CaribbeanTales wants your stories!
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 White flames lick; "Lines" is
CaribbeanTales is looking for new literary, artistic, video and audio content!
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,
grab the hose and spray the shine back
into their red drooping heads,
their dusty leaves.
You would kneel, knees sunk deep
You would kneel, knees sunk deep 
Reader Comments » (0)
| 
This Article in Print-Friendly Version »
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 righteous
and the fallen have fled. The city
is dusty, broken after years of neglect.
How we suffered for a dream, recycled
our Reader Comments » (0)
| This Article in Print-Friendly Version »
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 stark
the white of the page
resisting the brush of dark.
the village is eaten. Reader Comments » (0)
| This Article in Print-Friendly Version »
Caribbean Tales wants your stories!
Download Newsletter in XML
Tell a Friend about caribbeantales.ca
