Let's try 02 June 2014 01:50 AM It's been about a year since I last wrote a poem, So, I called this "let's try," Just to see what I come up with. There's an artificial waterfall in the background But the natural waves in the fore Make a harder impression Naturally beaten rock On the clay of my mind that has been so very Malleable A great many things, Of greatly little importance: The wind in coconut trees, At night when you can't see And the sand that only noises When the wind sees fit to lift and throw it The leaves that fall year round, When it's their time, Because we don't have seasons. Here it's rainy and hot, Or just hot. Though, It's still an escape to- Where salt embraces you And the wind is your play-partner The sun may dance, And burn, Upon your skin But it means no harm Where the sky is smiling, And even grey is a blessing. I live in a paradise that isn't hard to find. The rocks and earth are the same as anywhere, But the world is kinder, Even to my wicked soul That dips beneath the waves and still finds air, Resurfacing. There is majesty in the womb of the Caribbean. Here life changed, Not for better Or worse But as it needed to be. Adapting to beauty, Aesthetics may vary to viewers But the wideness of the world Spreads you thin and makes you A membrane to stretch across itself. The Saran-wrapped-self can only Take as much as Old Man, Twain, And your make can bare. The crisis of the self Is not in how many lilies And dandelions are seen Nor the petty loves that may have, Once, Completed your life But in the dancing, The vigour that is your and the world The writhing of every colour Pretending upon your irises And the touches that tremble the electricity Of fingers and feet Where every recluse is fondling the Fast-paced future happening in the now that We are always missing I come to you above the treetops where I laid And my bed-branches The roots I've wiggled my toes through soil That begs the stirring of a seasoned Traveller, That I wish we could all be, Cracking the backs of waves And the crusts of the earth Till magma courses through veins And the mountains that rise are limbs. I am looking for something Full of the sugarcane sweet And the echo of conch shells, For the whistle in the forest With animals, I don't even know, Trembling to the moving world. Water glasses and revolutionaries are my goal And they are beside themselves with the ecstasies Of the travels ahead. By N. Nunes
