Agency

Agency

All around me the clawing tentacles of darkest night swirl, jeering,
taunting, laughing at my indiscretion, hurling contemptuous invectives at me, pelting pellets of scorn by the handful, plunging me deeper into that mire of shame.

Did I kill him?
Absolutely.

And yet, I feel no guilt, no shame. My eyes focus on the center of the deepening vortex, the tiny bubbles of diaphanous, ethereal, kaleidoscopic color floating their way up to nuzzle my face, to cuddle me in their spreading warmth. Despite myself I smile, a smile that grows exponentially, finally bursting into peals of laughter. Laughter not cackling with evil, but effervescing into joy . . deep, soul-felt joy.

I used to love him once.
Even more than I loved me.

A love that knows no bounds. We sit side by side on the beach, burning skin touching burning skin, merging as one into the moonlight, listening to every gurgle, every gush, every tumble, every bellow, every crash as gentle swash produces powerful swell, breaks into a million pieces in the height of ecstasy and reproduces itself all over again. We tentatively touch and explore, seeking to recreate the movement of the waves. Natural perfection.

Yeah, we used to love each other then.

But seasons change and summer slips into fall. Then honey-dipped smiles turn down their corners, grit their teeth and grimace. She . . . silvery-tongued She . . . holds out a full, nectar-coated teat to him and greedily he drinks her in. And fall eases itself into winter. Leaves shrivel up, turn brown and dry, then die in the glorious afterglow, and we stand stripped bare of those fashionable threads we wear. Seeing for the first time the barrenness of our naked souls. Stark white and ugly. Then comes that December time when love lays itself down all feathered in the first whiffs of snow, and drifts calmly off to sleep. Then ushers in the freeze and limbs grow stiff.

I didn’t even know him then.

And winter rapes the very soul of summer hope. Slashes and burns and lays waste every once sun-kissed tree. Landscape rolls bare as far as the eyes could see. Huge mounds of ice hide red, ebbing heart that bleeds itself into frigidity, casting silent pleas of help to ears that fail to hear and eyes that cannot see.

Then what had he become to me?

The hunter’s report, the reaper’s scythe, the bulldozer’s roar, romping delight on freshly covered, petal-strewn grave, then stomping it some more.

So yes, I killed him.

I put an end to his charade, hastened love’s transition to that place called forgetfulness where only healing, no harm exists. I took his lame excuse for love, folded it carefully and tucked it eons far away. Now it lies cold below six plus feet of tainted earth, where it can neither feel nor flirt, nor feed nor on occasion hurt.

I killed him . . . and . . . so what?

Yes I feel neither shame nor guilt. You see it was either him or me. I killed him so that I could be. A reasonable choice, you must agree. So yes, I stand before you now, alive, joyous, and finally free, after a million years of misery, able for once just to be . . . me . . . simply because . . .

I killed my memory.

And I don’t give a s*** if history doesn’t absolve me.



© KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
11.23.2007

Labor Day

Labor Day 

There will always be a Brooklyn
Greener pastures with saloon doors
On hinges that swing
This way and that
But do not conceal
Tall rawhide boots with silver spurs
A mouth-twisting, cigarette-dangling, gut-wrenching drawl
A holster slung low
And a trigger finger spinning
Its hardware like a dancing top

And yes,
There will always be
A brand new set of hundred n something sneakers
And boot cut jeans
And another ghetto-fab designer name
Splashed across scrawny chest
That heaves faster and faster
With each thought of
Colder, more glamorous climes
Of mistletoe and red-necked reindeer
And jolly old Saint Nicks
Stockings hanging laden from
Every mantelpiece
And crisp bright crackling fireplaces
And yes, molten marshmallow dangling from the end of sticks

And there will always be
Another cheap hooker-turned-PrettyWoman
With pinned up skirt, big hair and down-home crawl
Lingering defiantly
In the tropical blackness of the air
Eyes bright with hope
Glistening like so many dancing notes
On a tenor pan
Looking skyward
At yet another
Giant metal bird
Winging its way
To
Yet another
Brooklyn


Eyes that turn their noses up
At the tattered clothes of
Yet another wizened bum
Sprawled off
Sunning dirt-caked, all-exposed backside
On faded-green, paint-peeling bench
In Woodford Square
Thinking of the time
When he, too, lived the Brooklyn dream
But that was long ago
Long before the shackles snapped
And dropped him plump
In the middle of
This god-forsaken land
A land long forgot by time
Without a dime
And even longer before
He turned to
Very very petty crime
Yes
All in good time
While he still listened
To Valentino sing
“Trinidad is nice, Trinidad is a paradise.”
While young upstarts
Bushy-tailed and starry-eyed
Spend their only blue
On gilded grill
And crystal bling
And conjure up
Grandiose schemes
Of their very own
Brooklyn

Exploitation
Sexploitation
Touristication
no vindication
Yes
There will always be
For every immigrant- wannabe
Another
Brooklyn

But not for me

I don’t care if it never ever again have
Another Brooklyn
Cause in Brooklyn
No pretty glitter costume
no blue-painted, tail-wagging devils band
could ever look the same
or
feel the same
no headpiece
could fit so smooth
or look so good
cause there the sun does broil not blaze
to a cool 107 in the shade
and it does take that Yankee drawl
and gangsta hip-hop swagger
right outa your crawl
cause even when it hot it so damn cold
yuh cyah even jump chip or break away
an even yuh soul does feel so old
yes, even on Labor Day

Yes, yuh see
In Brooklyn
It ent have no doubles, chip-chip or boil corn vendor
Not even slashed-to-perfection-with one-cutlass-swipe coconut water
It ent have no parang, no chutney-soca
No Panorama, nor Grand Savannah
No Skinner Park, no bake n shark
No Maracas Bay on Ash Wednesday
No words like obzokee, ramajay,
mirasmie or tootoolbay
It ent even have Papa Bois or Sukuya
No La Djablesse or GanGan Sara

Yes, it hard . . . it real hard
Here every little joy does only have las lap
Every grand entrance call only final clap

Yes, I may be old, ugly an on top o dat, duncey
But it go take more dan greenbacks to fool me
Yuh see . . .
I know why dey call It Labor Day
So I ent goin no damn way
Plus I ent have nutten to prove
Mih name ent Stella an ah ent lorse no groove
Yes, I love mih lil country
Where talk ent jus cheap . .
It totally free
Where every taxi driver, every lime,r is a politician
Every sus-su or whe-whe banker a mathematician
In every street-corner shit-talker is a philosopher
An every black-hen chicken could be prime minister
Every dog an he sister could wave dey manifesto
Cause is always party time in Trinbago
Yes
Times may be hard, real, real hard
But dat doh mean ah want any damn green card
To tell de honest to goodness truth
Yuh see right there at de very root
Of dat same silk cotton tree
Is where my navel string done bury
So alien ent mih identity
I jus here in body only
Cause my yaad
Go always be
“Sweet, sweet Trinidad . . . “


©KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
12.19.2007

Cocoyea Broom

Cocoyea Broom

And kids plucking out one by one
The few stray weeds. . .
I dream of papa lying there
with gray mustache and striped pajamas
hands clasped in final payer
like it never was in life. . .

I dream of mama
Frail and weak
But laughing singing and downing a glass of Old Oak
in one gulp
Puffing a pipe
And drinking a demi-tasse of café
Black and strong . . .

I remember
The festive strains of parang music
Cuatro, box base, mandolin
Hoarse cracked voices
With toothless grins
Bare feet and stained overalls
Coco-panyol day off
Black cake and pastelles
Ham and aguinaldos
serenals
Ponche-a-crema
And mucho mucho café
Full-skirted swirling dances
And appliquéd alpagatas. . .

I remember her raspy smoke-filled voice
Her trembling hands
Barely able to hold a flame to cigarette
dangling from pursed lips
strong veined hands
counting money from her shop . . .
holding down the fort
long after he was just a distant memory
long after all that was left of him
was that strange bump on his forehead . . .
and his gray felt hat
as gray as the satin lined box in which he lay. . .

I remember her holding us close to her
Huddled faces hidden in black and white
polka dotted skirt
screaming into muffling folds
where are they taking him?

I remember how
Smiles were all we had. . . .
watching it all through stained glass windows
on the world
Watching how life and death
Danced merrily with each other
As grandmothers continued to pick rice
As children never paused at play . . . .

Everything . . .
Was so simple then . . .

Simple, bare and swept clean
With
Cocoyea broom.

©KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
10.21.2007

Tiptoe

TIP-TOE

It was BIG, too!
Not huge –
for folks like you,
but to me -
yes, siree!
More than we could ever fill
And I was thrilled,
so thrilled that we
had to agree to. . .

Tip-toe, tip-toe gingerly
around his-story
in order to be.. .

divest myself urgently
of all that delineated me
shave head clean, for sure
change of nomenclature,
kill that mother twang,
forget all the latest slang
purify my very skin
from the likes of kith and kin,
ropa nueva was the price
acceptance of another Christ.

And it was clean
And so so green,
the kind you see
in fantasy
and envy’s eyes
romanticize.
And spot-out free.

And Yet . . .

Almost instantly,
engulfing me,
encapsulatingly,
enclosing mean Sargasso slime
pilfering rhythm and rhyme
force-feeding frenzy
gurgling gutter- a- lly.
Such indecent brevity
luna de miel sin honeybee.

Everywhere
A thousand sneers
grubby hands dart and dare
to sully this
unforced pair
of wistful bliss.
Mango pulp lips,
To caress and kiss.
And finally to slip
juicy ripened joyousness
onto warm expectant tongue.
Waiting too damn long. . .

But not raped uncut
from milky teat,
wasted life
on darkened street.
Rough shod in charge
on gutted stones –
with bruising,
unforgiving tones.

Tip-toe tip-toe silently
Even surreptitiously
Around, about, and in-between,
Safe from Mr Squeaky Clean.
No shut eye, no rock-back rest
No put’ em up, no lean-back fest
Must see the risen sun.

So I
had to just
up and run.
No backward gaze.
No time to laze
No shoes, no cardigan,
and such.
No contact lens, no keys, no watch
Under the gun,
Just had to run.

Until I
could breathe the air
of just one damn day without fear.
In country lane
And fluted panes
of tender scenes
and evergreen
where fairy queen
and lovers preen
adoringly.

Isn’t it fun-ny
how ‘tread carefully’
becomes
redundancy
when. . .
at last. . .
you are
FREE?


©Kalypsoul
05.06.07

At Aburi2

 

In Your SPELL

(in honor of Giles Hall, Spelman College)

In Your SPELL

You
stand there
Majestic red-bricked sight
Shuttered door in peeling white
Dwarfed by sheer tow’ring height
trellised four-storied light
Slated belfry pierce the night
world-wearied eyes dusted in speckled grey
Mirroring wisdom of many a day
Aged oak limbs yellowed and long
Fluting winter’s last swansong
On much trodden mould dusted in soft burnished gold
What secrets do they really hold?
You
Stand majestic
in December’s tired dance
Sagacity echoes in your very stance
Heads bow in humble obeisance
To your o’er pow’ring omniscience
So . . . can you tell . . .
Of TV camera lights blasting bold
Casting you in A Different World
Can you tell . . .
How Harriet and Sophia burned
And in Friendship Baptist turned
Their fervor
Into favor
Of those who yearned
To rise, and sit and learn
Like Miss Mamie from ole Decatur town
shut out, shut up, long before Brown
Etta, Ludie-Mae and Aunt Dell . . .
So Can you tell . . .
Of ancient lore, Anansi tales or more
of starched voices, ruffled pinafores
praising all homemaker’s score
Well . . .can you tell?
How many have graced these hallowed halls
how many tried within these walls
to rise up with the few
of dark accursed hue
What dainty little damsel queens
Emerged to grace this tidy scene
in white-gloved work hands
from this Southern land
And did you see. . .
When that poor child fell
Pinned ‘neath your sorrowing tree
You were there. . . so did you see?
And can you tell?
Your many secrets kept so well
Dear old G-I-L-E-S
I'm captive in
your SPELL!

© KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
01.14.2005

TGIF

TGIF

Part II

I used to love Friday!
Hi Day. . . I Day. . .My Day,
Believe-I-Can-Fly Day
Until that (Sigh!) Day
When Mr Lamé . . .

(Heaven’s Ambassador!)
slithered his way under my door
at a quarter to four
scent of her oozing from every pore
Just a friend and nothing more?
Sure!

Thought life would be a song. . .
He’ll love you long; he’ll love you strong!
Wait! Something’s just gone terribly wrong!
Hissing away with forked tongue!
So long!
See ya around!

So Mr. Lame
with string of letters to his name
hometown street acclaim… ing his fame
sophistication . . . he’s got game!
who every night ignited my flame
sank in a bite of poison and shame.
Came. . .
Then gave Dame Afrika his name.
Nothing has ever been the same.

Now it’s just Fried Day
Marinate, Simmer, and Slow-broiled Day
Cry Day, Lie Day
Wondering-Why Day

But NEVER ever
Roll-Over-and-Die Day
Just Pray-the-Most-High Day
That, perchance, someday . . .again I’ll say,
"Thank God It's Friday!"

© KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
2004.

Missing U

To Dearest Lesly

Missing U

Hey girl how long has it been?
Is it really all of nine teen
Almost twenty-four have gone
Since you and I did have some fun

Remember all the waves we made
And all the festive plans we laid
I knew you so well inside and out
As you knew me without a doubt

Best friends, no -- sisters to the heart
Although from worlds so far apart
Bridged chasms between black and white
Your friendship brought me calming light

We stayed the course through thick and thin
You helped me let the sOnshine in
Together we did laugh and weep
Eternal confidences keep

Relaxing on Maracas Bay
Chatting while our kids did play
Dancing with Sy at Tony’s Place
Royal Oak and a Coke to chase

Kicked back a laugh when we did meet
At Moon Over Bourbon Street
I think of you no less each day
You’re truly in my heart to stay

Is that your face in the rippling stream
Or didn’t we speak in last night’s dream
Is that your voice at the other end
So many messages I’d like to send

Say, what's your e-mail address there
Just read a good one I’d like to share
Call me or drop a line or so
How you’ve been I need to know

For the life of me I don’t know why
I search the crowds of passersby
To catch a glimpse, a flicker in the stare
A tinge of recognition there

Cause it has been truly quite a while
Since last I did see your smile
Nineteen months since my birthday
When you just upped and passed away

© KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
Nov. 2004

Missin U Photo

My son, Carlton, Lesly, and I - three weeks before she passed.

Your Voice

Your Voice

Your voice
Washing over me
Cleansing
Cascading
Undulating
Eddying
Gently rising and falling
In cadences vibrating

Your Voice
Flowing over me
Poetic
Rhythmic
Melodic
Harmonic
Giving exquisite pleasure
my hills and denes to treasure

Your voice
Quivering over me
Strumming
Stroking
Smoothing
Soothing
Slipping, sliding, tenderness
like mellifluous Caress

© KPLewis (Kalypsoul) 
07.17.2005

Prism

Prism

I Need You
You -- enhance my sultriness
My seductress, lover-ness, diablesseness
Entice me, enfold me
Evocative me, provocative me
Swizzlin’ me, sizzlin’ me
Skintalizin’ me
Give entrance to enchantress
temptress in me –
swell my rising glow
rivers melt and flow
Tumultuousness
Tenderness
Togetherness
Craze me, faze me, daze me
Amaze me
A maze me

I Need You
You -- calming balm to spirit
and to soul –
and so to heart
if these are indeed separate and apart
as I’ve been told
spirit behold
creative soul
multi-chambered heart of gold
Voice my every forming word
seek being even as I am heard
Lifting lilting again and again
through narrowed passageways
of unspeakable pain

I Need You
You -- thoroughly known to me
Perfunctorily
Indelibly etched in memory
Identity
Fidelity
Essence of
Foreverhunger
Foreverthirst
Foreverlove
Foreverfirst
shared history, responsibility
duty, family, legacy
Everything in life to me
Eternally


I Need You
You -- tickle my soul
Bele drum roll
Dance, laughter, hilarity
Carousel and farmers in the dell
Simon sez me, twist me, twirl me
Tease me, please me
Caps me, collapse me
Ring me, sing me
Prepubescent me
Rummy
Riddle-a-ree
Romping, Carousing
like tomboy within
roughandtumbling
the joy I’m in

I Need You
You -- engage the mental me
Exquisite profundity
Discursive, paradigmatic, parabolic
Antithetic, synthetic, synoptic
Diagrammatic, Ism-atic
Intellectual giant ascetic
Strutting your philosophy
Supersize me
Parse and analyze me
Doctor me in blissfulness
Jingle jangle Headiness
Consumed, engulfed in happiness

I Need You
You -- welcome gate to sanctuary home
Nurturerprotectormother
Eternalwombincubator
Suckle on sustaining meat
Life-giving everlasting teat
Strengthen you
Lengthen you
From nothingness
To godliness
From potter’s mess
To firm-rooted flawlessness
Wondrous Adonis
Handsome in your manliness

I Need You
Multi-myraid you
Feed me
Fill me
Free me
Thrill me
From tangled wrong to fluted song
From prison night to prism light
From astride stately shining stern
Bring the bliss for which I yearn
Come sail anew in ecstasy
Wind-tossed multi-mirrored sea
Mirage Memory Majesty
Just as the multi-myriad me

I Need You

© KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
07.17.2005

Wildflower

(To the art of perseverance)

Wildflower

Black Orchid, sensitive and mild,
wildflower emerging in tentative style.
Puffs of pollen, all comfy and nude,
fluffy like swans down, warm, cosy and smooth.
Gazes in wonder at this idyllic place;
lifts up a voice in this echoing space.
Fuzzy warm ducklings all gather around,
nuzzling together where caring is found.
Home for the one who has sought high and low;
don’t scurry away when the trumpeters blow!
You’ll find a friend here if you linger a while;
respite from the storm, my poetic child

© KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
02.28.2005

Beyond the Pale

Beyond The Pale 

So one by one
They lay their heavy burdens down
Lay down life’s scabbard, hoe and toil
Lay down the tears and never-ending strife

Now one by one
Reach out their still world-weary hands
Step willingly beyond the pale
Full fathoms deep, last conscious senses fade

In serene smile
And varnished, cedar-lidded eyes
A future lost to yesteryear
And triumph tears the tempests of today

Far-seeing souls
Cold praying clasp, and ashen calm
Set fluid spirits free to roam
No bounds can harm, nor can the joy be told

At chasm’s edge
I peer into vast void of night
No clearer with fair light of dawn
Forgetfulness must be your trusted friend

Still satin sheen
Holds fast to love’s eternal dream
Through rusted coins and green’d shroud pins
Yet in ancestor’s lore you linger still


© KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
 03.26.2005

Feast

Feast

Eyelids closed
Young hearts burned
Birthday party candles dozed

Now . . .

Laughter gone
Flame grown cold
Feasting on pure faith alone


©KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
02.05.2005

At El Morro Photo

Me at El Morro Castle, Santiago de Cuba, June 2002

Visit to the Prime Minister

(Dr. Eric Eustace Williams, Premier/Prime Minister 1956-81)

Visit to the Prime Minister

Well awrite nah, yuh ent boun to push mih so
I come here long before you, yuh know
Well ah get een de bus an ah pay mih fare
An ah get orf by de roundsabout in St Claire
Ma’am could I help you? Dat is de guard at de gate
Ah comes to see de doc. Where is his orfice situate?
Sorry Ma’am but no visitors today
You may come back on Friday or nex week Monday
So you mean to say I get up long before three
Ketch de firs bus from quite San Souci
Sleep still in mih eye – ah com een town
Now all yuh people want to push mih around
Eh, eh! I is a citizen an ah knows mih right
Same ting ah was telling Vio de udder nite
Ah wants to see him right now, get dat straight
An doh gimme no talks; dis business cyah wait
How yuh watchin mih so like yuh tink ah mad
Hear nuh, I is a distinguish pusson here in dis Trinidad
Doh tell me yuh never hear bout me?
I marrid de biggest fowl tief in dis country
He nicer dan you wid yuh bald-pated mout
But A! A! Yuh know de man shovin mih out!
Mister, doh push yuh han in mih face. Ah say doh push yuh han in mih face!
Allyuh people wants to see ruction in dis place?
You telling me my face squashy like mud
But a mosquito bite you an spit out de blood
An yuh behind – it flat like a 100 meters race
Life nowadays ent as hard as yuh face
Corbeaux does pass yuh an steups fus yuh stink
An yuh face – it like a big shot kitchen; it have two sink
Doh talk bout yuh lip - it stretch out like it arskin for more
If ah had a dorg dorter, ah tek yuh for mih son in law
It look like every time yuh open yuh mout
Two teet does steups an walk out
An yuh head so big, it look like ah young whale
Wen it ready to put dong, doh forget, ah want a male
Yuh ent too big for mih to put yuh over mih knee
Yuh ever hear bout lil axe dat does cut dong big tree?
Look, jus carry mih to de man before ah start to cuss
Look mih five dollars done jumpin up in Vio purse
Doh tink I put orn nice dress, necklace an shoe
To come quite here to parade for you!
Awrite, jus wait here yuh go see wot yuh could do?
Yuh constipated chicken, yuh better hurry before I get blue!
An he so darm thin he could get a paunch if he swallow a channa
An he mout ben up like if it turning a corner
But de grass growin nice around here, eh!
Lemme siddong on de lawn til de bastard appear
Ah now sittin dong to enjoy de breeze
Miss Lady, Miss Lady, come dis way please!
Good morning Mr.Prime Minister I is Rose from San Souci
Yes suh is I who did want to see yuh urgently
An dat guard yuh have out dey, he comin out o he shell
An he more waste dong dan a sno-kone in hell
Dese young people eh! He ent even start to cut teet
Why de hell yuh ent sen he home to watch Sesame Street
Mih reason for comin? Well suh Vio bet mih five
Dat ah cyah get een here today to see yuh live’
Dat is all ah win, so tanks for letting mih een
Well is now Rose playin San Souci Queen!

© KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
1973

Explosion

Explosion

Sunlight's warmth . . .
evoking hot desire
rhythmic explosion
of bronzed soulbursts

Rain . . .
fragrant and pure
bathing, cooling, coaxing . . .
silky soft, love blossoms


©KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
2005

Compulsion

Compulsion

. . .and you hear a voice deep from down within,
or from somewhere out there,
it does not matter,
saying
“ Write for my people!’
So you take this message and enfold it
deep within your heart, but you write not a word.
Finally you get something down on paper and file it
in a box in an obscure corner
and forget about it. . .
For years.
And the voice says
again, “Write for my people!”
But you continue to ignore it until years later
When you grow tired of being pregnant, filled with
a message dying to be born. Bursting to emerge
from the womb with the fury of
a mighty storm. You want
to run
but the weight
is so heavy you can barely stand,
let alone waddle. You have trouble breathing, sleeping
This baby has taken control of your being
And refuses to go away. That’s when
you realize the only way to. . .
is through.
And after much travail
in the night,
a child is born
Peace and Joy
Return to stay
in the morning.

©KPLewis (Kalypsoul)
2005