The sun does not

The half-dead stumps of chopped down trees reflect
the passage of a hurricane; the sun
does not. This wicked sun bruising the half-
side of my face speaks the truth of who I
am.
I step briskly by my known strangers,
invisible solid shape of my retreat-
ing presence gone in a hurricane rush.

Behind me now: the spider-limbed brown of tree
branches spread across the morning's walkway-
before the enterprise of mission
in the bright sunday aftermath of storm;

and my mind somewhere in between the two,
remembering half-wet clothes left on the line.


Lime Cay, Jamaica

The body of this bay curves tenaciously;
nothing more sweet as this Lime Cay.

I stand erect on the edge of reason,
watching the waves splash its breasts;

touch its nipples, reaching the long
line of its belly.

That is when I get lost in the button,
drunk on the hips of this island.

There's nothing as sweet as this Lime Cay,
not even the gentle sip of summer's lemonade.

Sunshine

in the pitch black of night
a darkness brightened by light

a delicacy where crudeness was
divine design
a created excellence

buzz

life between decay
and hopes of a new day.


Dog

Immaculately poised like an angel
along the emerald floor of pavement
just before the golden gate of a place
called home-
dog, like Mephistopholes,
will steal your soul with just one glance.

You are Faustus: the glare in his eye
is the human weakness; man's best friend
or whatever else he's called;
dog- is the example you should not follow.
The indolence and insolence of his leisure
is your your life's toil

and when that final return to the soil
consumes,
dog will still be here

with God

waging war against the hosts
of heaven and hell

trying to conquer your world.

Nicholas Alexander is a Jamaican poet whose works have been published regularly in the Arts section of both The Gleaner and Observer papers here. He is also an educator as well as a doctoral candidate at The University of The West Indies.