The Separation

The truth burnt me

at the tip of my tongue

and small embers became alight

God knows, how much I tried

to keep the flames inside

but

it wasn't mean to be...

My conscience only served to feed the heat

that made my brow leak

from drops of my own deceit

and I cried like

never before

invisible tears

that shattered the floor

upon which I stood...

and like

the jagged throes of birth

my words

painful in their stride

surpassed the speed of light

and invaded your chest

ripping open the cage

that shielded your life

and

left you without breath

left your cardiac

arrested

without bail

as your beats failed

so did your trust in me...

and as I looked at the pieces

of our infarcted love

lying beneath

our broken dreams

I saw us

as we really were

separate beings

whose love was never meant

to be

but at one time

we were devout

so I didn't protest

as you screamed out

your baritone laced with defeat

I,

didn't protest hearing the door slam

with finality from beneath

I,

didn't protest

watching your back recede

into the shadows street

for I knew

the love we carried

was. not. meant. to. be.

and that nevermore,

the two would meet...

but sometimes I wonder...

what if I was wrong...

My Inspiration:  Old Poetry Archives #2014

 

© KohylahPiper 2017

#16 Coloured Skin

Painting by Antiguan Artist Mark Brown, Transformation 2

The colour of copper.

The colour of brown.

The colour of chocolate.

But you colour me down.

Sensuous as the land,

stunning as the light,

I am ebony’s birth

through the still of the night

but my fingers you take

for my richness to hide

cursing it as folly

taking my pride

smearing your hate

independent of me

taking my life

cells dying in me...

I am

your living heritage

your genetic fame

protector of your being

still my dignity you claim

I try not to shout

although you are wrong

I know you only sing

what society has sung for so long;

I am all yours

though
you dislike what you see

failing to comprehend

You hurt you when you hurt me.

The colour of copper.

The colour of brown.

The colour of umber.

Yet you colour me down.

From ages since

cotton first grew

when the colour of milk

meant the privileged few

where the colour of tan

meant poverty’s brew

this concept
 is present in all races

not just unique to you...

My shades are all elegant

not only a few

I celebrate the diversity

of my glorious hues,

 where a positive remark

lends a negative shade

when you’re black but pretty

instead of black and beautiful all the same,

when someone who is

the same race as you

calls you inferior

forgetting they’re shaded too.

Even King Solomon,

suffered you see

when he wrote in his Songs

I am black but comely..

Colour me copper.

Colour me brown.

Colour me chocolate.

But don’t colour me down.

This burden has continued

because we accept

a lie that was forged out

of spite and death.

Is it because we were taught

from the crib to the door

That this God-given tone

was not given to princes
but to the poor?

My shades are all elegant

not only a few

I celebrate the diversity

of my glorious hues.

 

When you look at yourself,

what is it you see?

Do you see just a colour

or the heart that’s beneath?

Do you see the beauty

I’m certain I hold

Or do you just see a colour

offensive because of its tone?

How horrible it is

to cover a gem

that has no idea

of its brilliance outside and within…

If I could only convince you

of your beauty untold,

that mahogany smile

this caramel zone...

There are
emperors and empresses

who are represented through you

lying dormant inside

but you colour them down too!

I can only do so much

I’m just the skin that you wear

that will eventually rebel

from the core of your fear

of being just who you are

a sight to behold

wonderfully fashioned

of copper and gold

So...

silently I'll sit

No crying, no pleas;

waiting patiently for the day

my people choose to proudly wear me

 no doubt
till then I'll suffer

holding on
steadfastly,

trapped in the oppressed

Cages of your
scarred mentality...

The colour of copper.

The colour of brown.

The colour of chocolate.

I am beautiful.

But

You...

You

colour

me

    down…

 My Inspiration: A little girl on a bus ride home. (2014)
 

 Coloured Skin (3rd revision)



© KohylahPiper 2015

#5 Hallowed Ground

While walking through the city,

have you ever heard that sound?

A slight echo of a distant memory

rushing deep from underground.

The shuffle of our busy feet

manages to mask the wail

of the coral shell

pressed to the lips of a princely rebel

who from freedom came,

and for it,

whose life was laid.

When driving through the country side,

have you ever just happened to see,

the transient shapes and forms of hands that laboured so we could dare to dream?

The rolling hills and valleys low

have immortalized their will,

in textured folds breathing life

into their greatest hope…

Us.

Yet we ignore them still.

When you look across the ocean,

standing on bricks of time,

found on windy summits in the south east

picturesque against Atlantic tides,

have you ever felt the descent of shadows,

gathering slowly under the sun’s calm shine?

Of those who first uttered “Wa’ladli”

the precursor to national pride.

They first said “Our own”

This land.

Yours and mine.

Yet sometimes it seems as if it weren't true,

as if we've forgotten those times,

as if we deem them as unreal,

as hallucinations of an imaginative mind.

For not many have heard that coral shell,

taken long ago from our seas,

very few have been compelled to listen

to its emotive drone in entirety.

Very few have seen the portraits

of those callused hands that bled,

whose eyes watch us fiercely, angry now,

for mocking what that love and sacrifice meant.

Not many have felt those shadows

of those unnamed, true discoverers from long before

who stood united chanting “Wa’ladli”

This land.

Our own.

Mine and yours.

So sometimes it seems as if it weren't true,

as if we've forgotten those times,

as if we deem them as unreal,

as hallucinations of an imaginative mind.

For many will be born, will grow,

and will surely die,

without having found

that this rock of pink sands,

trade winds and gentle lands,

of clear seas and oceans combined,

of hidden wealth and strength by design,

of unexplored potential

that blindly reaps what we sow;

this rock…

that cannot grow,

until we decide to grow.

For many will be born,

and many will grow, and die

not realizing our reflection is found,

beneath our own busy feet;

all the while,

forgotten.

Fragile, yet unyielding.

Hallowed ground.

My Inspiration: Shirley's Heights, Antigua

  (2014)

© KohylahPiper 2015