How you look pon yuhself

When yuh see all de pain yuh cause

When yuh see all de people dem

Weh yuh cause fi bawl?

How yuh look pon yuhself

Wen yuh see tears a run down dem face like a riva

An man just a drop

Like a fly in yah?

How yuh look pon yuhself

Wen a man dead by de bullet -

By de trigger a de gun -

Ah you pull it!

How yuh look pon yuhself

Wen yuh cause de nation fi weep

An right around yuh

People a dead at yuh feet?

How yuh look pon yuhself,

Ehh?

How yuh live wid yuhself?

- Kelly Winte

---------------

Youths without roots

Before the seeds are planted, shape the soil

Before the harvest. There is the cultivation

What then will be our seed's production,

planted in the sands of disconnection?

So what of our youths without deep roots,

who fear the very thought of being brilliant;

whose fruits produce the worms of violence

and leaves that are bitter with indifference

Let's replant them by the river of life

Give on to them that nurtured foundation

Tend them with the season's fertilisation,

rooted in quality education

Remember that not every planter is a farmer,

not everyone who reaps knows how to sow

But it's for all to administer the treatment,

to shape with love and consistency

Let's go forth then, with our pruning shears

to reclaim this withering generation

being tossed about by the winds of alteration,

so that we may be grounded on this plantation

- C. 'Skilly' Linton.

---------------

My bloody street

There's blood on my street

It's Wednesday morning

Just before eight

Two sets of people meet

I'm among those who leave for work

Those leaving the bloody street

They, are the ones who come in for work

Those coming to the bloody street

The shops are opening

Vendors selling

Hustling, bustling,

Up, down the bloody street

It seems no one notices

There's blood, on my street

The dogs are still alive

Still roaming the street

No other animal lives here

Except for rats

Bloody footsteps limp away

They lead to blood drops, trickles, then ...

did he survive?

By evening I return

Return to my bloody street

A baby cries

No more than three

His father clowns

Hardening the boy

'Mi a go murder yuh' he shouts

He intends it to be false

But the damage has begun

Will his blood be on my street?

Or will he cause the blood of my son?

Will anyone see

The blood on my street?

- Kaydene Salmon

----------

The power of a bullet

What's in the power of a bullet,

To rip away a life from another life

To rip away a love from another love?

What's in the power of a bullet,

To leave one's love dead, bleeding

To leave one's heart broken and unhealed?

What's this nefarious force of power-

Like hatred bubbling its champagne

Seeming crispy sweet but addictive, intoxicating?

What's this undying violence,

That strikes its vicious zig-zagged flame

A catalyst, a chaos, a chain reaction of pain?

What are these powerful, colossal, cruel forces,

That seem to collide in their attempt at destruction

That seem united in their aim at devastation?

It's these feelings that we harbour

Of hatred, violence, cruelty inside

That trigger our thoughts in our minds

Prompting us to act likewise.

It's these feeling that will eat us alive.

- Kelly Winter

-------

Regret, my love

I should have loved you when I had the chance -

Should have plunged into it,

No reservations asked

I should have embraced your love

Swept the fear away

As quickly as it came.

I should have held you close

And refuse to let you go

Instead I stood motionless

Silently watching you as you walked away,

Out of my life

Now ... and forever?

Time has played me for a fool-

A fool to think that I would slowly forget,

That the memories of you would fade

That my emotions would soon change

I thought the lonely haunting image of you

Would retreat into the deepest

The darkest depths of my mind -

Crouching in passive subjugation

Untraceable, unattainable, undetectable.

Oh! Instead the memories refuse to lie dormant

They stand bold -

Cruel in their poignancy; menacing

Memories so hauntingly beautiful

My mind can hardly comprehend it all

Memories so sharply painful

That I am left only with the bitter aftertaste

Of regret and utter hopelessness

That I gave up on a love one should never deny

That I let you go!

An excuse will never suffice.

- Tricia Wint