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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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The Best Jamaican 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

More great poems below...


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 | |

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 | |

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

More great poems below...


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 | |

Usain Bolt

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




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 | |

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 | |

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.

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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

Details | Jamaican Poem | |

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






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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

TRAVELING TIME







   TRAVELING TIME…

We have been traveling long;
Time grows weary of its load.

In the velvet darkness of night, the patoo*
Sings its song of a long journey’s end.

In the distant place where ancient dwell,
Ancestral drums signal our approach.

Across the mosaic chasm, time winks
And flashes his deceiving smile:
Bidding farewell.

But we shall meet again, Ole Time and I:
Circadian travelers of mystic realm.  




		(*The patoo is a Jamaican owl.  When you hear the patoo
                        cooing at night, it is a sign that someone is going to die.)