I collect anything ripples my mind; rocks, to pry the journey; words, to sail the sea unknown; money, to breathe.
Some rocks end up being the garden border, making the steps pause and think; money, windchimes, catch the winds blue and pink; filler of the mud puddle, the path high and low; words, the builder of the fantasy, near & far–
moan of the mountain with pain or glee; whispers of the night fog; grunts of the earth at dawn; echoes of the stars’ song.
Thoughts in the deep sea
of confusion–the blurred zone,
what is in the center?
to be closer to the granny
so she can see her little sweeties often;
or, to return to the city you grew up
where your memories
and familiar faces live;
are they so weighty that you would force
your spouse to abandon the job she or he loves;
when a new one might not be available?
Job let you breathe and do necessary things.
What is more precious than that?
Avoid the bumpy road in the dark wood.
Someday, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning white
The shivering birds beneath eves
Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love,
Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire to shafted grove
And wide mouthed orchids smile.
And we’ll seek the quiet hill
Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,
And works the droning bee.
And we’ll build the cottage there
Beside an open glade,
With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,
And ferns that never fade.
Claude Mckay, who was born in Jamaica in 1889,
wrote about social and political concerns from
his perspective as a black man in the United States,
as well as a variety of subjects ranging from
his Jamaican homeland to romantic love.