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poetry

11/13/08

Permalink 12:03:12 am, by demarie
Categories: Culture

poetry

Love’s Blackness

Time was slowly passing by,
And the precious moments we shared,
Were spent quarreling beneath that black ceiling
We call home,
On that knitted quilt we call…our resting place,
In that cane field that was a place of growth [except for us].
Was it you or was it ME that stopped peace from flowing,
to get rid of the smoke that filled our tormented lives?
Or was it those people, who gossiped and talked of the women you had as your…mistresses?
Or, dear, was it just me?

Now you are gone in that black and dark night,
lonely,
With nothing.
Surely, you must be cold having no memory of a happy home, no taste of what really was love and peace…happiness.
Sorry, is such a small word to express my regrets.

But dear good bye…
though it’s hard to say.
That quilt that reminded me of our sweat,
Is not any more a quilt but a blanket with no
significance,
no meaning.
And now, I am as cold as it’s ever been and dear
That ceiling is still a dark one.

(Denise McDonald)
November, 12, 2008

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Bruk Pocket Jamaican

"Recently, this Jamaican won the 10 million special lottery for a dollar. As soon as the office of the Lottery Corporation was open on the following day, he was there to collect his winnings.

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