Poems

Life recycled

Blood runs in the streets

from the gun –

More blood runs in the streets

from him – he could not run:

The sound of gunshots

masks cries

as another man dies.

Blood runs

burning the spot

where the ammunition caught.

More blood runs in the streets;

Life – a nightmare;

He died at her feet

right there –

watching his blood running in the streets.

Eyes blank, as death

comes – from the wound in his chest.

An atmosphere pregnant with screams

as more blood runs in the streets –

and will forever haunt her dreams.

Watching his life slowly receding;

Labour pains reminded her his child coming,

Uncertain which agony is more

She sat – in his blood

and swore!

While his blood dries in the streets

His son is born –

The cycle repeats.

Years past – shhh! The sound

of bullets – fired by the son

whose father had died by the gun.

- Barbara McKenzie

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Black

I come out black from the root to the tip

I come out black

Dem seh maybe I tan too long

Inna the pot

For I come out black

Dem seh the metamorphosis

Of fi mi pigmentation from rare to black as pear

Shall hold me back

Cause I come out black

Dem seh come wipe of sum a dat

We ave di perfec ting fi gi yuh the European glow

Mek yuh well matte

Nadinola, Idole, Nepozone

An a likkle volume 40 fi mek di ting well shat

Di ting is I neva go docta yet fi the ailment of being black

An wen since is a problem fi mi wear me knats

You wouldn’t dare put me round a front fi smile and collec money

Yuh shub mi roun a back

But ere wah

Yuh can yabba kick back

Tun roun round fall dung

Kick up rumpus and skin over flat

Di fact remains I cum out Black!

- Dejonique Thomas

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