MArlie by the stArs
ReggAe beAt
syncopated
In the Air.
Brothers, sisters
ReggAe heart beAt’s
near
And the soul
that Makes us whole
With red green yellow
love ,
is An eternal heArt
of Dreadlocks
to the Omega .
Scent of wet
greenery and camomile
sting lush at night.
Tropical intoxication
brought to life by rain passed
and forgotten
The one who
divines and produces
Is king and queen
whether it’s
wheat in Egypt ,
seed, or anything
people need ,
desire ,
or must have,
even the open heart.
U turn at Callender
Passion for the past
On Roncesvalles
the lights are on .
People walk the street
with shadows cast
Shalamar and Hugh’s
are on .
My life is new.
Dream Sequence
Misted evening
David on his terrace
watching two men .
one his soldier ,
the other friend ,
across and down the way
on neighbouring terrace .
Red wine drips
from both their lips
at a perverse table
of their words.
Suddenly Bathsheba
appears
naked In the thick
and sultry
air of night
only to quickly disappear.
He feels her nearer now.
The sickness in his loins
grows and sets
in his heart.
The sun
is tempted .
Further up the One
observes
and knows
the
outcome of it all .
Haven’t Been
I haven’t been
where you have been.
I don’t know
the things you know
but as sure,
as surely,
as you have been
and known the places
and the things
that you have seen ,
I will journey there
far
and on my own
and will return
after I have
been and seen
and known ,
the places where
you’ve been.
And we shall then
begin
to be,
those who live within
each other
and within
the very one
and
the one within
ourselves .
From “A Matter of 4” by PWChaltas
Perfect Silence
The monstrosity
Of man made machines
Violates a perfect
Silence .
Nature is spoiled .
Peace disconnected .
The servants must
have their masters
and The Masters must have
their due.
The time is made for killing
and kill is
what we do .
There’s no time left
to hear our breathing
or feel souls intact
and made whole .
No time left
for given mercies .
It’s the taking that we
must do.
And so our meditations
are flat
our hearts still and frozen ,
turning shades of blue .
We all simply
must continue
and do
what we must do
We prey
for the perfect silence
of simple aggregates ,
to come once again :
Those that we gather
all on our own alone
stone by single stone
and those gathered together
that are thrown
upon us both
by handful
and by a final spade .
Thus is the silence made .
How about It’s Coming
It’s coming
In double 4’s
Not much I can do
But really live
till time runs out .
How about
You ?
Going to be here
till the black
Canary sings ?
So I walk
and walk
and walk
and i enjoy it.
Feet to the ground
Eyes on the sun
and the stars .
I choose
To be
This way ,
and walk away
Into horizons .
How about you Lady ?
How about you Bud ?
How about you son ?
How about you sweets ?
How about you Love?
White Bone Claws
White bone claws
against
tan wood patterned panels
with Etruscan silver keys
Do not confuse
snobbery
with style
says Yves .
Moment of
discontent
spent
in the anger
marscapone madness
dissipates.
The beauty of flowers
In a stone mausoleum
Night music in the Parking Lot
A freestyle Calypso
steel band plays
in the In the corner
of the Shoppers drug mart
parking lot,
Illuminated by lot security spots,
and surrounded by
red Rogers
Bundles vans,
and by a lighted
chain link fence.
The music echoes
freely off the underbelly
of a freeway stage and stand,
as the steel band practices nightly
for a coming Caribana show,
with lined up arms
all swinging
in a row
on stainless steel tin cans.
Ringing tin music
bounces off smooth
grey concrete walls
and ceilings
and off the pillars
of the slightly lonely
freeway stand,
and the music takes us
to the brilliant whiteness
of the island sands.
And as I stand there
with my MacDonalds coffee
and the rest
of my bystander clan,
with their Blackberrys
clicking pictures,
and recording music
all in hand,
along with all the other
random stragglers,
and some other Shoppers
parking lot club fans,
I’m reminded of my
friend Jamaican Island Wayne ,
with the palm trees
that wave and flutter in his eyes,
as my good old friend Ben
had once described.
And that palm tease makes
the ladies all excited
from the tips of their
Philip Traecey hats
and down
to their polished knees.
Their Marc Jacobs skirts
sway in the gentle island breeze.
It makes
their Hermes hearts
all flutter,
and oh how he knows,
right down to
the tingling tips
of their luscious,
red underbellied,
Louboutin toes.
And I sit in my beige Lincoln
and think
how can paradise
be described ?
Is it name brand heaven
that makes us all alive ?
Can we survive
on the islands without
Dolce and Gabbana
and without Todds?
Are we all so invested,
that we just can’t
be divested,
of all those brands,
without losing who we are,
or for fear of being someone
that no designer knows.
Perhaps it’s just Ma Bell,
who is always listening,
that only really ever knows.
The calypso steel band
is still playing.
and it’s so real and so alive,
and it’s so not even Bose,
And I think of my
little two year old
nephew William,
who would now
be clapping,
and a dancing,
and taking off his clothes,
to the ringing island jive.
Where is naked, natural, beauty
with unemcumbered eyes,
free from all the Maybeline
(that’s now even worn by guys),
and all stripped down in its beauty,
and free from all designer clothes ?
So drink your one fifty one and coca cola,
and polish your Manolos too.
It’s just plain good for you
and stylish too,
or so we’re told,
as all of corporate America,
Europe and China knows.
So make sure
to wear your Calvins,
underneath your Gucci suit,
and hop into your Mercedes
for display
on a circling Yorkville toot,
as the music of the islands
still wafts across
the evening sky,
and the white sand meets
generic salty waters
across a brandless evening sky .
PWChaltas 