Month: January 2015

Jamaican Poetry : One week ago

One week ago

You walked into my life

Changed my mind and put happiness

Where there was no desire

Or enjoyment within my mind;


Revealing to me things i couldn’t see

But burrowing in

Like you intend to exist within me;


One week ago

I desired happiness

And now, in your arms

Is where i have found a bountiful nest

I timidly stand here

Enjoying the tenderness

Shyly awaiting, one more caress;


I nestle closer to your heart

Feeling a start and praying for silver moons

And hand held walks in the park;


One week ago

My landscape was in hues of brown

Now the rainbow exists

And birds and bees live in euphoria

While the sun is shining down;


One week ago

I sleep walked through my existence

Clinging to the nights

And approaching the days

As if in a trance;


One week ago,

Nothing existed

Now with my head high

My emotions are lifted

I feel as if my emotions are a clown

And it’s impossible to create a frown;


One week ago

You stirred this emotion within me

Making me feel filled with bliss and glees

Making me feel like i cant have enough of you

Making me forget, the sadness i once knew;


One week ago

You walked into my life

Sharing the happiness you bring

The pools of joy in which to swim

Contentment and a feeling to just sing

And sing, and sing;


One week ago

I didn’t know

I would meet someone

Who would have affected me so.


Copyright © 2014, Poetess Denise N. Fyffe

Jamaican Storytelling : Excerpt from Gray Shades, Self-destructive behavior (Janet)

Janet was lying awake thinking about her future, and how much more damage she was going to do to it.

“Can I and will I do my worse?” Janet thought.

It seems every time she gets close to something that she really wants or someone she was really into it gets pulled from her. And when she begins to care about someone, and for whatever reason it doesn’t work out; she gets into a pattern of self-destructive behavior.

“Damn it,” she cursed.

Certainly it seems she is not exempt from suffering heartbreak from the hands of vile Jamaican men. She was so over it, over them! Though her heart seems to be shielding itself in its own panic room, it was already wounded and bleeding out. How then can it receive treatment? Janet was certain, only love could heal her wounds.

Self destructive as she has been, she is certain her actions were making matters worst within her. The antics, and indulgences, were simple band aids to an internal bleeding. Unnecessary and inept. As smart and perceptive as she was, she was fully cognisant of the snakes pit she was leading herself to.

But how could she turn away, turn off, or turn around? How could she stop herself from always choosing the self-destructive alternatives?

There is more to the root of her evils; but even she is sometimes blinded to that cause.

Jamaican Poetry: Regret

I took for granted
What I had,
I lost it
Now I want it back
So bad;

I doubted what existed

What it could be
Now, there is
This perpetual longing,
Inside of me;

I embrace
Very few regrets
But I cling
To the moment where…
You left.


Copyright © 2014, Poetess Denise N. Fyffe

Gun Salute to the aging year of our Lord, 2015

Lying on my back, stretched out on the bed, concentrating on the next move. I glanced at the computer clock as it states 11:58 p.m. I continue playing my game, trying to line up apples with apples and carrots with carrots; feeling no concern that 2015 was just a tick and a tock away.

Soon, I know 2015 sneaked in, because its like the the Gaza Strip outside. That’s Jamaica new year for you! Gun salutes and clappers ring in the new year. But, there is nothing new about it, except the 5 at the end of the date. It’s just another January 1st, another Thursday, another 12:00 a.m.; nothing new about it.

The guns bark loud as this is the one time – maybe not – when the semblance of a war can echo outside your window and the cops will do nothing about it. Its the new year! Its tradition! Its accepted by all. I listen to the different guns chirp in, as their voices are distinct.

I look to my ‘non-concrete’ ceiling and pray silently to God, that a stray bullet doesn’t find its way through the roof and into me. I rub my tummy protectively, thinking about the scar I now have from the surgery. Still listening to the choral of bullets in concert outside my window.

How can we cry out about crime in Jamaica when the first thing that happens in Jamaica every new year is not an act of love – a kiss – but the enactment of one the most vile and evil symbolism on this earth; pulling a trigger. Our controversial Jamaican death toll should not be so hard to fathom.

My mind switches to strategize like a murderer; now would be the prime time to exact revenge and what not. I shake my head, none too comfortable with how easily I can think like them. I also start thinking like a detective because I can make out how close some shots were fired and how far and which region had the most guns or the biggest guns. Not a comforting thing to know your neighbours are packing; especially in such a cantankerous neighbourhood.

This is the new year of our Lord 2015, I wonder if He will show up this year?