Pink Wall Clock and other poems

Pink Wall Clock and other poems

Pink Wall Clock

Like island time it slows
down, as if a pie where
the knife gets stuck
in the Suriname cherry filling,
the hand becomes weighted,
wobbly. The numbers, years
marked in icing on a child's
birthday cake.  Hours passing,
flamingo stick figure legs
stride. The Empire sun sets,
all magenta skies and lacy clouds,
a strawberries and cream dessert.

Inner Tube

The bright pink inner tube,
a belly button I float in
age three, forever mothered
by the sea, rocking me
as if in a cradle. Waves
flow over me, stretch into
frilly tide like dresses I try on,
take off in a summer's day
of sea salt smells and heat.
The practiced thrill of
letting go of the soft sand
floor, leaping from toes
on point, to fly adrift the gulf
stream turquoise blue
with my nest under arms.    

Sun Prayers    

The images of the deceased African
Bermudians in the Royal Gazette
were heartwarming to me. Photo

complete with bio. underneath,
like cricket trading cards in death’s
ultimate out of the Somerset Stadium

game. Badges to get on the People
get ready, there is a train
a coming! for the above the ground

railroad trail. I want their faith
when I die.  I want the dialect tones
of their voices, soft sun prayers

of sea wave sounds and lightning
strikes weather cutting the landscape
in two. Brimming with a habitation's

sea-weedy shores and habits. Lazy
moments when a tongue curls in heat,
a flame in a sermon's slow fire. About

the home of oleander maiden hills,
the marshy toad land, the fossilized
limestone earth where a body will


finally lie. Curved rib bones, like
scaffolding of the ships that brought
us here. I want these saints present.

Island Wave

The taxi driver beeps the horn,
raises his forefinger above
the steering wheel: the Bermuda wave.


Like the island’s Skink lizard,
peering above a banana leaf,
just enough effort. On old British

racing green Morris Minors,
the traffic signals would open
on each side, like the dewlap

the anole displays for mating and
to be territorial. The National
Geographic article says they change

skin for camouflage when in
new terrain, like the sun patterns of
shadow and light on the car's roof, conceal

passengers in its daily hide and seek
game, although each a.m. its fiery long
digits hail, hail at us from the earth’s edge.

Good Friday Kite

We pasted pink, yellow, orange
tissue triangles together to take

the bright craft upwards unlike
our history of ships downed

by one. Made of the kaleidoscope
patterns, I would see when I held

one to my eye, a sea captain
looking through a telescope for

lands unknown. The South Shore on
a Good Friday is a sky of handmade

kites with tails, like shooting stars.
A multi-prism window, with an escape

rope of tied sheets, less it flies
too close to the sun and burns.

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