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See also: Best Famous Poems

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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.

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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.....

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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...

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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


Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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.

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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.

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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.....

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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,,,

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

The Con Tom Thumb

Tinker Bell married Tom Thumb
while they were both intoxicated on Jamaican rum.
Tom woke up in the local jail,
jumped up startled and screamed: “What the hell!”
The jailer said that “Peter Pan has pull here,
he supplies us all with real cheap beer”.
Tom inquired as to where here might be;
the jailer asked Tom just how drunk was he?
“This is Pirate’s Cove” the gendarme said
and pleaded with Tom not to puke on the bed.
“Where’s my darling Tinker Doll?” asked Thumb.
He was informed that she was at Jacko’s Bar still drinking rum.
Peter had come and posted her bail
and sprung the little trollop out of jail.
Now the con Tom Thumb sits broken hearted,
wondering how in the hell all of this got started.
The moral of this story is that when you drink,
don’t get sloshed while with that flighty little Tink.

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

Through Good and ... Good

Step by step, I steadily aged with time and wisdom.
I appreciatively obliged old bones to bow before kindred, king and kingdom.
Thank you mama for cleaning my snotty scum, 
thank you for caring when childish tears like rivers run, 
thank you for the sweet dukunu, the roasted breadfruit and the curried coconut rundung.
Thank you mama for reading Hans Anderson, and for repeating the giant’s fee fi foe fum;
thank you for the loud years of laughter and the many more to come. 
Thank you Big Dee for your bald-faced lying tongue;
thank you for being the reason I fled the gruesome ghettos of Kingston. 
Thank you creator for the many astounding things you’ve done:  
thank you for the death of pride, this bona fide self martyrdom; 
thank you Lord for my faithful consort, my daughters and my sons.
Through these streets my mind roams like fields of wild Sweet Alyssum; 
these streets like colleges spiraled from the sun stirred asylum. 





Dukunu is a cake made from banana and/or corn meal, coconut milk, raisins, cinnamon, nutmeg, 
brown sugar, vanilla, and eggs. The dough is wrapped in steamed banana leaves and then 
boiled.
Breadfruit is a large fruit that can be boiled or baked/roasted like a potato; it taste like bread 
when baked/roasted.
Rundung is a sauce made from coconut and Jamaican herbs and spices.

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

Freedom of speech

The government make traps
to loose your head like bottle caps
so fast-
like Jamaican girls running them tracks 

spreading fear
like Hitler designing  battle maps
with heavy gears;
slavering the people and the head of state says - cheers 

Let's solve our differences with cocktails 
and a few beers. 
Let us all cut the rat-tail;
deceiving citizens with false tales 

oh my!!
how couldn't we tell!!

Unto us a leader 
from nowhere rose up
with the Friday night fever
striking out and making hits like - Derick jitter

Looking good in the outside,
but the inside we still don't know.
Fellow man step to the side,
here it comes a hero

For the white, negro and Latino
saying all kind of stuff like
I'm with you amigo;
my destino is contigo

Be my guess - for more than less;
this is a new world mess
like saying the Islam
is a religion of commitment, justice and progress-
no offense

But don't forget about 9/11
all the dead in peace shall rest;
sisters and brothers that in Allah's name
were not bless

No longer freedom of speech- 
blocking all the media and press  
oh yes!!!
don't be impress

When they throw you in a prison for unreasonable treason 
like animals in a cage; 
killing you and making you disappear
like the federal case

Of 9.7 trillions disappearing into a black-hole;
right in front of our face
a new holocaust is on 
let's all not be amaze

When the Marshall law is on
singing like Marvin Gaye 
lets get it on......
 all the way from California to Tampa Bay.

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

Assassin of youth

Come meet the assassin of youth-
Breath stinks! But he’s got swagger
Possessing the college kids- got them confused!

Come meet the assassin of youth-
Granddads thinking they are 22
Sweet talking minds in kind
The Jamaican – a stereotype

Come meet the assassin of youth
Barack on cloud 9
David didn't deny
Bill had a try
Tony it did inspire

Meet the assassin of youth.

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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. 



Details | Jamaican Poem | |

Mi Plead Di Blood

Mi Plead Di Blood  (In Jamaican Creole) 

Satan!  Guwey!  Mi plead di blood pon yu aready
A wey yu tink?  Yu ano Freddy?
Mi no fraid a yu.  My God sey, Him step pon yu head
So, wha yu tink?  Yu dead!  Yu dead!  Yu dead! 
Aready!

God sen Him Son, pon Calvary Him shed Him blood
An wid His word mi feet mi shod
Mi in a state of contentment
Becaas mi obey every commandment
Get laas Satan!  Guwey!
MI,  PLEAD,  DI  BLOOD!
PON YU!



I Plead The Blood  (In Queen’s English) 

Satan!  Go away!  I plead the blood on you already
What do you think?  You are not Freddy?
I am not afraid of you.  My God says, He stepped upon your head
So, What do you think?  You’re dead!  You’re dead!  You’re dead!
Already

God sent His Son, on Calvary He shed His blood
And with His word my feet I’ve shod
I am in a state of contentment
Because I obey each commandment
Get lost Satan!  Go away
I,  PLEAD,  THE BLOOD!
ON YOU!

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

Eve by Edna Manley

Seductively symetrical in form and presence
She calls it Eve, I call it sepia political
Aroused motherhood of nation, a glamorous sense
Of identity, modern and yet mystical
Naked as a morning, smooth as silk dreams
She looks back, not histantly, nor curiously
Profiled the hidden breast, in streams
Of provocativeness, the right hand assertively
Shouldered on the fallen curtain of hair
Lefting hand coming down where the stare
Of vulgar eyes would fall, stripped of history
But not of dignity, the umbilical memory
Cradlles a lascivious eye against the dark skin
Woman bounteous with beginnings, sister, kin.

Edna Manley
Eve (Ceremonial Dance) 
 
Edna Manley (1900 – 1987) studied art at Central St. Martins School of Art in London 
alongside fellow sculptors Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth. Her artistic career began by 
sculpting clay models of animals but she made her reputation as a wood carver. During her 
life she became known as the Mother of Jamaican Art, and claimed that it was in Jamaica 
where she found both her subjects and materials. The sculpture 'Eve' (1929) was presented 
to the Graves Art Gallery in Sheffield by the artist herself in 1937. .

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

More Then Just Lines

I think I've seen you in my dreams, you're matching every description.
Your love is like a drug, I'd kill to fill the prescription.
You give me so much excitement, like when babies are born.
You're the only flower I see that's in this garden of thorns.
You must be Jamaican, because you're Jamaican me crazy.
Let's get a place together and maybe raise up a baby.
A lot of people call me Trav, but you can call me tonight.
You have the most beautiful eyes in the world, just like the stars they shine bright.
If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?
You could make a shy guy try and make a blind man see.
If I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd put U and I together.
You've got me floating like a feather, and I want to feel this way forever.
You may think these are just lines, or maybe all the above,
but please read this with your heart, because you're the woman I love.

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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!

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

Sisi the junkie

           Sisi  the junkie 
You are what you 
Take in in life
We say in Africa 

Sisi the junkie
Sisi was a beautiful 
Young admiring girl
All guys flog around her
Cos her beauty drive
Too much attention
She was tall with her
Long hair and nice figure

Sisi the junkie
Sisi was an intelligent
Young lady 
At high school sisi
Was one of our best head 
She was at the best of it all
But not until she fell in love
With a dope that in-strange
Her natural being

Sisi the junkie
Oh sisi the Iron Lady
Was her nick name
Sisi love fun a lot
That got her to a new
World from a strange
Friends with a double face

Sis the junkie
At first sisi
Got in to liquor 
She fun a lot with
Too much quantity of it
With out a control
She move to the Jamaican 
Herbs,
Like is not fun enough 
Sisi got in to crack
That was the doom of it all

Sisi the junkie 
Sisi loved crack
Like sisi use to say 
I need my
White powder 
when she 
Need to feel high

Sisi the junkie
Gradually sisi began
To lose control of her 
Social life
She began to act strange
Always busy with her fingers
As she scratch off her skin 
When she need the white powder

Sisi the junkie
Oh sisi the Iron Lady
Sisi lost a lot on this life style
with time like she is 
A deferent soul
Her friends was too
Far from her like 
She was a stranger they never
Know 
Sisi was broke 
Lost her job
Used her belongings to
Get crack 
Finally now on the street
Oh sisi the Iron Lady

Sisi the junkie 
Like sisi lies on the corner
Of the street still an addict
Life was so blue on her
Oh sisi the Iron Lady 

Sisi the junkie
Life is all about you
Your choice go so
Far with you
The power of success 
Lies on the level of 
Ones control 
Be in control 
Of who you are
Not be controled
By what you take in
Like the tales of 
Sisi the junkie