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Gingerlilies »
For my mother
By Lauren K. Alleyne | Posted: October 10, 2005
By Kwame Dawes | Posted: August 02, 2005 After the year of cataclysm, the walls of this city
By Kwame Dawes | Posted: August 02, 2005 Lines White lines
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They were your children too,
grew from the magic of your fingers
coaxing, mulching, digging air
into their soil.
You would rush home, exhausted
from teaching, see your babies
wilting in the heat and forget
that you were ever tired,
that you were ever tired, 
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Resurrection, Kingston, 1980 »
Poetry by Kwame Dawes
are scarred with green and orange hieroglyphs of hate,
the tragic lies of false prophets; the rubble,
the stones, the air still thick with last breaths -
800 blasted lives - and palms and bells, rods
and anthems strewn around, the detritus
of celebration we won't ever understand.
We have bled out our peace. Those nights
we trembled, remember? The Reader Comments » (0)
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Lines »
Poetry by Kwame Dawes
stretched on black
they wait in silence;
it is pre-dawn.
Above, the storm gathers;
this is a nightmare
drawn in fingers
stained with charcoal,
smudging away the flames.
They return Reader Comments » (0)
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