Poems

War

Walk and run

Bomb and gun

This is no fun

Is it about the oil?

Is it about the soil?

You choose

Either way you lose

Let’s get serious

Are we destroying the genius?

Wait!! Is that someone family on the tar?

Or is it your family in the mar?

Walk and run

Put away that bomb and gun

Children want to play again

Let us talk and make this end

In all the midst

It is all about the kids

Your kids and mine

Don’t tell me it is all in the mind

Come on! They are worth more

Than any diamond of any kind.

Paulette Roache

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My name is Windrush

I arrived in Britain between 1948 and 1971 from the Caribbean territory

I have toiled here for decades to help rebuild your post-war country

Yet I was wrongly detained, denied legal representation

Threatened with deportation

My name is Windrush

You changed your immigration policy

To suit your conservative party

Amber Rudd you changed the rule to stop overstaying

You changed my status overnight despite me paying taxes and working

My name is Windrush

I was evicted from my home

Yet, you are in your “Home” office

I needed NHS medical treatment

Instead there was only bewilderment

My name is Windrush

Amber Rudd you treated me with disdain

You caused me so much discomfort and pain

Caribbean representatives had called for a meeting

But instead you decided it was not happening

My name is Windrush

I was treated unfairly

Rudd, you needed to take responsibility

For causing this debacle

That made my life a harrowing spectacle

My name is Windrush

I protested and I put up a real fight

For Theresa May to make a U-turn and get it right

I am glad that there is no “Amber” light

I have now gotten the Green light to my British right

My name is Windrush

I look forward to my compensation

I am from that generation

My name is Windrush

Sharon Johnson

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Mom’s yesteryears

In the old days, at a party

Men would ask you for a dance

Not hitch on your exterior

In forward advance

I remember the ska

I remember the waltz

And a good-night kiss

When he walked you home

At the end of the dance

Kuss Kuss Perfume was rife in the air

And the afro hairstyle

Was the choice

In your hair

Crenolin and Bellfoot pants

Felt hat and walking stick

Plus your umbrella

Made you look extra slick

Men accompanied ladies home

As a sign of respect

While giving her conversation

To titillate her intellect

The next outing with him

May be in Church

And possible wedding bells

If the dating had worked

Sometimes the ladies

Were too young to date

So men would wait in patient stand

Then write to the Father

For her hand

Do you have a job?

Do you have land

To take care of my daughter?

Were questions of the Dad

How I miss those Afro-sheen days

When I was young

I still remember those days

So says my Mom.

Lisa Gaye Taylor