The Last Sun-Kissed Cloud

Let me be the last sun-kissed cloud
That receives the golden heat of your love
As you are
Pulled away

Let me be the last rain-dewed blade
Of grass
That your essence clings to
Cooling
Til morning breaks
And you are gone
From me

Let me be your last
Unbroken love
Skin branded by the heat of your touch
Heart chilled by the cool of your gaze, let me be
The last fire in your eyes
The last ice in your words

Let me be
Let me be
Let me be

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Hope is the fuel of our souls.

So you missed it:  the party of the century.  The trip of a lifetime.  The chance to meet your idol.

So you didn’t get it:  the acceptance letter.  The leading role.  The guy. The girl.

So you aimed and you missed.

So what?

Nothing is the be all or end all.  Nothing is do or die.  Nothing is your one shot at happiness.

There will be another chance soon.  And another.  And another.  And another.

And one day, one of those chances will land smack in the middle of that bulls’ eye you’re trying to reach.

Perfectly and gloriously in place.

Image Credit: jsinkhorn23

inside the box

How do you label yourself so neatly?
When I try, my colour goes outside the lines.
My cup spilleth over,
An ill-defined tangle of limbs
And wild ideas.

Metaphorical schmetaphorical

Irregular infrequent blog posts irk me. They’re like the last gasping rattles of a dying blog. And yeah, I’ve let my own blog come close to kicking the bucket quite a few times, but all that means is I know the feeling of being trapped inside that dying organism. And it always makes me want to kick-start some life back into it.

Like CPR.

It’s endless cycles of chest compressions and rescue breaths, trying to get the body to do what it’s supposed to be doing instead of just lying there. But sometimes it doesn’t work. And sometimes it only works halfway. You end up with a beating heart and no breaths. Then some luckless medical officer is given the opportunity of physically breathing for you through a bag. This can happen several times, and you still come back with a pulse and no spontaneous breathing.

The you start hearing murmurs about DNRs. Relatives get called in, and the order is issued. The next time, there is no pulse.

That’s what’s not going to happen to this blog.

You know weh Sammy plant im cahn?

Our culture has been relegated to knick-knack status: a decorative memento.

Is it only natural, this shelving of our songs and stories like old photographs? Something to be dusted semi-regularly and forgotten? Handed down until its significance is lost, and all that remains is the chipped enamel shell of our history?

Girl on Bim Day 3: Christmas breeze does blow cold on de rock

Sometimes it’s nice to just to stay at home, where the breeze blows cold and the Bajan rain sounds so different on the rooftops from Jamaican rain but it’s a good different, soothing-like, lulling me into a warm sleep ’cause I’m already wrapped up to my eyelashes in blankets and surrounded on all sides by love.

source: Richard Wilson's blog
apparently this is a real place.

Why am I like this?

I got my yellow highlighter y’all! Now I just need a sketchpad for my mind maps and I’ll be all set!

A sketchpad. I am insane.