Poetry

FORGOTTEN STELAE


A kind of self blessing spawns in the glare, 
torn from reflections across a drain where 
raindrops gather to feed water hyacinths. 

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IX—OR ON THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE


I got stuck on the Brooklyn Bridge
and my driver just sat like stone
to the honks and heckles of the horn-head motorist
strapped into his humid summer ride

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UNFETTERED


don’t enclose me
within the palisades of time.
don’t imprison me
within the barricades of your mind.
the constriction
of your limiting web

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IF I WOZ A TAP-NATCH POET


“dub poetry has been described as...‘over-compensation for deprivation’”
Oxford Companion to Twentieth Century Poetry

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WATCH DE OL’ MAN


Wunna tink ol’ man ain’t special like he don’t got stars in he back pocket, too

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IT IS NOT HERE


they say

 

it is not here

at this chance meeting

exhausted

in leaky craft.

 

they say it

 

is not here

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THE LECTURER LADY


She says, assuming all of us Miami-ites as well as
               Anglicans, that those of us

who were in church on Sunday August 23rd and not at

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WOMAN WITH GOLDEN APPLE (NO ORDINARY FRUIT) AFTER LOTTE KRAMER’S “BOY WITH ORANGE (OUT OF KOSOVO)”


A woman holding a golden apple in her palms 
has crossed the boundary, uncertain yet hopeful.

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CON-FICTIONS AND CON-VERSE-ZIONS


Like the cruelty of clothes
belted
strapped
buttoned down
zipped up
these flat 
pressed women
ironed hard
metal smoothed

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Petroglyph Warriors; Acrylic on canvas, Adrian Augier
GORÉE ISLAND (for Kamau)

Memory mocked us.
Thrust a long lascivious tongue

through the chiselled slit
of a viewing window.

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