One hand does slap

Hazardous is

The hand that sweetly caresses your face 

Comforting, is

the same hand that presses you down

-cocoatea.poetry

Own- Kendel Hippolyte

A road razzled with restaurant signs and menu boards,

lights twinkling in the eaves, winking a come-on at the tourists;

glimpses—between the tall hedges—of hotel staff, busy

in black and white, a slash of colour, slice of a smile;

the strip, a tourism hotspot, cools down in the evening,

 then flares up, a febrile condition, in the night.

i try to understand a whole economy based on fantasies—

beach umbrella, sipping a culture on the rocks, Stella’s groove—

and ponder: for some, in fact, we did begin as fantasies—Cipango, El Dorado—

then were traded down to sweating-stink, slave-holding colony.

So centuries later, on a tropical Friday night, what now? What?

You can’t dissolve history in a fruit punch, make it delish.

Even the sugar in the coffee has a bitter aftertaste

when you know. The charcoal briquettes make the barbecue

then become ash. You see it everywhere, in everything.

See what, though? What exactly do i see?

This hedged-in hotel, with a glance of bustling workers,

and built on the remains of what had been the village cemetery,

is locally owned. A Black industrious couple from industrious families

and captains now of the twinkling industry of fantasy.

No absentee plantation owner’s property, this—a native enterprise.

Why my disquiet, then? Skeletons under the tiled floors?

Gravestones and bones crunched in with the numbers?

Wincing, the thought of that but—no, what stabs the mind

is that the buried could not hold even that final patch of ground as theirs.

And their descendants hustling in the palace of fantasies above them

don’t own it—not even in fantasy.

And I’m thinking that what may finally resolve this history,

shred the black and white raiments it is clothed in,

is when they own

not only the hotel, its ground, the other ancestral grounds,

but also

their own history.

-Kendel Hippolyte

https://www.bimmag.org/stories/own

I wait for you

 

I wait for you,

Like a flower waits for the sun.

I open my petals,

And spread my arms wide.

I wait for you,

Like a bird waits for the rain.

I sing my song,

And dance in the wind.

I wait for you,

Like a child waits for Christmas.

I count the days,

And dream of our future.

I wait for you,

With all my heart and soul.

I know that you will come,

And our love will be forever.

-cocoatea.poetry

The Child Ran Into the Sea - Martin Carter

 

The child ran into the sea

but ran back from the waves, because 

the child did not know the sea 

on the horizon, is not the same sea

ravishing the shore. 

What every child wants is always

in the distance; like the sea

on the horizon. While, on the shore

nearby, at the feet of every child 

shallow water, eating the edges 

of islands and continents does little more, 

little more than foam like spittle 

at the corners of the inarticulate mouth 

of some other child who wants to run 

into the sea, into the horizon.

- Martin Carter