There is no autumn here as you know it
no leaves that blush and fall and die.
Mango does not drop because September tells it to,
the island does not shiver, the sun does not go shy.
But Rasta knows autumn all the same,
not by the calendar, but by the ground.
When the rains have spoken and the earth is soft,
when the yam swells heavy, deep and brown.
Autumn is not orange, it is gold and green,
it is Ital from the garden, reaping what was sown.
It is callaloo and pumpkin from Zion's hand,
breadfruit roasting over fire, Jah's love made known.
It is the time of reasoning, of balancing the soul,
when Babylon says hurry, but I and I sit slow.
When the harvest comes, you count not what you lost,
but what you kept in spirit, what you let go.
No sweaters, no bonfires just incense in the dusk,
drums low like thunder, children husking corn.
Autumn in Jamaica is not an ending, seen
It is a keeping. A gathering. A returning home.
Depression.
Sticks and seeds.
You can only be as depressed as a mossy stone.
Growls.
You move slowly, like dead.
Treacherous?
Or just socks stuffed with free samples.
Try to hold onto dead teeth.
Depression is just burrows.
Sticks, seeds, harsh chemicals, scraps, and jugs.
Not special.
Who is holy?
He who emulates God
For God is Holy
And how to do so?
Do what He does
Visit the sick, comfort the bereaved
Lift up the downtrodden, free the captive
Take in the orphan, the widow,
the poor and the stranger
Shun life in cloistered ivory towers
Holiness demands our God-given powers
‘Cause i can't be bad… never was,
Nor will I be!!
I'm just a cubby ; trying to get by,
With the love he found;
True only for him;
Won't ask for more, won't need no more;
A clear day, when he hears her voice,
An awesome night when she hums,
The next day, both would entice.
------
vol 6, Multiples
Stumbling through the language of the city,
I walked today
through the middle of a battlefield.
Blood.
Death.
Destruction.
And yet, tomorrow
will bring another new beginning.
A brooding, reverberating,
suffocating silence.
A shattered, broken world.
I plunge my hands into the earth
and paint a picture of revolution.
After a long life in exile,
I return to the village
and find how much
the homes and settlements have changed.
The traces of my childhood
are no longer there.
My eyes fill with tears.
Scattered, rough-edged pebbles,
broken branches of trees,
fragments of shells.
And yet, carrying all their mysteries
and adventures,
they return to me,
again and again.
wipe themselves
the tears in my eyes away.
For so long,
I have told the next generation
so many lies.
Now I have folded myself inward,
away from my own self.
Gender dysphoria,
distress, puberty blockers,
the search for gender identity,
hormone therapy.
Gender transition
continues to unfold
by individual choice.
Boys become girls,
girls become boys.
And even that
gives some people
a headache.
Dear, you are so lovely.
I just had to ask you, “Who did your hair?” Oh so lovely.
The sky is turning dark now, lovely.
The lamp on the table flickers low, oh just lovely.
I am watching the shadows stretch long across the floor, lovely.
The wind is blowing a gale now, that’s just lovely.
Ahh, your hand found mine in the dark, lovely.
Oh look at how bright the stars are shining in the dark sky, oh so lovely.
I don’t think I would change anything because it is lovely.
There’s a strange bird in the tree
warbling weird birdsong at me.
I’m listening lazily.
~ Thinking that there will be a long time
of contemplating death ~
The sun shines down on me
and I’m smiling uncontrollably.
What a wonderful day to be.
a brainwashed ghost and zombie
bumpkinly encounter snorting buffalo.
repercussion!
The moon above Ukraine might as well be a wreath, newlyweds’ crown—fall-blossom blooming, briding-and-grooming, fresh future looming, blushing bed-rooming…
The wreath above Ukraine might as well be the sun, solar-flaring, disturbing—connections, reflections, affections, rejections, communications…
The sun above Ukraine might as well be a Russian god’s powerless lightning—brightening, frightening, leftning-and-rightning, enlightening…
The lightning above Ukraine might as well be a bomb or a rocket—wandering, blundering, plundering, sundering, thundering…
Poverty stole the sky from us,
but childhood gave us wings.
God only visited at Christmas,
on the wings of a blue Cessna,
brought by the owner of the farm—and of our souls.
One day a year, God saw me.
Watching them leave
Holding my sister dearly
Trying not to cry
Why did they have to go?
But my sister seems dull
"Bye bye" is all she says
Now I see you,
Your true form unveiled.
A part of me,
Corrupted.
As old as I,
You were always there.
A growing sensation in me,
Awakened by my growing body.
You gave me no love,
Only lust and longing.
This I know now,
Before I was blind.
I've got you in my clutches now,
And though you struggle,
Clawing at me,
I know I can't let go.
It's for the best.
This pain is temporary,
Less than you've inflicted before,
I was just under your spell.
Soon this will pass,
And we may rest.
On the other side of suffering,
We will heal again, changed.
Created with goodness of flesh and blood
Not powerful, but sturdy
A Holy Man I know who sits high in heaven
Watches all below
Makes seas be calm
Command in still
Blowing refreshing breezes
Eases when storm arises
Mighty voice direct but serene
Sustains life and Death
Strength beyond modern man
Spiritual works seen
Stands with the world when turmoil comes
Understands creation better than they understand themselves
He is about Faith at every length
Aligns the soul with fleshy outside
A Holy Man bigger than I
He known as Thy
Reign superior
Commands and Controls
Restrained by my own hand,
I stagnate, going grey.
Through fingers, like sand,
Time slips away.
What could have been,
Never happened.
Now there is nothing,
I am alone.
You're my addiction,
fuel for my affliction.
I can't forget you,
I can't resist you.
Even though I hate you,
Everyday I miss you.
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