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

Pain is a humane thing

 

Pain is a humane thing, It tells us we're alive. It tells us we're feeling, It tells us we're human.

Pain can be sharp or dull, It can be short or long. It can be physical or emotional, But it's always real.

Pain can be a warning sign, It can tell us something is wrong. It can be a sign of injury, Or it can be a sign of disease.

Pain can also be a teacher, It can teach us about our limits. It can teach us about our strength, And it can teach us about our resilience.

Pain is a part of life, It's something we all experience. It's something we can learn to live with, And it's something we can learn to overcome.

So next time you're in pain, Remember that it's a humane thing. It's a sign that you're alive, And it's a sign that you're human.

-cocoatea.poetry

The Yard Man: An Election Poem - Lorna Goodison

 

When bullet wood trees bear

the whole yard dreads fallout

from lethal yellow stone fruit, 

and the yard man will press 

the steel blade of a machete 

to the trunk in effort to control 

its furious firing. He will dash 

coarse salt at its roots to cut 

the boil of leaves, try slashing 

the bark so it will bleed itself 

to stillness, and yet it will shoot 

until the groundcover is acrid 

coffin color, the branches dry bones. 

Under the leaves it lives, 

poverty’s turned-down image 

blind, naked, one hand behind 

one before. The yard’s first busha

was overseer who could afford 

to cultivate poverty’s lean image, 

but good yard man says since we 

are already poor in spirit, fire for it. 

http://bombmagazine.org/article/2533/four-poems