(Apropos Soon Come)
Heard the chichi budo singing
in the banana walk; heard
the burro braying; and
the mongoose roaming the coop;
smelled the aroma of roast breadfruit,
ackee and salt fish; and
felt the icy cold air tease
the warmness of my body.
Then came the off-beat
pitter patter of raindrops falling
on the roof top, drowning away the dream:
washing me back to the shore of this distant reality.
Self imposed exile rivals
only that of being a refugee;
the thought eased by employment
of the more dignified term---expatriate.
Mocking Odysseus, we wander
the haphazard journey; sadly seeking
stolen ways back to the womb of our beginnings.
Digging deep down into the sacred screaming soul
of myself, I pray and implore almighty Jah---
mek mi not become a of Sisyphus:
Jesus, mi’a crave ‘ome.
Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015
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