has to sweat it,
Jump down the stairs,try pulling the plug,
Pull down the iron-board,reaching for the hot mug,
Search your dirty sneakers and mess up the rug,
And if you ever hit them,they start to carry a grudge,
Don't feed me,I want to feed myself,
I can hold the spoon,don't need your help,
One year old,big woman,big man,
And from they start to walk,push away your hand,
Want to do their own thing,like they set the plans,
Worst if down by the kinder garden,they have their own gang,
'Waa waa,gugu gaga boo boo',baby talking to a next baby,
Translated by Google,'just cry,they were made to serve us',
So we will always be on stand-by,for our little baby genius...


Copyright © Richard Palmer | Year Posted 2012

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BEIRA'S WINGS




From stark equinox, a cold wind blows
Maiden Winter closes the final rose,
Now she stands at the frosted gate
Decked in pristine robe so ornate
Dusted leaves drift from balding trees;
Crowning tiny pearls of arctic breeze.
Her wand sparks pale Eos’ quiet thrill
Quilts of eyelids wake on threadbare hill,
Soon kingdom’s carpet will turn to steel
And dashes of fairies pour a misty reel.
All snow -bound hours and icy nights
Blinkies*, a million twinkling lights
Scatter their magical flakes once again,
For powdered toes to whisk on capped lane.

And so the frigid bouquets will cling
Till crystals explode across Beira’s* wing.




©


*Eos- Greek Titan goddess of dawn
*Blinkies—Jamaican term for fireflies
*Beira—Celtic goddess of Winter


Fairy Tails Contest by nette onclaud



Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2012

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She wore pineapple rings for glasses

She wore pineapple rings for glasses
and walked like jelly dances
I didn't rate her chances
She used to wee standing up
she cooked lemon a'la duck
won the lottery, grumbled what bad luck
like a surgical nip, without the tuck.
She'd blow cream cheese when she sneezed
and eat ram dressed as lamb
for sunday roast she ate toast
with mushrooms for toes, little buttons in a row
smoked salmon for a nose, smelt fishy when she blows
She wore a chicken-winger-as-a-ring-around-'er-finger
that became a stinker, boy did it linger
thanks to x-factor, she wants to be a popsinger
but she's a bloody minger.
She cares not much for clothes
revealing skin and bones
much to establishments moans
and 'righteous' idiots groans
little boys stand and stare
french fries for pubic hair
thats not meant to be there
she makes a mess everywhere.
She's got a chopping board, where a leg should be
might be why she walks all wibbly wobbly
wears a saucepan for a boot, metallic clomping of her foot
for make up she uses butter
cheeks glow as eyelids flutter
she's well dressed like a salad
marinated in love ballads
a lemon glazed mallard.
She's like dessert before a starter
the rip off and the barter
she drips morsels like a leper
smells like fresh ground pepper
her blood doesn't flow much like batter
pure cholesterol but gets no fatter
she looks like beef but tastes of bacon
bleach white teeth with an accent like jamaican.
She makes a meal of everything
wearing rabbits paws and prawns for bling.
holding her hand feels like wriggling jellied eels
whiskers longer than the oldest seals.
She wore a banana as a brooch
didn't wash more like poach
she really is hamfisted, skin like crackling all blistered.
She's not a 5 a day, unless it's take away.
She's drunk too much grain, pickle damaged brain
downright bonkers on the left side of sane.
She slept alone upon a bed of stilton
in a suite at the glitzy ritzy hilton
upset, the tears she did cry
weeping raspberry sorbet from her eye
from the orbs within her pocket
hairstyled by electric socket
a crazy look, but I wouldn't knock it
for she lives her life free as the wind,
though she smells like brie that should be binned
or tuna from a damaged tin.
She's a genetically modified vegetable at a completely organic table
She cuts clothes off only to keep the label.
In this crazy ole world, shes still a backwards girl
enough to make even hardened stomachs hurl
Pretty tasty date, give her a whirl?
©John-Ovan.p.hull


Copyright © John-Ovan.P. Hull | Year Posted 2012

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Green Spanish Eyes - Part 1

Ah Consuela! Invoking vast vistas for visions of green Spanish eyes, I discern them again where she left me back then, as we kissed when she parted, my friend. So I’m daring to tread towards the klieg lights ahead, where I’ll wait till I see her ascend. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she teases the mirror with green Spanish eyes; Her serape entangles her ebony bangles like lace on the sorcerer’s looms, And her capes of the night, she drapes tight to excite, and her fan is embellished with plumes. Ah Consuela! I’m watching as spectators savour her green Spanish eyes; Taming wild concertinas, the dark ballerina performs on the concert hall stage, But she shies from the sound of ovation unbound like a timorous bird in a cage. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she quickens the pit with her green Spanish eyes, As the cymbals shake, clashing, the floodlights wake, flashing, igniting the wild fireflies, And the piccolo piper’s inviting the vipers to coil in the cold caldron skies. Ah Consuela! I’m watching the shimmering shadows in green Spanish eyes As I rise from my chair and converge to the stair with a hesitant sip of my wine. Though she doesn’t deny me, she wanders right by me with neither a look nor a sign. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she waves to the stage with her green Spanish eyes, (For her senses scoff, scorning the biblical warning of kisses of Judas that sting, With her pierced ears defeating the echoes repeating) and smiles at the bluebird that sings. Ah Consuela! I’m watching faint embers a’ stir in her green Spanish eyes, For a soft spoken stranger enveloping danger has captured the rhyme in the room As he slips into sight through the scent of the night and the breath of her heavy perfume. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she gauges his guise through her green Spanish eyes - From his gypsy-like mane, to his diamond stud cane, to the raven engraved on his vest - For a faraway form, a tempestuous storm, lurks and heaves neath the cleav’e of her breasts. Ah Consuela! I’m watching the caravels cruising her green Spanish eyes; With the castanets clacking upon the deck cracking, he whips ’round his cloak with a whiz And without sacrificing, at mien so enticing, she floats with her face facing his.
Part 2
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, the vertigo veiling her green Spanish eyes, While the drumbeat pounds, droning, the rhythm sounds, moaning, of jungles Jamaican entwined In the valleys concealing the vineyards revealing the vaults in the caves of her mind. Ah Consuela! I’m watching life's carnivals call to her green Spanish eyes, And with paused palpitations the tom-tom temptations come taunting her tremulous feet With her toe tips a’ tingle while jute boxes jingle for jesters that jive on the street. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she rides summer tides in her green Spanish eyes, And her silhouette’s travelling on ripples unravelling and shaking the shivering shores, As she strides from the light to the taste of the night through the candlelit cabaret doors. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she dances till dawn flashing green Spanish eyes, With her movements adorning a trickle of morning as sipped by the mouth of the moon, While her tresses twirl, shaming the filaments flaming that flow from the sun’s oval spoon. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she masks for a moment her green Spanish eyes. Then the bluebird that sings ceases preening her wings and descends as a lean bird of prey - As she flutters her ’lashes and laughs in broad splashes, his narrowing eyes start to stray. Ah Consuela! I’m watching fey carousels spin in her green Spanish eyes, And the porcelain ponies and leprechaun cronies race, reaching for gold and such things, Even being reminded that only the blinded are fooled by the brass in the rings. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she shepherds the shadows with green Spanish eyes, But as evening sinks, ebbing, the skyline climbs, webbing, and weaves through the temples of stone, While the nightingales sing of a kiss on the wing in the depths of the dunes all alone. Ah Consuela! I’m watching the music and magic in green Spanish eyes, As she dances enchanted, while firmly implanted in tugs of his turbulent arms, Till he cuts through the strings, tames the bluebird that sings, and seduces once more with his charms. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, the citadel steams in her green Spanish eyes, And behind the dark curtain the savants seem certain that nothing and no one exist, But though vapours look vacant, the vagabond vagrants remain in a mythical mist.


Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012

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YUH BRIGHT AN FACETY!!!

Yuh come inna mi office
come tek out mi tings 
yuh bright!!!!!!!!!!!
Mi nuh undastan yuh!!!!!!!!!!

Mi sey to miself...
"Lawd, mi a go forgive him....see di good side"
but nooooooooooo......
yuh come, nuff up yuhself and TIEF!!!!

Bwoy o bwoy....
ghost know who fi frighten...
clearly me a no one.

Come nuh...step in yah again!!
Me an yuh a go 'ave it out!
Tink seh mi likkle bit an caan mash ants...
wait likkle more...
King Kong piss up himself when me get bringle!!

An den yuh 'ave de audacity fi come laugh inna mi face!
Yuh no know who yuh a deal wid!!??
lata fi yuh...mi have betta tings fi do!
hhmmmmph!


NB: For those who may not understand the language the poem, it is written in 
Jamaican Patois.


Copyright © Karena Brown | Year Posted 2006

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THE CITY OF LOST SOULS

Beware, out-Lander for thy tread on the sacred ground,
Of Louisiana, guarded by the ghosts of the Mississippi,
And here the dead tell know tails, of the living's returning,
After adventuring into the darkness of the night.
Rattle them bones, sister voodoo woman,
Black magic's high priestess, cast asunder the 
Ivory teeth of the white devils, across the streets
Of old New Orleans, behold the ancient city of lost souls.
Hidden beneath the glittering mask, of La Carnival,
It is the celebration of the dead, my friend, and faceless
Figures, do toss the beads of evil, to the lustful
Crowds gathering, for Mardi-Grad's extravaganza.
Phantom walkers, without names or emotions, spirit stalkers,
Roaming the old French quarter, seeking to catch the
Innocent traveler unaware and unprotected. 
A wall of realism and illusion, thin is the veils that divide
Light and darkness, sheer vaporous mist of transparency,
Existing in this the forgotten realm, where southern
Comfort invites the living to visit, but never allows them
To leave alive.
As the flickering rays of twilight fades, swallowed whole
By the spectral invaders, the creatures of light seek refuges,
Holy places, as the church bells ring, calling unto the innocent
Make heist to salvation's shelters of grace.
In he city's center, lays a dry leathery organ, sunken
And misshapen, feel the rising, the awakening of the
Heart of evil emerging, its veins arteries made of 
Cobble stones brick, thus are the webbing's of streets leading, 
Unto the deadened heart, metamorphosing it alive once more.
Slowly bloods spiritual essence rushes through
These ethereal veins, reaching this source most
Evil, it owns this city of lost souls, unto the tolling
Hour of dawns first rays of light, crossing the horizon.
Red bricked buildings lay side by side one 
Another, in a design of Gothic manipulation, feeding
Stations made cozy for the living and dead to reside
Within, as the crimson curtains blow freely from the 
Inside out, welcome my friends to the French quarters,
The threshold's crossing, between life and death.
Hear the low thumping of the Jamaican drum,
Mixed with African tongue, chanting in rhythm's
Echoing breeze, softly spoken in whispers are the spells
Of misfortune, a vow's crimson promise, written in blood
Long ago, a demonic pack made between the spiritual native
Inhabitance and the dark heart of the Cajun Bayou.
On bloods throne the Grim Reaper does so sit, next 
To his bride, the Queen known as Mrs. New Orleans,
Both laughing in tandem, with the musical chorus
In this requiem of the dammed.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014

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Nurse the Rhymes

Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet eating vegetable one day,
She warned Jack and Jill about the hill,but they still fell from idle play,
Emergency call the Fairy Godmother,tell her hurry with no delay,
She brought them band-aid and pain pills,she always saves the day,
The Seven Dwarfs gave some helping hands,taking home seven pails of water,
On the way to Jack house they met Snow White and Red Riding Hood her daughter,
They told them about the Big Bad Wolf,that the wood-cutter slaughter,
Happy to hear the news,the Easter Bunny gave everyone a chocolate egg,
Jack and Jill got brawta,
Hip-hip-horray,now we can roam free without that trouble maker,
And although Jack and Jill were battered and bruised,
The journey home was fun and laughter,,,




brawta,,,,a Jamaican slang that means,,,extra

Been away for awhile but I am back my friends,,,


Copyright © Richard Palmer | Year Posted 2014

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The Final Stand

And I witness
Your deplorable “glory”
Hunching over my tattered spine,
So we can have something in common

You walk with glorified shell-shock,
Another sentient tongue, 
Straddling on the Eros of vindication

Your sandpaper hands
Reach for an assaulted tenderness
Embracing lambasted lyric

Another tenor’s proclamation
That their oxidized octaves
Are legitimately sound

…

Nobody is listening.

…

So, you try to rectify your ill-erect
Compass
Only heading south
Bound
By meandering prophecies,
Unwritten
Undeclared

Just another pre-historic fool
Believing the Jamaican grass is greener on
The other side

Puff your corrupted beliefs
Toward laundered Benjamins
While I soak in the bloodied joy,
That I remain priceless

…

Approach me
While you suffer tiny warden syndrome
In High Definition

Be the insignificant syllable that 
Becomes, you, a fragmented figment
Of your re-imagination

Call in your slobbering pinchers and
Convince them why dethroning my smile
Will be that change you conspire,
Because I stood taller than the arrogant
Umbilical c(h)ord that breastfeeds your high horse

For I am you
I am you
Every kick, every punch, every verbal attack
Every overcompensating, born-again glare
You blasphemously portray

But, it is not me you scar.
IT IS NOT ME THAT YOU SCAR!

…

Your one-night stand with perception
Succumbs your third-eye

Keep drinking from your bloodied, rustic w(h)ine glass,
As you drown in your declarations of dependence
Screaming to be louder than love
Louder than your ordained intentions
To become a speck of importance

To be worth something,
Something more,
Than the lunging foot you believe
Will keep me down

©D.J.E.


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2016

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Green Spanish Eyes - Part 2

Continued from Part 1
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, the vertigo veiling her green Spanish eyes, While the drumbeat pounds, droning, the rhythm sounds, moaning, of jungles Jamaican entwined In the valleys concealing the vineyards revealing the vaults in the caves of her mind. Ah Consuela! I’m watching life's carnivals call to her green Spanish eyes, And with paused palpitations the tom-tom temptations come taunting her tremulous feet With her toe tips a’ tingle while jute boxes jingle for jesters that jive on the street. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she rides summer tides in her green Spanish eyes, And her silhouette’s travelling on ripples unravelling and shaking the shivering shores, As she strides from the light to the taste of the night through the candlelit cabaret doors. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she dances till dawn flashing green Spanish eyes, With her movements adorning a trickle of morning as sipped by the mouth of the moon, While her tresses twirl, shaming the filaments flaming that flow from the sun’s oval spoon. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she masks for a moment her green Spanish eyes. Then the bluebird that sings ceases preening her wings and descends as a lean bird of prey - As she flutters her ’lashes and laughs in broad splashes, his narrowing eyes start to stray. Ah Consuela! I’m watching fey carousels spin in her green Spanish eyes, And the porcelain ponies and leprechaun cronies race, reaching for gold and such things, Even being reminded that only the blinded are fooled by the brass in the rings. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she shepherds the shadows with green Spanish eyes, But as evening sinks, ebbing, the skyline climbs, webbing, and weaves through the temples of stone, While the nightingales sing of a kiss on the wing in the depths of the dunes all alone. Ah Consuela! I’m watching the music and magic in green Spanish eyes, As she dances enchanted, while firmly implanted in tugs of his turbulent arms, Till he cuts through the strings, tames the bluebird that sings, and seduces once more with his charms. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, the citadel steams in her green Spanish eyes, And behind the dark curtain the savants seem certain that nothing and no one exist, But though vapours look vacant, the vagabond vagrants remain in a mythical mist.
Continued in part 3


Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012

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Days Down College Road

I’ve wrestled with devil in blue grass.
That college that picks pockets 
and helps itself to damsels’ purses
fixed nooses just off seventy-five south, 
over Clay-way Bailey.

The viaduct that divides two states 
divides thieves from Potter Stewart’s Court House. 
I refused to march the underground rail road; 
a black man rules the white house.

The dean, 
like Mathilda’s Trunchbull, 
is as mean as salt on back of barn toad; 
she lifted con from condescending.
I relished reflection of her 
standing stiff like light pole, 
frozen by the return from her calling the school “the company”

They were to give me what I pay for,
but madam flying high on stilettos 
was too uppity to climb down and meet me.
Requests made were called controversies, 
but to me it was freedom, 
and I (pusher of this pen) was on battlefield 
with Jamaican fire.

A competent crook cover ass with alibis, 
and you should never be seen as obstacles … 
If you are negro and alone walk with caution,
but not so with me; 
I should live Luther’s dream,  
‘cause I own college road. 
It was my journey.

I stood stout, 
like Michael,
to cast the devil out.
With Obama fueling negroes,
I wonder why Sam is blind 
to the now white-collar crime?
I sure hope there are copycats up college road.


Copyright © Earle Brown | Year Posted 2011

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JAMAICAN PARADISE

Lazy afternoon repast can be found,
Resting under a sheltering palm.
While troubles melt amongst,
 Calm serenity.
Engulfed this careless castaway,
 Setting adrift.
Mingling surf unto spray, and mist.
Welcoming me to mine,
 Jamaican paradise.
Soft breezes carry aloft, high above,
 Calm tranquility.
Waves brush smooth crystal sands,
 Spreading eternally.
Enjoy vacations latitude limitations,
 Without boundaries.
The island rhyme entices capturing,
Inner spirit to flight.
Imaginations glorious brilliance shines,
 Exposing a crimson horizon.
 Forgotten life's stress,
It's left miles behind,
 Here simplicities refuge surrounds.
Freedoms song plays, separating realities,
 Interruptions they aren't aloud.
Safe harbor beyond human intervention,
 Releasing solitude's prisoner.
Let God be my judge what happens,
 Here remains known only unto myself.
My heart lies at anchor beside tranquil,
 Breezes across distant Caribbean Seas.
An ideal dreamer setting sail towards,
 The melting sun.

BY CHERYL ANNA DUNN


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

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Beer

This is the best beer I've ever had. 
Yes, The best beer I've ever had. 
No beer is really bad, but 
This is the best beer I’ve ever had. 
 
Beer’s invention was accidental I’m told. 
Something about stored grain and mold. 
Before the Sphinx, beer was made and sold; 
And at times, more valuable than gold. 
 
Drank my first beer while serving Uncle Sam.
Got drunk on ‘33' in Saigon, Vietnam. 
By 19, I was a soldier becoming a man; 
So, I drank ‘til I didn’t give a damn. 
 
Since then, I’ve travelled the world all around; 
And tasted each brew that I’ve found. 
Most are named for people, animals or towns; 
And are glorious shades of gold, red or brown. 

There are pilsners, lagers and ales
Swilled from bottles, cans, mugs…even pails.
If you want to get drunk, you can’t fail.
Drink too much, you may end up in jail.
 
Drank Stegmaier in old Scranton town. 
Folks bragged it was the "best around“. 
I tried their Golden, their Porter, their Brown; 
And I must say, their judgement is sound. 

In Ireland, the Guinness is Stout. 
‘Tis a brew those Micks can’t live without. 
In the pubs, they all sing and shout; 
Until, eventually, they're all drunken louts.

In old Germany, there are too many to choose. 
Every Berg and Stein make their own brews. 
I tried each one on the Rhine river cruise. 
So many to taste.  How could I lose? 

I enjoyed Sapporo in Tokyo, Japan;
Served by a Geisha at the wave of my hand.
The Singh Hai in Bangkok was grand,
As was the Ninkasi in ancient Tehran.

Tried a lager called Foster’s down under. 
Drank too many.  My head pounded like thunder. 
They say Foster's once laid Dundee asunder; 
But they love it… though you may wonder. 
 
Enjoyed Red Stripe on Jamaican shores 
And each one tasted like more. 
A local beauty I was hoping to score; 
But next morning, my head was so sore. 
 
Henry Hudson’s serves Budweiser Light.
It’s weak, so you can drink it all night.
Yes, it takes quite a bit to get “tight”;
But it’s cheap and that makes it alright.   

Yes, beer is a beverage so grand, 
One of God's greatest gifts to man. 
When life gets too tough to stand,  
Just open a chilled bottle or can. 

This is the best beer I’ve ever had. 
When I arrived I was down and quite sad; 
After just two or three, life isn't so bad. 
This is the best beer I’ve ever had. 
 
Yes, the best beer I've ever had. 




Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

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THE LYRIC MAN


The Lyrical man of passion’s sacred song,
Gave his heart away to the Caribbean Queen,
In the fine crystal glasses of fine champion of desires lust,
Did he so drown, beneath the frothy waves of the tropical sun?
In the morning’s sweet rising, this poetic bard shed the tenderest
Of sun kissed tears, that melted in the heat of the hot horizons
Blazing oceanic dream.
Yet within this love sick heart he thus bleeds, eloping words
Of devotion from the farthest shores beyond, but the enchantress
Seductress dances the island waltz of the erotic, softly he sings
Unto this maiden tan and most fair, I’m here for thee, but
She does not hear the verses of this lyric man, passing him
By for a Jamaican band.
For no thumping drum, can beat the rheum of his heart,
Or the strumming of sensation’s that burn within his soul,
In raptures pleasure a raging voice echoes unto paradise
Lost, a thundering hurricanes proclamation, come home
To me my tropical princess, but in silences response,
Lies nothing except deafness silence, rippling across
The distant waves of sorrow.
What angel dethroned from heaven’s grace,
Caused loves sweet arrow to aim so wrongly,
Hitting this misaligned target dead on sight,
With regrets folly the only true outcome.
Oh do the island sirens so weep for him,
This Lyric man, who’s loving torch burns
Within the sands of pleasures betrayal.
Light as the feathers of angels does his 
Song ring out, enchanting mermaids even
To rise from the fathoms deepest depth,
Splashing sea form at this temptress of
Faded illusions, yet still she responds 
With empty sighs of rebukes disconnect.
He sits still on isolation's stage, playing
A melodies soft tune of lost eloquence,
This music man of thoughts passionate heart.
Silvery strains of diamond perils glisten upon
Briliances waves, shinning beneath the tropical
Sun, laying on top of the big blues surf, these
Are his tears of devotions everlasting love,
Connecting his heart to this his Caribbean Queen.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN







Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

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Fallen

My idol raced into the history books with record shattering feats,

 but fell from dizzying heights, stripped of honours and respect.

     I halted in my tracks, numb, disappointed and betrayed!

--------------------------
Number of words = 30
Ben Johnson was a Jamaican-born Canadian sprinter who became the 
world record holder for the 100 metres in the 1988 Olympics.
He was stripped of all honours when he was caught using illegal drugs.
-------------------------------------
Paul Callus ~ 1st December 2015
Contest: Fallen (25-30 words)
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Placed 4th


Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2015

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Room 56

From my balcony there is much to behold,
From cruise ships,visitors pouring into Jamaica,
young, middle aged and the old,
Different shapes,colour and style of dressing,
To Ocho Rios the pier is truly a blessing,
Smooth white sand and crystal clear blue sea,
Jamaican girls in straw hats and bath-suits,
entertaining under tents and coconut trees,
Tourist swimming,dancing,being massaged,
or just tanning,enjoying the sun and tropical breeze,
Taking tours on glass bottom boats or just
 riding the sea on jet skis,
 Surrounded by Jamaica Grand,Rooms,Sand Castle,
Turtle Towers and Fisherman Point,
This I believe is truly, one of Jamaicas favourite tourist joint......


From my balcony,Room 56,Fishermans Point.....


Copyright © Richard Palmer | Year Posted 2012

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CARIBBEAN SUMMER LOVE

 My carribbean summer love
 Was Morning sun in the sand
 On the sweet Jamaican island
 Home of my mothers birth, land.

As I got off the plane, 
I knew I was home.
Warm winds blowing on my face.
So, Gentle was the breeze
"Lord have mercy", 
whats happening to me?

  I went, to my destination
  I walked, Down to the sea. 
  The heart was filled with such glee,
  As sunshine, beamed down on me.

My breakfast was filled, 
With fresh vegitation.
Ground provisions of every kind.
Fruits from every tropical tree,  
It was simply, devine.

  The sweetest fruit, I tasted.  
  Wasn't a apple, plum or pear.
  It was a delicious mango,  
  that even Adams, girlfriend,
  Eve would, not share.
 
I had such, great meditation.  
It wasn't, on material things
It was just the lovely feel of nature, 
blessing, my surroundings.

  The oceans mesmerizing, 
  Blue Crystal skys, as clear as Can be.  
  It was so magnificent & amazing, 
  pure tranquility.
 
My eyes could not believe.  
Lush green landscape, 
The sway, of coconut trees.
Vibrant colours,  red, yellow and green , 
flowers decorated, my scenery.
The smell of the oceans breeze,  
just captivating

  I had to stop and ask GOD, is this heaven? 
  As I continued,  on my journey.

The next stop was Dunns River falls,
Streaming, from the river, into the ocean floor.
I climbed each rock carefully, 
 just in awe of this raw, natural beauty.


  Raindrops trinkling, the air so fresh & clean.
  I felt so free & alive, thought I was daydreaming

Didnt need a watch, Roosters crowing
Hourly, Tic toc, on the dot, as time briefly stopped.
To marvel, at this creation.  
No scientist on earth, could ever top!!

  Later that evening, the moon lit my way, 
  to where, I could hear Sweet Reggae music play.  
  Everyone was dancing from soca, pop, to R&B.  
  The rhythmic sounds all around, At a big beach party.


  I had jerk chicken, on the beach as fried fish was cooking near
                         
                          Deliciousness, filled the air

                          Love was the atmosphere.

Simple living, smiles always giving.  No worries or cares,
                           My Caribbean summer love
                           true,  Happiness, being there!!

Contest. Summer Day
Posted 6/17/13


Copyright © cherie thomas | Year Posted 2013

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WHITE, TOO, IS ALL RIGHT

My first Dollie was white
It sat on the lap of Papa's mahogany chair
I looked closer and saw blue eyes
A miniature mannequin, she was thin
Was it a sin I stood not smiling? But turned within
Filled with joy, the color of my skin was Cadbury brown
My Christmas gift to me all along

Dark girls I meet were pretty and sweet
If they were poor, I loved them more

My brother's first love was an Ebony dove
She was the color of my love

Nobody told me I was beautiful
On our way to sea, I felt it
A nappy haired doll; hand in hand
With my teacher, Miss Daphne, on the pier
I felt a touch, warm as Carib' breeze
It was the arms of God saying I was His
Of Her, my Jamaican Mama wedded to my Papa in Belize
Where mahogany speaks

Mys second dally was brown
She made me smile, and lingered long
peering into iris of her eyes
It was deeper than colorism
It was first pool my spirit plunged in
It soothe my soul

My friend, Denise Taylor was white
Eyes the color of chocolate
Her curls bounced gaily as we skipped to school
Her mood I always savored, was jelly sweet treat
She painted me a picture of light in all its glory.

*


Copyright © Iris Elizabeth Sankey-Lewis | Year Posted 2015

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A Sunken Pink Camaro

A Sunken Pink Camaro

Tropical fish.
 swim in and out of the windows
 of a sunken pink Camaro.
I dive, leaving a rainbow stream
 of billowing  bubbles

Above on
the timber pier, someone
with a piano accordion
plays chiming French music,
while nearby old fishermen 
swap vivid fish stories’.

Through ripples,
of clear water I see,
children dancing to tin drums
beaten by a lively,
ivory- toothed Jamaican.

I surface,
with a turquoise-tailed
mermaid,  perched on 
my left shoulder.

Some how,
I have rescued her
from a sunken pink Camaro

 Suzanne Delaney
For P D’s & SKAT's  Women write about Car Contest


Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2015