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Pics with verse Storyteller

Neighbourooooooo Its Market Day

Bunjayyyyy, look at all them sweet fruit dey nah, gul, I cawn mek up me mind atall atall. Wah yuh mean jus get some ah everyting, dem fruit grow on tree but I have to wuk for me money yuh know. Get some ah everything, boi yuh is a madman yuh know. Wah you mean doh bite de guava, how else I go know it sweet. Wah, I go hav to pay for it, boi yuh stingy for so yuh know. How much for dat watermelon, Oh me lawd, dat real expensive, dis is highway robbery yuh know. Wah yuh looking at woman, eh? I holding up de line, wah you mean I holding up de line. I is shopping here, wah yuh doing here eh? Don talk stupidness at me dis morning yuh hear, I doh have de patience for it. Well look at me crosses, I here trying to get me fruit and provisions and dis woman trying to test me, gulyuh don know who yuh playing wid yuh know. Leh me get me ting and dem and go home before I box dis woman in she mouth. Move dey nah, move, move.

Categories
Pics with verse Storyteller

The Walk by

I was walking dung de road, de sun was high in de sky, it was surrounded by white clouds and endless blue. Seagulls flew overhead, somebody was playing some real good music on top de hill. It was a fine day, a really fine day I tell yuh. I was mid way down the street when I stopped in front of old Mis Chase’s house and sniffed de air. Wait a second, wah is dat I smell; oh dear lord, she making she famous sweetie, oh me lawd, I have to get home, i have to break that piggy bank. Dem fudge is calling me, i could smell de nutmeg, the Cinnamon, the brown sugar, oh lawd, come on skinny legs, move, move. Oh I can taste it, me mouth watering. Dat old woman know how to make some fudge. I tripped, fell, but forget the pay, forget my bleeding knees, I was Jonsing for some ah dat heavenly fudge. After all that trouble, all tat running, the frantic search for a hammer, here I sat, at the window overlooking the ocean a place full of brown, dark brown and pink sweetie.  If this is not heaven, well hell must be real sweet.

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Food Storyteller

Good Morning Neighbours

Good Morning Neighbours

I can really go for a snack of golden apples right now. Oh the sweet taste of this tropical fruit, golden, like the sun. Ahhh close my eyes and a little Obeah and maybe I will have them here in front of me in West Virginia.

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Pics with verse Storyteller

Nature’s light

Natures chandelier, tropical yellow, sweet smelling, swaying in the wind, so bright it seems to light up the dark forest.

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Stories Storyteller

Drunk off plums

Drunk off plums

Ahhh yes, lazy Sunday afternoon, sitting on a plum tree in my uncles yard. A mild breeze sweeping through the yard, the winds whistling through the leaves, the tall grass laying down with the surg. Oh the sweet taste of these Plums, I eat and eat and eat until I felt like was drunk. Until the wind blew no more, and the sun is not blasting down, until confused roosters started crowing, until the crickets started chirping, until the first firefly blinked. Oh to be a boy again, sitting on that tree, watching the day changes and sadly it was time to climb down from that tree and leave the sweet, sweet memories of those plums.

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Stories Storyteller

October 1983

My mind is fogged with the thought of death
Fantasies of the afterlife
The only place where we finally become one
Like we should be
Birds will fly without flapping their wings
We will be free
For a dead man has no labels on him
Just his eternal soul
And his eyes will be wide open while he dream
Of the very place he is
Sweet foggy consciousness, hug me like my mother
While I lay on your bosoms
So I can rest peacefully in this everlasting sleep
Death is my lover
And I will be satisfied to cuddle with her
Because only she can save me now

Categories
Food Storyteller

Ahhhh Tropical fruit

Ahhhh Tropical fruit

The Damsel, acidic, sour, face twisting fruit. I remember raiding Mr. Jones tree. Every afternoon after school, sneaking into his backyard, climbing the Damsel tree, filling my pockets, then going on top of the hill overlooking the ocean and gauging myself with sour ecstasy. Ohhh the tanginess, the sharp rush of tartness traveling through my mouth. My eyes watering, smacking my lips, eating the Damsel until my tongue was numb. Sometimes, I would pick enough to make Damsel stew, Brown sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, boiled to a simmer. Waiting until it was cool enough to eat, ohhh suck sweet torture. Those were the days, the island days.