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                       I
  “What in carnation is this?”,
A July sun breaks my winter sleep,
  and ghosts in the fog my only peace.
This early morning hoar chills
  the flesh and marrow, and the rains
of discontent neither cleanse nor cease
                      II
   I hear “Caramba Chico!”,
this room, it reminds me so of you.
  See the picture portrait, your silky hair,
the dark ceramic lamp of rings,
  your canvas brush stroke, your books
upon your shelf, your lonely empty chair
                      III
   Verily so in older days
a dry Penfolds filled your sherry glass,
  when you of me did ask “is the table set?”.
And I ask what’s for dinner - pelau 
  or maybe ham and hops to thankful fill,
but you say “boy, tonight is macafouchette”
                       IV
  “Christopher Columbus!”,
garden earth and buds dug in kneeling.
  How you liked among the cuttings to tread,
or in slow quiet pause gently sip
  a tall sparkling shandy, light a cigarette,
write a letter or turn an epic page unread
                        V
  “Jeez-an-ages! For true?”.
Stolen moments to drudgery escape
  in the garage pedaling the potter’s wheel.
Alas into wet muddy clay buried
  great burden and pain. I remember well
dear Mother, how contented it made you feel
                        VI
   As the hour grew late
I would camp upon your bed a while.
  Lay beside you - feel your warm breath,
and oft watch you nightly read
  of love, life and loss - but “Aye Caramba”
nigh was your own tale of horror and death
                        VII
  “Murderation! Is that so?”,
a great reckoning there was to come -
  no saving and no respite from sorrows.
Keeper, but not mine to keep -
  healer, but not yours to heal. Now all
we have are yesterdays and no tomorrows
                        VIII
  “Jumping Jehoshaphat!”,
out of the land of Isla de la Trinidad
  landed crates of tins and jars from home.
But Mother, filled was I by your cup,
  its love and succour real and everlasting,
and yet passed is a glory that was your own
                         IX
   Oh, how the music played,
closer and louder the beating drums -
  Calypso Rose the Calypso Queen to be.
When we at Carnival ‘78 danced
  down Frederick Street, but the music
died and now I long for its sweet melody
                         X
 “Chuts!” Not hug, not kiss,
not gaze passed between us ever again
  but for last sad audience in lifeless trace.
Yet I did on wings of sudden flight
  hearken to the soul of a hummingbird
on the wind flown and gone in gentle grace


             Written: July 1993

Note: Native Amerindians of Trinidad 
         believed hummingbirds to be 
         the souls of their ancestors.

         My mother used some 
         wonderful expressions.
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